request: Hey first time requesting! Could you maybe just do anything with thriller! Michael, maybe some angst? Thank you! And could I remain anonymous pls! ❤️
cw/tw: mentions of an eating disorder, bullying (tabloids), depression, angst, insecurity, fluff, mdni if you squint due to mentions of semi-public sex, protective! michael, hea, grammys 1984
wc: 4k
Stress wore at the edges of your body. You could feel it, every ache of muscle and your bones felt dry. It all felt wrong. Your skin not fitting right and you were tired. Always tired.
Sighing, you rubbed tiredly at your eyes before you started to get ready. The Grammys were tonight, and Michael had been nominated for a plethora of categories, so the tension and excitement was bubbling in the air. Palpable. Nearly tasting of champagne given that’s all anyone seemed to be drinking.
As you did your makeup in the bathroom, your eyes kept dancing to the bedroom reflected behind you. Taking in the sleeping form of your boyfriend wrapped in white linen sheets. You always woke up earlier than him. Sleep wasn’t something that came often, you were always restless. Not that he tended to get much rest either, but eventually in the early hours of morning he’d start to doze off.
You liked to get ready before he woke up, get all dolled up so he would call you pretty first thing in the morning.
You liked keeping him satisfied.
Being the girlfriend of arguably the most famous man in the world meant you always had to look your best.
At least that’s what it felt like.
You were terrified of him leaving. His eyes wandering. So many of the other women in this bubble of fame were models, actors, dancers, or singers. All drop dead gorgeous.
You were just trying to keep up.
Michael’s body rose and fell gently, his dark brown hair a mess on the pillow case. Looking peaceful as he slept.
You knew how much tonight meant to him. All of his hard work and sleepless nights, hours upon hours of dedication poured into Thriller.
You had wanted to give him the space this evening. No distractions. You’d stay in the hotel room and watch on tv. Let him have his moment. Not admitting to yourself or him that you were really just scared.
Scared of the photographers and fans who seemed to hate that you existed. Scared of feeling insecure of all the other women there all dressed to the nines.
Fake it till you make it, is what you had tried to tell yourself. But the moment you and Michael went public, all the comments got to you. The criticism. You weren’t pretty enough for him. You were a gold digger. You were too young, even though there was only two years between you. You were using him to further your own career. You were a lapse in his judgement. You were a whore.
You wanted to throw the tv out and cancel the subscription to the newspaper, disappear from the narrative and just never leave the house again, but Michael had talked you out of it.
“It’s just noise,” he would say, like it was so easy. Plus, you didn’t have much of a choice. Having a good social presence came with the territory of dating him.
To manage it, every once and a while you’d go out to an event you’d been invited to, trying to come off as poise as camera shutters flashed and people yelled. The moment you got home, you’d unplug all the tv’s and immediately throw the paper out before you could read what they wrote about you. Out of sight, out of mind.
But you knew those comments were there. The hateful paragraphs. Lingering in the back of your mind every time you looked at yourself in the mirror. Chewing on ice to stay skinny enough. Not just for them or Michael, but your own desperate grasp at happiness. At the very least, content.
You just wanted to be enough.
You felt guilty sometimes. It’s not like Michael had necessarily done anything to shovel these worries into you. You were just insecure, you knew that. But sometimes it felt like you loved him and he loved the vanity of it all.
The image. You looked good together on paper. A young couple, rich, lavish, traveling the world. You sometimes felt like some warped status quo. A doll he dressed up. His favourite toy he liked to play with. Stars always got more attention when they were seeing someone. Which you knew was ridiculous, honest to God, you did. He was Michael Jackson. He didn’t need anyone to propel him further but his own will.
He didn’t need anyone. You.
Doubts on top of doubts.
You felt like an ungrateful bitch. But you were greedy. You wanted all of him, all of his attention. Hating that you had to share him with the world.
You didn’t know why your heart felt like this.
Michael gave you every piece of him that he could. He was a public figure, had been for over two decades now. Long before he even knew you existed.
You respected that, you did. But he lived life in the fast lane and you were terrified of getting left behind. Of him finding someone better around the corner. You wouldn’t blame him. If you were him and there was another girl out there who looked like heaven in heels and had all the self confidence in the world, you’d leap at the opportunity.
Stress was the last thing he needed, so you kept your sadness to yourself. Smiling warmly every time he looked at you. Making sure you gave him support in all that he did. Cheering him on, trying to make him feel on top of the world even if he had a bad day.
“Honey?” His tired voice called out, rough with sleep and you turned, watching him rub at his eyes before sitting up on his elbows.
His smile was lazy, sleep still clinging to the edges of his features. Always so handsome.
You knew you were the luckiest girl alive.
He held his arm out, “C’mere.” His voice was soft but carried over the hotel room easily, the early morning sun dancing over his tan skin through the window.
Your feet padded across the floor, your heart beating in your throat. You didn’t know why you always felt nervous around him. Always on your toes. You didn’t want to mess this up.
Michael’s arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close and his body warmth melted into you, calming your lungs.
Touching him always seemed to ease you a bit. Reminding you he was human, like the rest of the world.
His head rested against your sternum as he held you close, sighing into you. You took to running your nails gently through his hair, which seemed to help him whenever he was anxious. Something you had originally never thought possible. Michael gave the impression of someone who could easily carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But as you got to know each other, the more you realized how good he was at hiding. Putting up a front because he knew eyes were watching.
The press wasn’t kind to public figures, let alone him. If they showed any strain. Saying they were losing their edge. They weren’t fit to perform. That they should get over it and stop complaining. That men shouldn’t even have such ailments. Grow up.
His other arm snaked around your waist as he looked up at you, resting his chin against you and you took in the flecks of gold in his pretty, Bambi-like eyes.
“I think we got carried away last night.” His tone was light, teasing. His dimples showed slightly in his cheeks and you held his face in your hands. A blush bleeding into your own.
“I think you got carried away, you know I can’t say no to you.”
He shrugged, “you looked pretty, and what was I supposed to do with you being naked on the balcony?”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help it as anxiety clawed up your throat. Tickling like a spider who wanted to pry its way out. Worried that there were tabloids spreading, that you two had been caught and you were being called a list of synonyms for the word slut. That you were ruining his reputation. His career. That you were sabotaging his chance at winning an award.
As if reading your thoughts, Michael tugged you onto the bed and you laid down in the space between his legs, your back resting against his chest.
He kissed the side of your head. “No one saw us. Trust me, if they had, the phone would be blowing up right now.”
You supposed that was true, but what you had done was too risky.
Regardless, you didn’t want to worry him. This was his day. You’d sugar coat anything for him, be who he needed you to be.
“Are you ready for today?”
You had stayed behind for the rehearsal ceremony, but you knew how much he wanted this. What it would mean for him.
His fingers dusted over your shoulder, down your arm to your hand before he twined his fingers with yours. “I want you to be there tonight.”
You held your breath for a moment, debating on how to respond. “This is your night, I don’t—“
“Hey,” he lightly took hold of your chin and tilted your head back so you could look at one another. “I want you there with me. Forget about everyone else, it’s just you and me.”
You didn’t know why but you felt like crying. Sadness was weird that way, taking hold of every nerve even when one should be happy. He was always so reassuring yet your brain would still trip over itself on an invisible problem.
Smiling, you felt stiff all over. Wrong. An imposter. “Okay.”
Your nails tapped a rhythm into the arm rest, hyper aware of how you were sitting and what you looked like. Were you breathing normally? Did it look too forced, too quick, too shallow? Was your outfit okay? You wore one that Michael had picked out for you a few weeks ago, delighted in the way he smiled at you when you walked out of the bathroom in it.
You liked it when you made the right choice.
When cameras flashed, you tried not to flinch. The worst part was always when you walked onto the red carpet. It didn’t matter if you were alone or with Michael. Though if he was with you, you usually idled back a few paces, letting him have the limelight and smile as people asked him for photos or autographs.
You smiled all the while, lightly to give the impression of being casual. It was just another day yet you also needed to look grateful. It was complicated, trying to win people over. You weren’t allowed to look entitled but you also needed to fit in.
When Michael grabbed onto your waist to kiss you a quick goodbye before disappearing to go talk to some people, panic seized you. You couldn’t breathe. But you kept smiling.
Carol had given you some advice; never let them see you break.
You still felt like you had to walk carefully around Marlon’s wife. She was sweet and understanding, knowing how stressful it all was. But you couldn’t help it, you always wanted to appease those around you, desperately wanting to be liked. It was intimidating, being surrounded by people who knew they belonged there.
Carol was also a little older than you, more experienced so she handled it with an air of grace that seemed impossible.
You heard another flicker of a camera lens, snapping you out of it and your eyes slated to the side, noticing a photographer taking pictures of people. Your stomach churned uneasily, mind already trailing to what the tabloids might say about you tomorrow morning.
Someone then tapped you on the shoulder. You didn’t notice at first, too wrapped up in your spiral of anxiety. The tap came again, more pressure this time and you turned around, your eyes flicking across the room before they landed on a woman who must’ve been around your age.
“Yes?”
The woman smiled, looking kind enough and she held a notepad in her hand. “So sorry to bother you, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Could you step just outside for a moment. By the bar, if that’s okay?”
You hesitated, realizing this was probably a reporter of some kind. Not seeing why she wanted to talk to you, but Michael was nominated for twelve awards that night so you assumed it was because of that. Maybe she just wanted a quote from his supportive partner? Besides, the bar was just outside the doors, maybe you could even get a glass of wine to ease your nerves.
So you smiled, ever the people pleaser. “Okay.”
Following her out between the crowd, your eyes danced back through the doors, hoping you’d catch a glance of Michael somewhere.
“So,” the woman leaned slightly on one of the standing tables and looked down at her notes. “First, I just wanted to ask you what your thought are about all of Michael’s nominations?”
“Oh, wonderful. I’m so happy for him.”
The woman continued to stare at you and you weren’t sure if you were supposed to add more. Wringing your hands nervously, you cleared your throat. “Winning any award for his hard work has always been a goal of his. He doesn’t need the confirmation, but recognition for his effort is still something to treasure.”
“Obviously.”
You blinked at the tone shift. It wasn’t obvious, but you still picked up on it. Did you say something wrong? “Um, is that all? I should really–”
“You aren’t often seen at his shows. Why not go more often, given you should be supporting him? Or does he not want you there because you two aren’t actually together?”
Your ears began to ring, pressure slowly building behind your eyes. You shook your head, “I’m sorry, what—”
“You two have been dating for a few years now, but there’s still no ring,” the woman made a point to stare at your bare ring finger. “Then again, he doesn’t seem the marrying type. With his career and all, do you think you’re a bench warmer to him?”
“No, I– I’m sorry, but what paper were you with again?” Your could feel your heart beat in your finger tips. The lights suddenly felt too bright, too close.
“Your dress is stunning, how much was it? I know you love coming off as relatable to the press, so it’s affordable right?”
“Michael—”
“Bought it for you? Right. How much else does he buy you? I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations about you.”
You could barely hear her. News articles were bad enough, but having someone say it to your face was suffocating. It felt like the floor was moving, swaying beneath your feet. The roof sinking lower and lower yet not moving at all. It was too hot and you felt light headed.
“What about your diet? Many believe you're suffering from an eating disorder, yet you promote yourself at all these restaurants. Do you realize how damaging that is to girls who look up to you?”
You felt like someone had kicked you in the stomach. Yanking the breath out of your lungs with greedy hands. God, you felt like you were about to pass out. You didn’t know what she said next. Didn’t know how you replied. Didn’t know how you got away.
No memory of making your way to one of the random lounge rooms in the venue. You knew you shouldn’t have come, though you supposed it didn’t matter. People thought that way about you regardless if you heard it in person. Your head was spinning, guilt clawing at you. What were you doing? You had been so selfish, all these awful things about you were making him look bad and you were just letting it happen?
Tears were hot as they ran down your cheeks, your hands tried scraping them away but your skin felt too rough. It’s not like it helped, you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe, your lungs tripping over themselves as they tried to catch up.
You didn’t know where to go. The room was too big yet too small and you slid to the floor against the foot of one of the small cushioned benches in the room.
What were you doing here? Why you? Michael could have anyone he wanted. You didn’t understand what the point of you was.
You didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear him mutter your name with concern lacing his tone. You didn’t even realize he was there till he lightly touched your arm and you flinched away from him.
Everything was falling apart. He wasn’t supposed to see you like this. He never saw you cry. You were supposed to be happy. Reliable. Grateful all the time.
You choked out apologies, turning away from him to try to wipe your tears away but nothing was working.
Michael’s hands sought you out again, this time you didn’t fight it as he pulled you into his hold. He was on his knees, cradling you to him and he held your head against his chest, shaking with sobs you tried to silence.
“Talk to me, baby,” he said softly into your hair, tone slightly pleading.
You were awful. This is the last thing he needed.
Shaking your head, you tried to pull away from him but he tightened his hold on you, kissing you gently on top of your head.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” you managed to get out. “I’m sorry, this isn’t–”
“Hey, don’t apologize.” He leaned back, gently cupping your face in one hand and his brows furrowed when he took in your red glossy eyes. “What happened?”
You leaned into his hand, embarrassed. “This woman… just, nothing, I’m overreacting.”
Michael went tense, but his thumb gently wiped away another tear that slipped out. “Who?”
His tone was off, you hadn’t heard him sound like that before.
Slightly cold.
Angry.
“It’s nothing. You don’t need this right now and—“
“Who? What did she say to you?”
“What they always say.” Your voice shook. You were tired. Of it all. You had been teetering on the edge of a knife for months, you just wished you hadn’t fallen off now, of all days.
Michael held you tighter, sighing slightly but you could tell he was angry.
You squeezed your eyes shut, “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have come today.”
“I told you I want you here—“
“You aren’t even able to have a good time. You’re in here consoling your girlfriend who’s a mess.”
“I don’t need to have a good time until I win. And this isn’t a burden, you aren’t. Someone made you cry and I’m going to hit them with my car.”
You couldn’t help it as a laugh left you. “Yeah, right.”
Nonetheless, you sunk into him further, the tears finally calming down. You didn’t realize how much you needed this, to be held by him. You’d gone through most of your relationship putting your emotions on the back burner to save him the trouble. Too afraid to screw things up.
You should’ve known better, Michael wasn’t the type to just drop people when it got inconvenient. Sure, he’d go quiet when he was upset. But you hoped you meant more to him than your doubts would whisper.
Sighing, you finally looked up at him again.
He was always so beautiful. Heaven on earth in the form of a human.
“I don’t know who she was. Some woman pulled me aside with a note pad and she just started saying and asking all these things that really got to me. The same stuff that they all say, I know it’s nothing new, but hearing it out loud was a lot to take in all of the sudden.”
Michael clenched his jaw, his tongue running along the side of his cheek as he looked away from you.
His eyes became darker than usual. “She was a reporter?”
“I mean, I assume so.”
“Did she have a press pass?”
“I don’t know. She was in the event room, I just assumed. I…” you bit at your own cheek. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flicked back to yours, softening slightly at the edges. “Please, stop apologizing.”
Michael stood up, taking hold of your hands to guide you along with him. Never letting go of you and you didn’t think you could express how grateful you were for him. He always knew what to do.
“I’ll fix this.”
You shook your head, your eyes feeling dry and puffy. “There’s nothing to fix, I know people will always talk.”
“Tell me what I can do to make it better.”
You smiled slightly, lifting up one of his hands to kiss his knuckles. “Just keep your eyes on me when you win. You deserve it, Michael.” He deserved everything he wanted and more, you just wished you could provide that for him.
But you were only human. You knew there’d be times to come where you made each other mad, annoyed, sick of each other.
You’d fight it though, fight for him. You hoped he felt the same.
You were crying again, for a whole list of other happier reasons, when Michael walked up to you and beaming.
He set his eight Grammys down in a heap on the floor and wrapped you in a hug, not being able to help it as he picked you up and spun you around.
“Thank you for being here,” he mumbled into your hair.
Setting you down, your arms were looped around his neck and you toyed with the curls at the nape.
“I’m so happy for you. I don’t know if you could tell, but I thought I was going to faint.”
Michael laughed, shaking his head and catching your mouth in a kiss, his arms tight around your waist. The fact that you were surrounded by hundreds of people and cameras didn’t even cross your mind. You didn’t care.
It was just you two, no one else mattered.
You helped Michael carry a few of his awards in one arm, your eyes dancing to the side as you began walking out to the cars, talk of the after party already buzzing when you spotted her.
You tripped up slightly, your hold on Michael’s hand tightening and he pulled you to a stop.
His brows creased as he looked down at you.
“What?”
“That’s her, the woman.”
You blinked a few times, taking in how normal she looked, yet she was capable of being cruel for no reason.
Michael turned to follow where you were looking. The moment his eyes landed on her, his jaw clenched.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“What?”
He had that tone again, the one rough around the edges that you rarely heard him use.
“She’s not with any paper or the press.”
“So?”
Looking at him, Michael gave the impression of someone ready to rip a head off a neck.
“It’s fine. Let’s go celebrate, I’m over it.”
He gave your hand a squeeze and turned to you. “That means she’s a guest. Unbelievable they let people like that in here.”
“Michael—”
“I’ll be back.”
Before you could argue, he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead and handed you his other half of the awards, turning sharply on his heels and he made a beeline for the woman.
You held your breath as you held the gold plated gramma-phones, watching in both admiration and worry as he stalked up to her. Clearly pissed off and you watched as the woman’s eyes widened as she realized Michael was looking right at her.
They were too far away so you weren’t able to hear what he was saying, but you were pretty sure he was quietly yelling at her given the way the woman flinched back, her own eyes dancing past Michael’s shoulders to look at you.
It didn’t last long though, Michael stepped to the side to block her view of you, lowering his head more and a few seconds later the woman practically ran off with her tail between her legs.
Michael turned, still aggravated, but he gave you a reassuring smile as he neared you. Taking the awards from your arms and placing a hand on your waist.
“Let’s go.”
He offered no explanation and you didn’t ask. All you did was smile when he kissed the top of your head again.
cw/tw: mentions of blood, stitches, violence/fighting, fluff/angst, mentions of past dv, mdni for suggestive themes, mike’s a flirt, marlon is the best wingman
wc: 7.3k
“Who’s angel face over there?” A man said next to you, his beer sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and spattering on the floor.
You raised an unimpressed brow at him, but pulled your eyes back to the ring. Back to the person he was referring to.
You watched as he ducked, coming back up again and arcing a fist through the air. Landing a clean hit on his opponent's head. The man stumbled back, dizzy and trying to find his footing. But angel face lunged, his steps light, hitting the man in the ribs and the next second his other fist connected with a temple.
His chest was heaving as he watched the man crumble to the floor, his fists still up and ready, but the referee whistled and reached for his arm, yanking it up to claim victory.
“Michael Jackson wins again!”
Cheers erupted.
Some groaned who had placed unlucky bets against him.
Michael was practically glowing. Not just from adrenaline, not just from the sweat glistening off his body or his damp hair. It was the energy around him. Pulsing as he spit out his mouth guard and grinned, waving to the crowd. His face flashing on the large monitors hovering in the arena.
He downed his water before tossing it to the side, not wasting time as he jogged to the edge of the ring and leaned over the side. Smiling wide and ignoring all the cameras.
Looking at you.
You moved on auto pilot, being drawn to him like always. Your feet carried you to the edge and up to your tiptoes.
The world faded away as Michael tipped over the rope, grinning into the kiss as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck with bruised knuckles.
Despite the salt from the sweat, there was always that hint of cinnamon lingering on his tongue. A little bit of copper too, given his lip was slightly split from a punch.
Michael pulled back, cradling your face in his hands. “I told you, you’re my good luck charm.”
You rolled your eyes, “you just like being stared at.”
He shook his head lightly, ignoring the thousands of people sitting up in the stands, of the cameras that were broadcasting to thousands more.
“I just see you.”
His trainer, Bill, came up behind him then, slapping him on the arm. “Alright lovebirds come on, time for your interview.” His tone was exasperated, but he sent you a wink as he pulled Michael away.
Your eyes flicked from him to the big screens above, watching as he spoke, his words well crafted and breathless.
Wondering how you had gotten so lucky.
THREE YEARS AGO
You winced as the sound of bones cracking echoed across the gym, followed by pained grunts. But before you could even push off the wall you were leaning against, the two men were back at it, circling each other with heads ducked low beneath raised fists.
When you saw the advert posted in the papers, you hadn’t thought much of it. Medic as needed for a boxing gym. For some reason, you pictured kids running around learning how to fight. Or maybe beginners classes, which they did have every wednesday and friday evening.
What you hadn’t considered, was fully grown men who knew how to knock someone out with one hit. Men who punched like they had a mountain to move. Men who didn’t know how to quit.
You were fine with blood. You were trained to take care of injuries after all.
Seeing violence on the other hand, you didn’t have the best stomach for it.
This was a little different. Violent yes, but there was something methodical about it.
Regardless, you weren’t in the headspace to sit and watch. So you pushed off from the wall and made your way back to your office. A little space that probably used to be a closet shoved into the back corner of the gym.
You’d only been at there for a month, so it still felt clinical. Cold. Only a poster from your favorite movie hung on the wall followed by some flowers you routinely switched out on your desk.
For the next hour, you flicked through order logs. Any medical supplies they needed more of, maybe some more office decor. You were browsing through lamp options in a furniture magazine when the door suddenly threw itself open and you jumped half way out of your seat.
Bill, the gym owner, had a man at his side, half way supporting his weight.
You didn’t get a clear look at his face because he was holding a cloth to it, the fabric quickly soaking through with blood.
Your mind slipped into that comfortable place of being put to work. You had a patient and they needed your help, simple as that.
“What happened?” You asked, quickly washing your hands at the sink that was in the back corner of the room.
Bill lowered the mystery man onto the examination table, an annoyed look on his face. At least he didn’t seem worried.
“He got carried away, again.” With an annoyed huff, the man left. Already yelling at someone else as he walked out the door.
You raised a brow at the again part, but slipped on your gloves and walked up to the fighter, his breathing a little shallow, probably from the pain.
“Here, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.” You muttered, gently grabbing hold of the bloody cloth and pulling it away. The man's hand dropped into his lap, squinting through an already swelling eye at the light.
You pursed your lips together when you realized who it was. “Are you incapable of a clean fight?”
Michael grinned at you, teeth slightly stained with blood. “Good to see you, too.”
Rolling your eyes, you stepped away and threw the rag into the hazards bin before getting everything you needed together.
Looking over your shoulder at him, taking in the cuts and bruises. “You’re going to need stitches.”
Michael leaned against the wall, his feet scuffing the floor lightly as he kicked his legs. Despite how beaten up he was, he seemed to be in a good mood.
Your eyes trailed over his form, telling yourself it was for medical reasons. His skin was lightly covered in sweat, his knuckles were still wrapped with light flecks of blood seeping through the bandaging, and you watched the rise and fall of his toned chest for a moment. Only a second, really.
He tilted his head, his grin slipping into something more closed mouthed and knowing. “You’re staring.”
“I’m diagnosing.” You clenched your jaw, walking up to him and wiping away the blood around his cuts. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the sting of alcohol.
Now he was the one staring.
Watching your face carefully as you got the suture ready, his features falling into something more relaxed but too… intense.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered as you came to stand in front of him again, gently tilting his head up.
He barely flinched as you pierced his skin, beginning to thread the main cut closed.
His eyes, dark brown and glowing in the fluorescents.
“Like what?” His voice was light, his breath lightly fanning over your face.
You dared a glance down, catching his gaze for only a moment.
He was a very overwhelming person. “Like I’m the reason you keep walking in here like this.”
He leaned into your touch as you tied off the suture and wiped away more blood.
“Maybe you are.”
You sighed, men like him were always trouble. Never serious. Always chasing the next girl who turned their head. Messy. The last thing you needed. “That’s not funny.”
He tilted his head, watching you intently as you dug through a drawer.
“Wasn’t a joke.” Michael huffed as he watched you roll your eyes, “is it really so hard to believe I’m utterly head over heels for you?”
You ignored him and grabbed his chin again, using a small flashlight and observing his pupils for a moment.
You clicked the light off and crossed your arms. “You’re a mess.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got the best hands in the business patching me up.”
“I’m going to stitch your mouth shut next.” Stepping away, you pulled off your gloves and started to scribble instructions for treating his light concussion on the page. Though you knew he’d probably ignore them.
“That oddly sounds like something I’m willing to try if you’re the one doing it to me.”
You ripped the page from your notepad and handed it to him, not amused. “You’re lightly concussed and delusional–”
“Not delusional, that’s just you.” He took the paper from your hands, standing up and smiling down at you. “Always messing with my head.” You pursed your lips, but he soaked up the sight of you blushing. He could get drunk off the sight till the end of his days.
“You’re impossible.”
“How about dinner?”
You walked to the door, holding it open and gesturing him out. “Goodbye, Jackson.”
He sighed, walking out but pausing next to you, his voice slipping into a whisper. “You’ll say yes one of these days.”
Michael left you with a wink and you slumped against the door after you shut it.
Part of you wanted to throw caution in the wind and say yes. A million times yes. But you knew men like him. That would get you nowhere but heartbreak.
Weeks passed. More stitches. More scolding grown men for being reckless. More declining advances from Michael, the man was committed, you could give him that.
You had just gotten back from your lunch break when someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Looking up, you raised a brow at Marlon. He didn't come around as often as his younger brother.
“Can I help you?” He looked okay as you gazed at him. He wasn’t even dressed to fight. Jeans and a sweatshirt hanging on his body.
“Yes, actually.” He walked into your office, leaning against the observation table and giving you an odd look.
“And?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but as if he was trying to figure something out. Figure you out. You straightened a bit at his rapt attention.
“Why are you dragging my brother through hell?”
You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
Marlon gave you a Really? expression. “When are you going to give him a chance? I can’t keep listening to him ramble on about you every day, it’s getting really annoying.”
“I’m not going to date your brother just so you can get some peace of mind.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”
Your balked at Marlon. “Nothing’s wrong with him, it’s just–”
“Just what? Are you seeing someone?”
“I…” you stuttered over your words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“So, no? Then just say yes.”
You were speechless for a moment, looking at him like he’d grown two heads. “Marlon, I’m not going to go on a date with your brother just because you–”
“Don’t do it on my account. Do you like him?”
You felt like throwing something at him. A scalpel maybe. “Why are you so keen on this?”
He shrugged, looking like a copy of his brother, just less roughed up. “Why aren’t you?”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen on the desk. “No offense to either of you, but I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most men. All of his talk, but I’m sure after every fight he a has a line of women to choose from and I–“
“You do realize he’s practically in love with you, right?”
You shut your eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t even know me.”
“He’s trying to.”
Sighing, you considered him. Debating with yourself. Wondering if Michael flirted with everyone like the way he did with you. You didn’t want to look like an idiot if you said yes. Didn’t want to fall into the deep end and not have him there to help pull you out. You had been through that before and it was a pitiful, embarrassing mess.
You should’ve known better.
Not to mention you were greedy with your affection. Greedy to have the sole focus of whoever you ended up with.
You didn’t have time for wandering eyes.
Marlon gave a short sigh, pushing himself off the table with a shrug.
“You don’t have to say yes. Just stop pretending you don’t see how hard he’s trying.” And with that, he turned and left your office, leaving the door ajar.
You sat in silence for a long while, pen still tapping against the desk, thoughts louder than the gym noise bleeding in through the corridor.
The following evening, you found yourself leaning against the ropes at the side of the ring, watching Michael spar.
He hadn’t noticed you yet, focused on his movements, his strikes sharp and precise. Sweat clung to his skin, making every muscle shift and ripple beneath the light.
You should’ve turned and gone, truly. But your feet stayed planted.
Michael glanced over his shoulder and froze mid motion when he spotted you. The grin was immediate, cheeky and familiar.
He jogged over, wiping at his brow with a towel. “What’s this? A surprise visit?”
“I’m your medic, Jackson. Hardly a surprise.”
“Actually, it's 11pm, you’re not on shift,” he said, a little too proud that he noticed. “So, unless you’ve suddenly started caring for Bill’s medical paperwork, I’m calling it. This is a visit.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, looking up to the ceiling for a second, not believing you were about to do this.
Your eyes flicked back to Michael, he stood there with hands resting on his hips, sweating, his muscles on show as well as his easy smile. His hair was a mess, sticking up in different directions and his skin was flushed with heat.
“One drink,” you held up your index finger to drive the point home. That’s it. Just to get him to lose interest. Get you out of his system. Get him out of yours.
His tongue wet his bottom lip before he smiled, closed mouthed and cocky. He leaned against the ropes on his elbows, bending his head down to be closer to your eye level.
“Just the one?”
“Mhm, that’s all you get to convince me.”
He raised a brow, looking amused. “Convince you?”
“If you’re worth my time.”
He laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Does now work?”
You blinked at him. “Now?”
Michael nodded once, backing away to pick up his stuff and he shrugged a hoodie over his head.
“It's nearly midnight.”
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked right up to you, eyes taking in your face and the light blush you always seemed to wear.
“And I’m not wasting any time.”
“No.”
He leaned back, brows furrowed. “No?”
You shook your head. “If you want to do this that badly, we’re doing it right. Pick me up from my apartment tomorrow like the gentlemen I’m sure you’re going to pretend to be.”
Michael's hands flew to his heart like he’d been shot, but his lips were tugged up slightly. “I am a gentleman.” He winked as he walked around you. “When I want to be, at least. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“But you don’t–”
“Bill gave me your address.”
You huffed, crossing your arms as you saw him walk towards the exit.
“That seems highly unprofessional.”
“So is agreeing to date one of your patients.”
“It's a date and you’re not–”
“It’s okay, mama, I know you fantasize about me.” He bowed his head, soaking in your flustered face. “Goodnight.”
You stood there for a moment, speechless and trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.
The next evening arrived far too quickly for your liking.
You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft fabric of the dress you’d impulsively bought that morning. It wasn’t particularly showy, but it fit well, flattering even.
Your hair was down for once, and there was a touch of gloss on your lips that you tried to convince yourself was not for him.
A knock at the door pulled you out of your thoughts.
You opened it, and immediately wanted to shut it again.
Michael stood there, stunned silent for a moment, eyes roaming respectfully, but definitely not subtly, from your face to your legs and back again.
“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You own a dress?”
You raised an unimpressed brow. “You own a shirt with buttons?”
He laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “Touché. You look, well. Stunning doesn’t quite cover it.”
“You’re stalling,” you replied, grabbing your coat.
“Where’s the car?”
He grinned, stepping aside and gesturing down the steps of your apartment.
You followed, eyebrows pinched, only to come to a full stop.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
There, parked neatly beneath the streetlamp, was a black motorcycle.
Sleek. Loud. Predictably him.
He turned to you, eyes glinting with mischief, and held out a helmet from behind his back.
“Come on,” he said, “I promise I’ll go slow.”
“You’re not even wearing leather, you're in a button up shirt!”
“And you’re wearing heels,” he said, taking a step closer. “Stop pointing out the obvious. We’re both a little out of our element tonight, come on.”
You stared at the helmet like it had insulted you. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
He leaned in, his voice a notch lower now. “I’ll drive like a saint, I swear on my mother’s life. Besides…” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “We’re not that far. And I’d never let anything happen to you.”
It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d burn down cities before letting a scratch land on you.
You snatched the helmet from his hands with a sigh. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
He helped you onto the bike, his hands lingering just a second too long at your waist. When he climbed on in front of you, you hesitated, then wrapped your arms around his middle. His torso was solid, warm, and smelled unfairly good.
As the bike roared to life beneath you, you tightened your grip. You could feel his laugh more than you could hear it, and your cheeks flushed under the helmet.
Maybe you were already in trouble.
By the time you pulled up outside the restaurant, your legs were a bit wobbly, your dress slightly creased from the ride, and your heart still thudding in your chest, not from the speed, but from the way he’d felt beneath your arms.
He gently took the helmet off your head, laughing at the state of your hair before smoothing it down with his hand.
God, you felt like a teenager all over again, it was ridiculous.
You looked past his shoulder, not wanting to read too much into the intensity of his gaze.
“Mexican?”
The restaurant had a blue neon light flickering with the name, the flag of Mexico swaying softly next to the American one.
“Best one in town, come on.” Without another word he grabbed your hand and led you in.
His skin was warm, his hand much larger than yours and you felt an electric shock shoot up your arm.
Your heart was stuttering. Which was absurd. You’d touched him numerous times while stitching him back together. But all of those moments had been clinical. Years of practice and steady hands. Touches simply meant to mend.
It was just hand holding, you knew that. It was nothing to get excited about.
You followed Michael to a table, a white and green checkered table cloth covering it. The lights were low and twinkling, the walls covered in pictures from the family who owned the restaurant. He pulled the chair out for you, really laying the chivalry on thick but you sat without complaint.
“So,” he said as he sat himself across from you, not wasting any time. “What changed your mind?”
You traced a nail on the table cloth, not wanting to admit his brother talked you into it. So you shrugged, “curiosity.” It was a half truth. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why he’d be actually interested.
Sure, attraction is one thing. Surface level. But you were over and done with flings. Of awkward good mornings after one night stands and crying on the floor of your bathroom. Tired of being scared when you stayed up too late, staring at your door like he was about to break it down.
You’d been too trusting in the past and not careful with your heart. Not caring about your safety if it meant someone loved you— Wanted you. Was there a difference?
And Michael… he was a puzzle you were trying to figure out.
The small talk was easy, it usually was with him. That didn’t mean you weren’t blushing or avoiding meeting his eye as you focused on your food or margarita. He didn’t push, and wasn’t necessarily groveling. He seemed equally curious about you.
“What got you into healthcare?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, his own cheeks flushed from the tequila and his spicy enchiladas. His eyes glowing in the soft light as he looked at you.
There was a softness about him that night that you weren’t used to seeing on him. You’d only seen him with his chest heaving, sweaty, knuckles bruised and fists swinging. Everything about him and his movements in the ring were sharp. A shark who just caught a whiff of blood in the water. The violence in his eyes palpable. Dangerous.
But as he sat across from you… he felt like a daydream your mind made up. Brown eyes doting, looking like he was gazing at heaven's gates. Curly hair clean from a fresh shower, looking soft to the touch. A red shirt hanging on his shoulders with the top two buttons undone. On the ride to the restaurant, as the wind blew past them, the smell of his cologne was still fresh in your mind. Sandalwood and salt, maybe a hint of vanilla.
Everything about him was addicting. Temptation in every sense of the word. Thus, your conscience was screaming at you to be careful.
You shrugged, twirling your drink, looking at your reflection in the liquor.
“I don’t know. Being able to help people, for one thing. Knowing how to help. The security in it too, maybe? Doctors and nurses are always needed.”
Michael hummed, “I understand the feeling of wanting to be needed.”
Your eyes flicked up for a second, a little breathless at the look on his face. He’d leaned forward, elbows on the table and looking at you. Really looking.
“It sounds selfish when I put it like that,” you mumbled, looking away again.
Michael tilted his head. ‘We’re only human.”
“I suppose… What about you? What got you into beating people up for a living?’
He clicked his tongue, “you know, voicing this all out loud is making me realize our professions are on the opposite sides of a spectrum.”
You laughed lightly. That was true enough. He lived day to day breaking people apart while your job was to stitch those people back together. Put him back together.
“I don’t know,” he continued. “It started out as an outlet, still is, I suppose. It helps clear my head, you know? The world gets too loud and my body needs to be doing something or else I feel like I’m going to explode. And my father…” he trailed off, looking down at his plate but he shook his head, smiling at you but it held a hint of spite in it.
“How about ice cream?”
You considered Michael for a moment, wondering what else lay beneath his exterior. He always seemed so untouchable, but now you were starting to see the fissures. The hairline fractures running beneath the surface of his features. Held tightly together by sheer force of will.
Smiling lightly, you nodded. “Sure.”
You walked side by side down strip of sidewalk in Santa Monica, Michael picked vanilla flavored gelato while you went with your favorite. The dessert was cold on your tongue but did nothing to cool the furnace going off inside you.
It was a comfortable silence as you passed by bands playing from open-window restaurants, the moon and stars glittered on the water of the Santa Monica Bay.
You found a ledge to lean against that overlooked the water.
He finished off his ice cream, looking at you, a little mischief underlining his expression.
Michael’s shoulder bumped yours, “you don’t like eye contact very much, do you?”
Your face was apparently permanently blushed at this point.
You licked your ice cream, briefly looking at him, only proving his point.
“Come on,” he turned towards you slightly. “If you can hold eye contact with me and not break it first, I’ll stop bothering you at work.”
You scoffed, “that’s a lose-lose on my part, you know that.”
“So little faith in yourself,” he tsk-d. He then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you like me bothering you.”
You finished your treat, wiping your hands together. “Fine, only so I can finally have peace at work and your brother will stop complaining to me.”
His brows furrowed. “Marlon spoke to you?”
You waved him off, not meaning to let that out but maybe the Don Julio was making your tongue loose. And reckless. You should not be doing this.
The moment your eyes met, you immediately regretted it.
He looked too smug. Too soft around the edges. Dimples in his cheeks as he stared down at you. His focus going from each of your eyes to your mouth, before trailing back up again. As if trying to memorize you. Commit you to memory.
You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Being able to look at him properly, up close.
Of course you’d look at him when he was at the gym, watching from a distance as he fought. Standing off to the side on medical stand-by during tournaments. But this close, he was something else entirely.
The different shades of brown in his eyes. His pupils blown wide. The sharpness of his nose and jaw, the soft curve of his lips still stained from his drink.
When Michael muttered your name, breath low and fanning over your own lips you caved, everything feeling too much. Life suddenly in technicolor.
You went to turn away, but his hands gently took hold of your face and brought it back up, making you look at him.
He was smiling. One you hadn’t seen before. A million different reasons behind it but before you could try and decipher the first one, he was kissing you.
It wasn’t gentle, but it was soft. Michael held you against him like he didn’t know how to handle you, cautious, but sure. No hesitancy in the way his mouth moved against yours, one hand sliding down to your throat while the other buried itself into your hair.
When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, he breathed in your gasp, your open lips making room for his tongue to explore yours.
You could feel him smiling into the kiss and you felt more drunk off of him more than any cocktail ever could.
Michael went slow with you as the weeks bled into months. Hands held you softly, a complete antithesis to the strength behind his punches.
Bruised and cracked knuckles brushing softly against your cheekbone. Rough hands loving to touch you whenever he was able to. Drifting along the back of your neck or on the small of your back. His hands falling to your waist anytime you were stitching him up or wiping away blood as he sat on the examination table with you standing between his legs.
No one said anything, but it was obvious as time went on.
You’d stay later than you were supposed to, watched more training sessions and volunteering to be the medic at tournaments or competitions.
Michael didn’t bother with subtlety. Eyes always going to you, grinning like he’d already won. Winking at you as he downed water after a round.
What really sealed it was the first time he hopped over the ropes after winning, striding right up to you and kissing you.
The attention from the crowds was a bit overwhelming but he made it easy to tune them all out. He made everything feel easy.
He’d bring you coffee in the mornings paired with flowers once a week. He didn’t push. Wanting to make sure you were comfortable. You went out for dinner when you could, dancing under string lights and drunk off wine and each other.
All those cautionary sirens eventually dulled in your mind.
On nights where you were both too tired, he was at your apartment or you were at his. It was simple. Secure.
You felt like you were in a day dream every time you woke up at his side or his head resting against your chest, tangled in sheets and smelling of his shampoo. No longer anxiously looking at the door like it might cave in.
One lazy morning, dawn just barely kissing the California skyline, you ran your fingers through his hair as he slept partly on top of you. Arms wrapped securely around your middle with his head rested against your sternum. It was his favorite position.
He said your heart beat helped him sleep.
“Michael?” You muttered, voice low and it swirled around the room.
He hummed, his grip tightening.
You ran your nails lightly up and down his back. “I want to learn how to fight.”
You felt his eyelashes flutter as he blinked, waking slowly and he lifted his head to rest his chin on your chest, looking at you with tired eyes and furrowed brows.
Michael’s voice was rough with sleep as he spoke. “Okay, but why?”
Shrugging, you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to know how to protect myself.”
He turned his head to the side, kissing the inside of your wrist. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that right?”
You couldn’t help it as your eyes drifted to your bedroom door. Picturing the wood splintering as it was being kicked in. Of shouting.
His hands threaded in your hair as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he muttered, “come back to me.”
Shutting your eyes, you leaned into him. “I know that, but when you’re not around, I need to know I can protect myself.”
Michael looked at you, his lips tugging down slightly. “I’ll teach you, but is there something I should know? Why–”
Shaking your head, you sat up, slipping out of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, I just want to learn. Really.” You weren’t sure if he believed you, given you didn’t look at him as you shut the bathroom door behind you.
Your gloved fists collided with the boxing pads Michael was wearing.
You were drenched in sweat. Feeling your pulse in every muscle and your breathing too tight. But with each sharp sound of a hit, it drove you forward.
Michael walked you through the motions. Easy things first. Steps. Dodges. Good practice rhythms. How to angle your arms when you swung so you didn’t hurt yourself.
Simple.
And you were furious at yourself for not knowing any of this before. Wondering if it would’ve helped you.
When you messed up the rhythm again, fist missing the pad and grazing his shoulder, you groaned. The sound on the cusp of a scream as it echoed around the empty gym.
“Hey, what is it?” Michael lowered his hands to his sides, looking every part the trainer instead of the fighter. Wearing a snug t-shirt with the gym's name plastered across it, sweats, and worn sneakers he’s had for years.
“It’s nothing,” your tone was sharp. A bit bitter and you didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was already in the air.
He looked down at you pointedly. Not believing you. Not pushing either, he needed you to trust him enough to tell him something when you were ready.
Pulling one of the boxing pads off his hands, he reached up and brushed away some hair that was stuck to your sweat covered skin. Leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got you, okay?”
Shutting your eyes and still trying to calm down your breathing, you suddenly felt cold and leaned against him. Burying your head beneath his jaw. Trying to summon the courage to just spit it out.
He deserved to know you. Completely. Every ugly part of your past, regardless if it was your fault.
Over the months he had let you in. Let you help or just offer comfort. Telling you of his bad days. Why he really got into fighting. How it started underground before Bill scouted him out. Of drunken nights spent on cliffs. Pain was a creature comfort to him.
But you’d never forget that night… a few months in and you were regretting taking things so slow, worried he was getting bored but a cord snapped almost as violently as his punches.
It happened under sheets heated up with your breaths. Skin sliding against each other. Exploring and remapping.
Michael tracing over the bruises he’d left on you days before. Muttering things you could hardly hear against your hip. Hands shaking as he held you, guided you, worked you up to a tipping point.
Thumbs wiping away your tears as you cried out and his voice was nearly inaudible as he spoke into your neck, teeth grazing your throat, “I’m in love with you.”
You held onto him tighter. Your life line. Crying for a whole other list of reasons.
Using the memory to fuel your courage, you sighed and leaned your head back. Searching his eyes, always so soft with you, before looking down. You were still dreadful at eye contact.
“I had an ex,” you began, fiddling with the boxing gloves just to occupy your hands and try and ignore how still Michael had gone.
“I was young and naïve… I thought, or maybe just tried to convince myself, that he acted the way he did because he cared so much.” You could practically hear the memories of him shouting at you. Of objects flying, shattering against the wall by your head. Wincing from sore wrists of where he’d grab you. The splintering of wood as he kicked in your door when you’d finally left him.
Shaking your head, you continued. “I’m fine now, really. I know I’m safe. I have a restraining order against him. Not to mention you’ve helped.” Chancing a glance up at him, you stilled yourself.
His experience was unreadable.
Jaw clenched, eyes dark and unblinking. You’d seen him angry and worked up on adrenaline in the ring before, but this… this was silent as it stirred beneath him. Those fissures you noticed that first night you spent together beginning to shift and crack.
“Michael—“
“What’s his name?” His voice was quiet. Not icy. Not venomous. Not even a bite to it. Just smooth, oil-like in its softness.
You pressed your lips together. “No.”
Now, his eyes narrowed. Not in any sort of accusation. More so determination. “No?”
Pulling off your gloves and letting them drop to the floor, you gently held his face with your hands, thumbs running softly along his cheekbones. Making yourself meet those eyes of his that saw too much. “I’m okay.”
You felt his jaw shift beneath your hands. A moment later he let out a slow breath before wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin atop your head.
Neither of you said anything. Didn’t need to.
A few days later, when you had been utterly bored after work and waiting for Michael to be done training, you decided to bake something while a movie played in the background.
You’d been in a good mood. Lighter. A weight off your chest.
You felt a little silly as you decorated the Christmas cookies. Childish. But you were learning to allow yourself moments like these. Healing your inner child or whatever it is that therapists ramble about.
You drew hearts in icing. Did some other poorly attempted art that you then tried to mask with too many sprinkles.
On a few, you wrote your initials next to his.
Eventually, you heard the door open and shut. The thud of Michael dropping his gym bag by the door and his feet padding into the kitchen.
“Hey,” you mumbled, still aptly focused on decorating.
His steps halted, silence greeting you, and when you looked up you paused.
Michael was staring. Really staring at the cookies laid out in front of you on the table. He looked furious.
You frowned. “I made cookies.” You looked down at them all. They really did look awful. And the longer you looked you realized how much of a mess you’d made.
Flour was coating everything like dust, colored frosting was smeared, dishes were piled in the sink… “I know they’re not bakery level or anything. But I promise they’re good. My mom and I used to always make them from scratch when we needed something to smile about.” You reached over to a cookie with both your initials written inside a lopsided heart and held it up for him to see.
Michael exhaled, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You froze. Stomach sinking a little. Watching as his hand rubbed at his jaw as he looked away from the cookies. Looking away from you.
“What?” Although you were trying to shove down the hurt bubbling up your throat, a little bit of frustration seeped into your tone.
He let out another long sigh. Nearly sounding distraught. Furious.
You dropped the cookie on the table. The world suddenly tilted beneath your feet. “What the hell did I do?”
Michael looked back at the cookies, not meeting your eyes and he shook his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the root. “I can’t fucking do this tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. “Do what?”
“You’re-“ Michael shut his eyes for a moment. “I need a minute, I can’t breathe in this fucking place.” With that he turned around and left, door shutting behind him and you stood there, the edges of your vision starting to blur.
Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.
You packed up all the cookies, shoving them into a corner of the counter before forcing yourself to do the dishes. Needing to keep yourself busy.
Showered just to do something. Shrugged on one of his oversized gym shirts and crawled under the sheets that smelt like him.
Your eyes adjusted to the dark and ears pricked when you heard the front door softly open and close. Of slow footsteps. Pausing before the bedroom door. A breath or two before he opened it gently.
Holding your breath, wondering what he would do.
When he walked to the bed and gently lowered himself onto the edge, fingers softly brushing back your still damp hair, you couldn’t help it as you leaned into him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice swirling in the dark.
“Do you have a hatred of cookies I wasn’t aware of?” You needed to make this light. Manageable. Your heart calmed a fraction when his laugh softly met your ears.
“No, I love them. It was just…” he trailed off, as if to calm himself down all over again.
Michael then reached out for you, maneuvering you easily so you were laying against him, your head against his thigh as he played with your hair.
“I don’t know. Seeing you like that. Seeing what you made and you’re just… I want to beat his head in for laying a hand on you.”
You considered his words for a moment before lifting yourself up, fingers meeting his neck in the dark, pure muscle memory at this point. “I’m okay, Michael. Just stay.”
As the weeks went on, he was fighting harder than before. Not pulling any punches. A new rage bubbling beneath his skin.
The thought of anyone thinking it was okay to hurt you was driving him into a bloodlust every time he stepped in the ring.
It caused him a few penalties. Shouts from Bill. Fines from tournaments.
But his eyes would meet yours through the ropes. The rest of the crowd fading into blurs. Your gaze was knowing. Brows furrowed at the violence.
It made his heart swell to know you trusted him so much despite what you’d been through. Trusted him enough not to hurt you. Not to raise his voice. Not to add pressure unless you asked.
Christmas lights twinkled above the bed.
It happened slowly yet all at once. Your lives bleeding into one another so seamlessly as another year went by.
He had moved into your apartment months ago but he still felt his breath catch every time he called you from the gym, saying he was heading home.
The holidays were his favorite, though they didn’t used to be.
After dinner with his mother and siblings, you two had come back home to unwind. A bottle of moscato opened and music played softly.
He leaned against the headboard of the bed, sheets falling low on his waist as he watched you move around, arranging lights anywhere you pleased.
For the ambience, you kept saying.
You were on your toes hanging up a string of lights, one of his shirts falling off your shoulder.
How perfectly you fit into his life.
Michael’s voice was soft as he spoke, “Will you marry me?”
Slowly, your hands lowered, the lights gently falling to the ground as you turned to look at him. That crease between your brows making you look adorable.
Your voice was quiet. “What?”
“Come here,” he held out his arm and gestured for you to come closer. Eyes intent as he watched you approach, lifting one knee up before the other as you climbed onto the mattress, sitting before him, hesitant, not quite meeting his eye.
He wet his bottom lip, smiling a bit as he took hold of your chin, making you look at him.
He said it again. Slow. Purposely. A promise in every syllable.
“Will you marry—“
Your lips collided with his, arms wrapped around his neck and he rolled you over, grinning into your mouth. Meeting each move of yours with equal intensity.
His bruised and freshly cut knuckles ached with each movement but he didn’t mind. It made it sweeter.
Him and Marlon decided to pay your ex a visit two days ago.
If you ever asked him, he’d just say it was an early engagement present.
Michael’s teeth tugged at your bottom lip as he pulled back, taking in your flushed features and eyes that glowed in the Christmas lights.
“I’d still like a yes, if it’s all the same to you.”
You laughed, the sound filling him up with bliss. “I don’t see a ring.”
He didn’t waste any time as he leaned over you and slid open the drawer of the night stand.
In all honesty, he’d been wanting to ask for over a year now. But he wanted it to be perfect for you. For it to be comfortable, genuine.
And at the dinner with his mother earlier that night, he was finally able to get the ring he’d asked her about all those months ago.
Michael took hold of the box and then slid off the bed and down to his knees, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, looking up at you with heaven in his eyes as he popped it open.
And he said it for the third time, but different.
“Marry me.”
You said yes about a hundred times against his lips, falling back into the sheets and a new ring on your finger that glinted in the lights.
pairing ━━ ༯ spidey! michael x fem! reader
author's note ━━ ༯ this is a little hurt/comfort au that i wrote up over the last few days as life has been stressful and imagining michael as one of my fav comic characters has been comforting to me. also inspired by the lovely @amnesia-sc's spidey michael artworks.
w.c; 5.3k
The rain was a silver shimmering curtain call over Manhattan, a hissing, cold veil that turned neon signs into bleeding watercolors and slicked the fire escapes into glistening iron latticework.
It was late in the evening and you were awake because the city never truly slept, and neither did your thoughts. A book lay open on your lap, unread, your attention instead on the rhythmic drumming against your windowpane.
That's when you heard it; a big thud, and then a scraping metal sound, a pained gasp, and the unmistakable, wet slap of something heavy collapsing onto the grated platform outside.
Your heart jumped into your throat. You knew that sound. Well, you didn’t know for sure, per se, but you'd come to recognize the graceless arrival of your… occasional esteemed visitor.
You scrambled off the bed, the book tumbling to the floor, and yanked the curtain aside.
There he was, crumpled in a heap of red and blue, one arm draped over the railing, the other clutching his middle. The rain had plastered the suit to his form, turning it into a second, darker skin. And against that dark blue, spreading from beneath his gloved fingers with a terrifying speed, was a slick, violent crimson.
"Oh, my god," you breathed, fumbling with the window latch. It stuck, as always, and you shoved it upward with a grunt, the chill, wet air rushing in. "Spider-Man?"
He lifted his head. Even through the mask, you could see the effort it cost him. "Hey, neighbor," he said, his voice a strained parody of its usual melodic, teasing lilt. It was hoarse, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
"Mind if I… crash the party? Literally." He tumbled over, now fully laying on the ground.
You didn't answer, just reached out, your hands slipping on his wet shoulders. "What happened? You need to get inside before someone sees you… now."
"Got into a disagreement… with a new guy in town. And by guy, I mean ‘alien’ with crazy looking metal wings." He tried to help himself, pushing with his legs, but a full-body shudder wracked him, and he slumped.
"He made his point. Forcefully," his voice was strained but laced with humour.
"Let's just say the giant Pepsi billboard on 42nd street now has a… man shaped hole through the middle of it, from where he dropped me."
You just stared at him in sheer disbelief, not even beginning to be able to picture what the hell that messy scene looked like. And why the hell did this have to keep happening in your city?
With a strength born of pure adrenaline, you hauled him through the window by his arms. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle and sodden fabric, and you both tumbled onto your floor in a wet, tangled heap. He smelled like a damp…dog.
"Okay, okay, just lay still for now until I figure out what the hell I am going to do with you," you said, your voice trembling only a little. You were now running your hands through your hair on edge. What if a neighbor had seen you bring him in?
You pushed yourself up, and started mapping the emergency in front of you. The suit was torn across his abdomen, a vicious, ragged split. Beneath it, the wound was a nightmare; a deep, angry gash that wept blood steadily. It looked like some of the fabric of the suit was in the wound as well.
Your stomach turned, he was really badly hurt.
You'd prepared for this though, in a hazy, half-believing way… that maybe your spidey friend wouldn't just come along to your fire escape to watch sunsets and talk about how hot Iron Man was and instead, would need your help.
You'd gone into work after his 5th visit and brought some medical supplies home. The perks of being a trainee doctor.
As you ran to fetch the basket of supplies from your tiny bathroom, he spoke, his head lolling to watch you.
"You should see… the other guy. He's probably really banged up from where I – got him… But I guess we'd never truly know with all their crazy regeneration alien stuff. Probably not a scratch on him." He tried for a laugh; it came out as a wet cough. "I swear I got him good, I swea–"
"Shut up and save your breath," you ordered, kneeling beside him with the kit. You began cutting away the suit around the wound with blunt scissors, your fingers working with a clinical precision that belied the panic screaming in your mind.
The skin revealed was warm and golden brown, now marred by that brutal tear. You cleaned it with antiseptic, your touch as gentle as you could make it. He hissed sharply, his whole body tensing as you poured some saline over the gash.
"Sorry, sorry," you murmured.
"S'okay. Your hands are… really soft despite all the stingy chemical stuff." His voice was closer to a whisper now, his breathing shallow. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"
You froze, a cotton pad soaked in peroxide hovering over the wound.
Your eyes flicked up. He was looking right at you, the white lenses of his mask somehow managing to convey an intense, unwavering delight despite his pain.
You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was two in the morning. You were in ratty sweatpants and an old faded Madonna tshirt, your hair was a mess, and you had no makeup on.
"I look like I was dragged through a hedge backward," you muttered, focusing back on the gash. "Had a backshift at the hospital."
You began to apply antibiotic ointment, your fingers carefully smoothing it along the edges. "And now you're bleeding out on my floor. Not the time for flattery."
"It's always the time," he breathed. "And you're wrong. You look… gorgeous. Best view in the city. It's why I always come to your fire escape."
You ignored him, or tried to, as you started to place sterile gauze pads over the wound. The bleeding was slowing, thank god. But as you worked, you noticed other things. The way his left arm was held slightly stiff.
The faint, purpling bruise already blooming along his collarbone and sternum; with his beautiful black body hair swirling into the nebula-looking bruise on his skin. You gulped letting your mind wander slightly.
But you were distracted fairly quickly when he'd tried to sit up a little to help you wrap the bandage around his torso, he'd winced, his hand flying to his ribs to stop you.
"You took a bad hit to the head too, didn't you?" you asked, your voice firm. "You've never babbled on about how I look before."
You were concerned at the thought of him getting into these crazy fights; and challenging evil…aliens or whatever they were. A little concussion was the least of his concerns in reality, but not to you.
He didn’t reply straight away, still writhing dramatically in pain… it was hard to watch, but you pushed again to get an answer.
"I need you to think for me. When you went through the billboard. Did you fall head first?"
"Might've… dinged the noggin a little. It's fine. Hard head n'all."
"Mhm, okay can you stand so I can move you onto the bed?" you asked, the sternness still in your voice. “I’ll be able to bandage you up easier if I can stand over you.”
"Be honest Y/N, you're just trying to bed this ol' spidey boy, aren't you?" One of his weirdly emotive white lenses winked.
"Ugh no, you are so annoying. now stand!" He stood up, wobbling slightly but leaning on your shoulder allowed him to be able to hobble over to your cosy bed.
He lay up wincing, agonised sounds choking and spluttering out of him; the pain he was feeling was even making your eyes water.
"You'll need to stay here for a bit, rest. You're clearly in a bad way."
"Uh-huh, it will probably take me around 45 minutes to regenerate that skin on my torso, give or take."
Once his head was on the pillow, you started to think about the long lasting effects of a concussion and then the word vomit was outing your thought;
"Take off the mask."
The air in the room changed. The playful, pained flirtation vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness. Even his breathing seemed to stop. "What?"
"The mask. Take it off. I need to check your pupils, make sure you don't have a concussion. And I want to see the rest of the damage." You sat back on your heels, crossing your arms.
"Don't you get the whole point of why I am masked, Y/N?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You're in my apartment, bleeding on my expensive sheets. You don't get to have secrets right now," you said firmly. "Plus, aren't we friends now?"
For a long moment, he didn't move, he just looked at you through the hollowed out expression of his mask. The only sound was the rain and the distant sigh of traffic far below. Then, a slow, resigned sigh escaped him.
"You play dirty, girl. You know I can't resist you telling me what to do."
"I am not even going to begin to dissect what the hell that means. Off."
"Well I like when you are a bossy boots and tell me to water your plants whilst I am out on the fire escape or to swing over and bring you bagels from your favourite shop in the Bronx, or do whatever you ask, really–"
"Enough, okay, I get it, I tell you what to do a lot. But you come back, right? You may as well show me your face if we are going to be real friends. Your secret is safe with me."
He made a gargled sound of annoyance, but you knew it didn’t run deep. His gloved hands came up, trembling slightly—from pain or nerves, you couldn't tell. They gripped the edge of the mask at the back of his neck.
There was a soft, sticky sound as it peeled away from his sweat-damp skin. He pulled it forward,
over his head, and let it drop to the floor with a damp plop.
The first thing you saw was the hair. A cascade of dark, glossy curls sprang free, tumbling around his face and shoulders, shimmering under your lamplight.
Then, his face.
Sheened with a fine layer of rain water that made his olive skin glow in your orange salt lamp's light.
A small, angry gash marred the high arch of his cheekbone. His lips, which you'd never truly imagined, were full and lush, now busted and bruised at the corner, swelling prettily. That was the witty mouth that had been spouting major attitude at you when you chastised him for making so much noise right outside your window.
But it was his eyes that stole the air from your lungs. Huge, liquid brown doe eyes, wide with pain and vulnerability and a breathtaking shyness you'd never associated with the wisecracking wall-crawler. They held a universe of feeling, framed by long, sooty lashes. He looked heartbreakingly young, and impossibly beautiful.
"Oh," you said, the word leaving you in a soft exhale. You didn’t even realise he’d started to take off his gloves as well.
He averted his gaze, suddenly unable to meet yours.
The confident, flirty Spider-Man was gone, replaced by a young man who seemed to want to fold into himself. "Told you it was just a ding," he mumbled, his voice unmuffled now, a warm, smooth tenor, even roughened by pain.
You reached out, your fingers gently tilting his chin back, making him look at you. Your thumb brushed the unharmed side of his jaw. It was partially stubbly.
"What's your name?" you whispered, well and truly bewildered by the sight of this delicate man lying on your bed.
He swallowed. "Michael."
His eyes were now trained onto yours, brown and dark, and devoted. They were bloodshot from the rain, as he swung through the night.
"Michael," you repeated, and the name felt both strange and perfectly right on your tongue. “Huh. what a normal name,”
After breaking your mesmerised look, you pushed away your feelings of awe and got back to work. He seemed thankful for the change in pace.
You shifted to check his pupils with the small flashlight from your kit. They reacted normally.
"Okay, Michael. Tell me what actually happened. The real version. You seem fairly human to me and I am not satisfied with only knowing parts of your story. I need to figure out if we need to take you to a hospital."
His eyes went wider than they already were; “absolutely NOT. no hospitals - how are we going to explain I was flung through a billboard?”
“You are impossible, you know that?” You asked, mirth in your voice. “I should have told you to shoo the first time you commandeered my fire escape.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned at you. “But ya didn’t! Because you likeeee me.”
And then, he told you what happened. Haltingly at first, then with more flow as he saw you weren't recoiling, weren't fixing to call the news or trying to snap a photo on your film camera.
He told you about the sleek, chrome-skinned alien that had descended in a beam of green light, and how it had backhanded him through the Pepsi billboard like he was a ragdoll.
He had been trying to save the burning apartment block that the alien had set alight with some form of blaster gun. He'd been standing on the sidewalk, giving tiny little toddlers that he had rescued from the building some cuddles before he'd been scooped up by the threat, and beaten within an inch of his life.
This clearly didn't happen regularly—he had never looked this injured before, not in all the times he had come to visit you. He described the freefall, the desperate, dizzying swing across three blocks as he narrowly escaped, knowing his injuries would fail him in his fight. The only thought in his pain-fogged mind was the route back to your fire escape, your window, the one safe harbor he could think of.
"I knew you'd help," he finished, his eyes searching your face. "You always do. Even when I just show up to be a pest."
You finished taping the butterfly stitch on his cheekbone, securely, your hands lingering on the warmth of his forehead.
There was a bit of a tension; you weren’t sure if it was sexual… or if it was just innocent attraction. It had been a faint agony in the background of this whole mess and now had roared to life, crazily poignant in the small space between your bodies on the bed. The air was thick with the scent of him, rain, sweat, blood and then of course the chemicals you'd used on his wounds. Your eyes kept drifting to his bruised lips.
"You're not a pest," you said, your voice low. "You're a mess. A brave, stupid mess. Charming, somehow, despite it all."
He gave a lopsided smile. "You forgot handsome."
"You've got nerve fishing for compliments, Michael."
He seemed startled at the use of his name; almost like he forgot he even told you or that he had removed his mask. Every single interaction you’d had before was with it on; and despite that you’d still been attracted to his personality… his voice. Now that you knew what he looked like; those feelings were going to be hard to push down.
Your dating life was already a mess; you didn’t want to start courting a literal superhero. I think after this you’ve dealt with enough aliens to last a lifetime.
He began to lift himself up a bit on the pillows, so that he was eye level with you.
"Suppose so. I guess it's just because you're looking at me all weird and I want to know whether or not you find me attractive."
You were staring, admittedly. You couldn't stop.
"Does it matter if I do or not? I am helping you, aren't I?" you smirked, starting to pack up your medical kit.
"Well, yeah. I care what people think of me." His eyes had gone vulnerable again, sparkly and light.
"Didn't you tell me no one knew of your identity?" you asked, side eying him.
He started shifting in the bed again, uncomfortable, and hissed again.
"Shit—Michael, are you ok?"
"M'fine, it's just the regeneration can be a bit painful when the wound is this bad." You didn't even question 'regeneration' because, what the fuck? He looked human, but was clearly not.
"People know me in my normal life—I go to college and work in a recording studio when I'm not… taking care of Spidey business."
Once he settled against the pillows again, the shyness was melting from his expression, replaced by a warm, vulnerable affection that made your mouth go all dry.
The rain, the darkness, the intimacy of the wound-tending, it had stripped away every barrier of friendship you'd once had with this masked vigilante.
He was just a boy, a startlingly young man, sitting half-naked and injured on your queen size bed, and you were just you, and the world outside had ceased to exist.
Without overthinking it, without letting the fear or the absurdity of the situation stop you, you leaned forward. You closed the gap, and you pressed your lips to his.
It was soft, chaste, a mere brush of skin against swollen skin. But it sent a jolt through you both.
He went perfectly still for a second, then a small, sound escaped him; a mixture of pain and pleasure.
His hand came up, his fingers; bare now, you realised, slid into your hair, cupping the back of your head.
He kissed you back, carefully, tenderly, mindful of his busted lip. It was sweet and hesitant and flooded with a warmth that spread from your lips down to your toes. He tasted of something sweet, like nerds gummy clusters or something silly like that.
When you pulled back, his doe eyes were wide, dazed. A faint blush darkened his cheeks.
"Whoa," he breathed.
You sat back, your own face flaming. The reality came crashing in. The mask on the floor. The bandages. His age. He looked… he couldn't be older than twenty, he couldn’t be ages with you. You’d just turned 24. He had to be younger.
"Oh, my god," you said, the words tumbling out. "How old are you?"
The blush deepened. "Nineteen."
"Nineteen?" You stared at him, flabbergasted. All this time.
The fearless protector of New York, the quipping hero who'd faced aliens and other vigilante’s, was a teenager.
A teenager with incredible hair and soulful eyes who blushed when kissed. The absurdity of it swelled in your chest, wonder tangled up right alongside it. Underneath both sat a protective ache that was almost overwhelming.
He looked down, suddenly self-conscious. "I know, I'm…ugh, I should get home. I've imposed enough, and—"
"Don't you dare," you cut him off, your voice firming. The shock was receding, replaced by a fierce, surging certainty. You stood up, offering him your hand.
"You can barely stand. You're not swinging anywhere. If you need to stay the night to rest, you can. The couch pulls out. It's not much, but it's dry and it's safe."
He looked from your hand to your face, that vulnerability shining in his eyes again.
Slowly, he reached up and took it. His grip was strong, even now. You helped him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice small.
You led him the few steps to your couch, guiding him to sit. "I'm sure." You fetched a blanket and a pillow from your bed.
"Now, lie down. Try to sleep. I'll be right over there if you need anything."
He obeyed, settling back with a weary sigh that seemed to come from his bones. As you tucked the blanket around him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
His touch was warm and his hand… so big that it engulfed your wrist entirely.
"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered. "For… everything. My aunt would have murdered me herself if she saw the state I got into. She doesn't understand that I can heal from this sort of thing."
Really you didn't much believe it either or understand the science behind it. You just smiled, shaking your arm away from his grip.
You turned off the main light, leaving only the soft, golden glow of your bedside lamp.
You climbed into your own bed, facing the couch. In the semi-darkness, you watched him. His eyes were already closed, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks, his bruised lips slightly parted as his breathing evened out into sleep.
★⋆.
The first thing you became aware of was warmth. A deep, cocooning warmth that seeped into your bones, delicious in the way it cradled you in a state of perfect, sleepy contentment.
You were floating in the hazy, golden space between dreams and waking, and in that space, there was only him. Michael.
His face painted itself on the inside of your eyelids in exquisite, lingering detail. The memory of last night was a vivid recollection; a sensation, a tapestry of feeling woven from the lamplight.
The shocking softness of his curls between your fingers when you'd checked his head for lumps. The way his big, brown eyes had held yours, wide with a vulnerability that had cracked something open inside your chest.
The feel of his jaw under your thumb, the prickle of stubble against your skin.
And his hands. God, his hands. You dreamed of them. Long, elegant fingers, surprisingly graceful for all their strength. You saw them peeling off the damp mask, trembling slightly.
You felt them again, cupping the back of your head while you kissed, his touch so tender it made your heart soar. In your dream-state, those hands were everywhere; brushing hair from your face, tracing the line of your jaw, and going further and further down your body.
Their warmth seeped into you, claiming you in the gentlest, most possessive way.
A soft, sighing breath escaped you, a smile touching your lips as you nuzzled deeper into your pillow.
Then, a tickle. A faint, warm puff of air against your forehead. Your dreaming mind incorporated it—his breath, as he leaned in close. But the rhythm was off. It was too steady, too… present.
Your eyes fluttered open, blurry with sleep. And found themselves staring directly into another pair of eyes, mere inches from your own.
They were brown, liquid, and crinkled at the corners with unmasked, utterly delighted amusement. Michael was lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, his head resting on his hand.
He had clearly been watching you sleep for who-knows-how-long, a soft, goofy grin plastered across his beautiful, bruised face. His curls were a wild, glorious mess on his head, from having slept on them.
A jolt of pure, undiluted shock electrified your spine.
A strangled, gasping scream ripped from your throat; less out of fear, more out of the sheer, overwhelming proximity of him.
Your body spasmed backward, forgetting the edge of the bed existed. With a yelp and a clumsy thud, you landed in a heap on the floor, the blanket tangling around your legs. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
"Oh, shit! Sorry! I was trying to be funny!" His voice, laced with genuine alarm and a leftover trace of sleep-roughness, came from above. He was peering over the bed at you.
Before you could even untangle your limbs or process the embarrassment, strong hands were hooking under your arms. He hauled you up from the floor as if you weighed nothing, the motion so swift and effortless it stole your breath anew.
He meant to set you on your feet, but his strength, even injured, was miscalibrated.
You were pulled into him, your body colliding flush against his bare chest in the ripped spiderman suit. One of his arms banded around your back to steady you, the other still gripping your arm.
You were pressed together from chest to thigh, the thin fabric of your sleep shirt and his suit doing nothing to mask the solid, warm reality of him. The air left your lungs in a soft rush.
He looked down, his eyes wide with apology that quickly melted into something else. Something hotter, more intense.
The playful grin was gone, replaced by a look of dazed wonder. His face was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. His bruised lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper.
He was leaning down, his head tilting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. The intention was as clear as daylight: he was going to kiss you. Again.
The morning-after kiss, without the blood and the panic, just the two of you, breath mingling, hearts pounding in a synchronous rhythm. The tension was insane, pulsing in the air between you.
Your own lips parted instinctively, drawn to him like a magnet. The memory of last night's sweet, hesitant kiss bloomed fresh and urgent.
Then, your nerves, frayed by the fall and the overwhelming onslaught of him, short-circuited your brain-to-mouth filter.
Just as his lips were a whisper from yours, you blurted it out, voice squeaky with adrenaline.
"You smell like a wet dog."
He froze. His gorgeous, soulful eyes blinked once, slowly, the romantic haze evaporating into pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "I… what?"
"A wet dog," you repeated, the words gaining momentum as you committed to the bizarre sabotage. "You should… you should probably shower."
A beat of silence hung in the air. Then, a slow, bewildered smile spread across his face, transforming his confusion into delighted amusement.
He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled your small bedroom. It was a beautiful laugh, unrestrained and genuine.
“You think I am smelly and don't want to give me a kiss? I wish I could say I am surprised but most girls don't want to kiss me." He loosened his hold, letting you find your footing, and gave you a weird little half-wink-half-blink. That was something you certainly did not believe. That girls didn’t kiss him? He was a literal superhero.
You remained silent and motioned to the bathroom. He just tutted and padded to the bathroom. a few seconds later the spray started hitting the bottom of the tub.
You had mere minutes to change a bit and make sure you looked more presentable. You pulled on some clean jeans and a tattered sweater and then quickly fixed your crazy hair in the mirror.
The shower shut off just in time for you to be done with the pruning.
The door opened, and steam billowed out. Michael stepped out. Your breath caught.
The only thing covering him was one of your towels, slung low around his narrow hips. The towel was tied loosely, dipping below the sharp cut of his hip bones and the beginnings of a faint tan line.
The water clung to his deep, rich bronze skin, gleaming under the morning light. Droplets traced paths down the defined planes of his chest, over the faint, dark dusting of hair that formed a tantalizing trail from his navel downward.
That happy trail disappeared beneath the towel, pointing like an arrow to the pronounced V-cut of his obliques that framed his lean, taut stomach. He was oh so lean.
Your eyes fixed on his abdomen. The place where the vicious, bleeding gash had been last night. Only to find smooth, unbroken skin.
There was no pucker where he’d been sliced, not even a pink line. Nothing.
His curls, wet and free, were a riot of dark, springy coils framing his face. Water dripped from the ends onto his shoulders. He saw you staring and a slow, shy smile touched his lips.
"Better?" he asked, his voice breathy. “Or am I still smelly by your standards?”
You stepped closer, poking a finger directly at the center of his flawless stomach.
"Explain this."
He looked down, then back up, feigning innocence. "Explain what?"
"The hole that was here. It's gone."
"Oh. That." He had the decency to look sheepish. "Yeah. That tends to happen."
"You were milking it," you said, a smile threatening to break through. "All that 'ahh, the pain' drama last night. You were totally milking it."
A grin spread across his face, bright and unrepentant. "Okay, maybe a little! But in my defense, it did hurt! And you were so… nice about it." He shuffled his feet.
"It's usually the other way around. I'm the one looking out for everyone. I liked you looking after me. I didn't want your attention to wander. Sue me."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're ridiculous."
Still chuckling, you turned and scooped his suit off the floor. You walked back and shoved the bundle into his arms. "Here. Get dressed. I've got class to go to."
He clutched the suit, the towel dipping even lower. "Yeah! Me too. Biochem. Wouldn't miss it." His eyes danced; he was a terrible liar.
"Right. Well, go get ready."
He grinned and ducked into your bathroom, closing the door most of the way. You busied yourself gathering your books. The door pushed open a moment later. "Uh, a little help?"
You turned. He was struggling into the top half of the suit. The tear you'd cut last night ran diagonally from his hip almost to the opposite side of his waist. Because he was leaning to pull it on, the torn fabric gaped open.
The torn material revealed a long, lean strip of his lower abdomen and hip, and the very low line of dark, curling hair that led downward. You saw a fleeting, breathtaking glimpse that made your mouth go dry. Huge. genuinely massive. Shit. He had to go or you were going to try sleep with him and you really did not need a casual relationship with a fucking SUPERHERO right now.
You gulped audibly.
"Okay! You're good! Suit's on!” You clapped your hands with finality, and turned around to grab your back pack.
“ I need to go, so please finish getting dressed and get out. And be safe. And don't scare me like that ever again."
He finally got the suit top settled, the material sealing most of the way.
He stepped out, now fully suited except for the mask. He took two quick steps toward you, leaned in, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered for a second. He pulled back, eyes sparkling.
"See you soon, neighbor." His eyes were quite literally twinkling. “We can continue this,” he gestured between you, clearly marking the tension and the vibes exchanged. “At a later date.”
He pulled the mask on, gave you a little salute, and slipped out your window onto the fire escape.
You rushed to the window to make sure he was going to get away alright, and partially to make sure none of your neighbors were out for a cigarette or something.
He stood on the grated platform in the morning sun. He looked back at you, gave a final wave, and then simply stepped off the edge.
Your heart lurched. He fell, a plummeting streak of color, for one terrifying second. Then, a web shot out.
The line went taut, and his fall became a breathtaking arc, swinging him out and up into the open orange sky. He swung away, growing smaller against the city.
You let out a shaky laugh, your cheek still tingling from where he kissed you goodbye.
you’re new to the big apple— the last thing you had expected was for your new neighbor to be so friendly, always hearing horror stories about how rude new yorkers were… oh, and you were pretty sure he was a super hero
cw/tw: spider-man au, fluff, 1980s, neighbors, angst if you squint, insecurities, bad communication, mdni/suggestive themes if you squint
wc: 6.2k
Spider-man lived in the building.
This wasn't some wild conclusion you were jumping to. Not some crazed delusion of a woman who lived in a high rise apartment in New York City. It took months before you were sure that yes, Spider-Man was indeed your neighbor.
Not only that.
Spider-Man was Michael Jackson.
Part of the reason it took you so long to accept this is because it simply didn't seem feasible. Michael Jackson? Slouched over, shy, ridiculously goofy Michael Jackson?
To be fair, you didn't know him very well. You were cordial, as neighbors go. You two had completely different lifestyles. He worked as a journalist for the Daily Bugle, (something you were only aware of because you’d see his articles in the papers), and you worked from home doing data analytics. You assumed his profession was the reason for his odd hours of arrival. You could hear him leaving or arriving at sporadic times. The walls were thin. And even then, he was hardly ever home for long. Half of the time you weren’t even sure if he slept there.
Meanwhile, you were always curled up at your desk. Blanket wrapped around you and some movie playing in the background for noise. Your eyes hurt from hours of looking at numbers. Your cat the only one to keep you company as it brushed along your legs or hopped up on your desk.
It wasn't abnormal to see Spider-Man swinging past.
Most of the time you just ignored it. Your eyes caught on the blur of blue and red for a moment before returning to your work, nursing a cup of coffee as you did so.
Everyone in the city was used to seeing him now.
As long as the threat was a few blocks away, you didn't care all that much. What were you supposed to do?
You remembered the first time you had met Michael.
You were moving in, pushing a box with your full body weight through the door because if you tried to pick it up you knew you’d injure yourself. You barely heard the door a few feet down the hall open before a polite voice rang out.
"Would you like help with that?"
"Yes, please." You sighed before looking up. Not caring who it was, exhausted.
But when he neared, your eyes danced up. Christ, you remembered how jarring it was when you realized he was tall. Like, properly tall. His lithe build stretching him in a way that felt imposing, but not intimidating.
He smiled at you, all charm and dimples. Dark curly hair a mess and reading glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing an M.I.T. crewneck and jeans, followed by a pair of mix matched socks.
You felt ridiculous for being speechless. Staring at him with lips parted. Watching blankly as he bent down and picked up the box like it was nothing.
He gestured for you to go first and you felt like you were walking for the first time as you stepped into your apartment.
Boxes were everywhere. Stacked in tilting towers with unintelligible scrawl written in sharpie to label what was what.
"Where do you want it?" He asked.
You blinked again like a deer caught in headlights. Speak, you idiot. "Um, on the counter is fine."
He set it down, his eyes catching on the content inside and he smiled. "You like to read, I take it?"
You shrugged, not knowing why you were blushing. "Most of these boxes are books, if I'm honest."
He laughed, the sound easy and warm at the edges.
"Thanks—“
"I can help move the other boxes in?"
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. Your new neighbor. Your kind, wickedly charming new neighbor. And the thought of having to move the rest of the boxes alone was exhausting. Not to mention putting furniture together, but you’d get to that later.
"I really appreciate it, thank you."
He held out his hand. "I'm Michael."
You looked at his outstretched palm a moment before shaking it. His skin warm and calloused. Larger than yours.
When you said your name and he repeated it back to you, as if committing it to memory, you did your best to ignore the butterflies going on a rampage inside your stomach.
That was nearly a year ago.
There were moments in between.
Muttered hello's in the hall or sometimes a goodnight.
When Michael had come over to help fix the sink because he was far more reliable than building maintenance. And of course he just knew how to do that.
He had also come over to help you build a new bookshelf you had got. Really, you could've done it yourself. In fact, you tried to. You were in the middle of such an attempt when you dropped one of the shelves with a loud bang and not five seconds later was there a knock on the door.
The first time you saw one of his articles in the Daily Bugle, you stopped him in the hallway. "I didn't know you were a journalist. And a photographer, it’s impressive.”
He shrugged a shoulder sheepishly, his hair still damp from a shower.
The one week you went home to visit your parents and he'd offered to watch your cat. When you got back from that trip, you laughed but were a little offended that your pet didn't want to let go of him. Your cat had a habit now of bumping headfirst into Michael’s leg, asking for pets.
You once set off your fire alarm while baking some cookies and Michael had practically bulldozed through the door. It had been a few months at that point and you didn't think to ask for your spare key back from him when he'd watched your cat– part of you didn't mind. You trusted him, ignoring how you might’ve just been being naive.
Michael Jackson smelt like fresh laundry and a hint of cedar. A little bit like cinnamon too, you noticed. Probably because you often saw him chewing Big Red gum. It hit you like a punch to the gut when you were in the elevator together. You were hardly ever this close or in such a small space. He had smiled down at you, muttering a Morning with a hint of a rasp to it. You blinked down dumbly at the stick of gum he was offering you. Your fingers brushed as you took hold of it.
The first time you noticed something odd, it was a late night of you working on a deadline. Probably well around two in the morning, when something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Blue and red. You were about to dismiss it like always but... he wasn't swinging by like you were used to.
You watched in bated breath as Spider-Man approached the building, at level with your floor. Closer and closer and... why was he now perched on the fire escape outside of Michael’s apartment?
He disappeared from your view as he neared the window and not a moment later you heard some movement on Michael’s side of the wall.
You knew he was one of the few and rare, if not only, journalists Spider-Man gave the time of day. When you’d tried to ask him about it he shrugged, like always. Blushing when you mentioned how impressive that was and how good of a journalist he had to be if Spider-Man was giving such exclusive interviews.
Not wanting to intrude despite your curiosity, you turned up the volume of the movie you had playing.
The first time you ever saw Michael look dumbstruck was on Halloween. You had gone out with some of your friends to a bar, and not having anything to really wear for the festivities, you bought a Spider-Man t-shirt from a small corner shop. It wasn't anything crazy. The cotton was bright red and had the infamous spider ironed onto the front. The rest of your outfit was lazy, you could admit that.
You were dancing on the edges of intoxication as you made your way down the hall, digging blindly in your purse for your keys when you heard a door open and shut.
"Happy Halloween– oh."
You looked up, your head spinning a bit with the action and it took your eyes a moment to adjust.
"Hi, Michael." You beamed, the alcohol giving you a little confidence boost.
You weren't sure if you were seeing things right but it looked like he was blushing as he looked at your shirt.
Looking down at it, one finger traced the logo. "You like it? I know you and Spider-Man are buddy-buddy and all that. I couldn't think of a costume to wear. Though to be fair, this isn't much of a costume. I just look like a groupie." You rambled.
At his silence, you looked back up. He was definitely blushing.
"You alright, Mikey?"
He blinked, your drunken nickname for him seeming to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. "Mikey?"
You nodded once. Like it was obvious. "Yeah, rolls off the tongue."
Michael smiled at you, his dimples devastating.
"I like the shirt." He muttered as he walked past you and towards the elevator.
Barely a week later you saw Spider-Man swing into Michael's apartment again.
You didn't put much thought to it.
Till it happened again a few days later.
You looked at your cat as if to ask, you saw that too, right?
Paying more attention to your view out the windows now, you took note of a few things. One, it wasn't every night. Two, you never actually heard Spider-Man and Michael talking. Three, Michael’s apartment was strangely silent up until Spider-Man entered.
The thought that they were the same person entered your mind suddenly, but briefly.
It can't be.
One cold morning as snow began to fall on the city, you were just returning from a coffee run when Michael was leaving for work.
His suit jacket was a little on the baggy side but his white button-down fit him snugly underneath. His hair was still damp and his glasses were sitting a bit crooked on his nose. He slung his bag over his shoulder when he looked up and spotted you, that easy smile tugging the corners of his lips up.
"Morning—“
"Why does Spider-Man come into your apartment so often?" Your head tilted to the side innocently as you asked the question. Taking note of the flicker of shock that rippled over his face.
"I- what?" He still had one hand on his doorhandle, looking at you as if you just smacked him.
"Spider-Man. I see him going into your place sometimes."
His lips parted, looking as though he was about to say something but he apparently couldn't think of anything.
"Are you like, together?" It was honestly one of the only things you could think of.
"Together?" He balked, followed by a laugh. "No, we're not–"
You shrugged. "I was just curious. He seems to favourite you is all. And like, come on, your apartment?" To be fair, you felt like you would definitely hear Spider-Man if they were–
"He meets for interviews." Michael said, cutting off your train of thought. "He couldn't come to the Daily Bugle, all the journalists there would want an interview with him."
You smiled and shrugged again. "Just curious." It was clear he didn't want to tell you, but who were you to pry? "Have a good day at work, Michael." With that you handed him the other coffee cup you bought (you knew he preferred tea) and disappeared behind your door, memorizing his dumbfounded look to keep in your mind.
The first time you ran into him outside of the apartment building, it was like a shock to the nerves. Michael must've been on his lunch break as he turned around and you ran directly into his chest. Your drink spilled over both of you.
The whiplash from the situation made you speechless as Michael grabbed hold of your waist to steady you, an apology stumbling from his mouth before he realized who you were.
You blinked up at him, dazed.
"Sorry, sweetheart."
Well, you definitely weren’t going to be able to function if he was calling you that.
"Your coat," was all you managed to get out. Forcing yourself to look away from his face, which was blushed from the cold and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. His wool coat now had coffee soaked into it. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't–"
"It's alright," his hands were still resting on your waist. Large, warm even through your own coat. He looked painfully romantic with snow catching in his curls and his dark eyes glinted behind his glasses. "Let's get you somewhere warm."
You hadn't even realized you were shivering, and you knew it wasn't from the cold.
Your heart raced as he led you down the block, the Daily Bugle standing tall and daunting.
The moment you stepped inside, warm air brushed against your face and you felt like you could breathe again as you followed Michael through the lobby. Watching him as he flashed his badge before taking you to the elevator.
"Where are we going?" You asked eventually.
"I'm going to wash the coffee out of our clothes and you're going to eat something."
You turned to look at him. "I'm not–"
"Have you eaten today?"
You pursed your lips, the answer clear. How did he even know that?
He led you to his desk, which was cluttered but organized and after taking your coat, he left to get you something from the vending machine. You sat there motionless. Your eyes danced around the newsroom and the chaos of it. Everyone seemed to be moving. Hands flying over typewriters. Arguments over phones. People running to and from printers. TV's mounted on walls, each playing a different news channel.
You knew an office environment wasn't for you. You loved working from home. You could set your pace, your own volume. You liked being in your own space. Then again, if you did work in an office you’d probably have better social skills. You had two friends you talked to on a semi-regular basis and...Michael. Whatever he was. Your neighbor.
As if summoned, he approached, now coatless, and his blazer fit him a little loose. You didn't know why he bought clothes too big for him. It made him look smaller than he was. You remembered the first time you saw him in a t-shirt as he took the trash out, not quite sure if you were drooling at the sight of his arms.
"I got you an egg sandwich and those spicy chips you like." He also set a water cup down next to your makeshift lunch.
"How'd you know I like those?" He seemed to know everything.
"How'd you know I like tea?" He asked in return, smiling knowingly at you.
It was your turn to blush, but at this point it seemed like a permanent state. "I just pay attention is all," you muttered as you took the top slice of bread off and layered up some chips. You liked making your sandwiches have a crunch.
You ignored the way Michael was looking at you.
"Michael?” Someone said and you both turned.
The woman was stunning and she leaned back in her chair, "who's this?"
"Oh, Betty, this is my neighbor." He scratched the back of his neck as he said your name and the woman, now known as Betty, smirked.
"Oh, this is the girl?"
Your brows furrowed as you looked between Betty and Michael. “What?"
"Betty–"
"He talks about you. Often." She rolled her chair over, ignoring the helpless look Michael was now wearing and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
You shook it, sure your face was now melting in embarrassment. "It's nice to meet you, too."
When Michael walked you outside to get a cab, you couldn't help it as you grinned up at him. A little bashful. "You talk about me?" Before he could get a word out, you added, "often?"
He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Not that often. I really talk about your cat."
"Ah." You mused. Why can't you stop smiling?
When you got in the cab, Michael held the door open for you and handed you some cash, despite your protests.
"I'll see you at home– later. I'll see you later." He corrected before shutting the door. As the cab drove off, you saw him shaking his head at himself before going back inside.
Home.
Despite the slip-up, he meant it.
The hour was late, but there was a knock on your door and you opened it to find Michael standing there with your now clean coat and a bag of take-out. He smiled at you, lopsided and shy. "Can I come in?"
It didn't mean anything.
You knew that.
He was just being nice. Neighborly.
The next time you saw Spider-Man crawl into Michael’s apartment, you thought to call him. Only to then realize you didn't have his number.
You remembered the time you first met Spider-Man.
You had just left the vet, your cat in your arms as you tried to call for a cab when a nearby explosion knocked you off your feet.
It was bound to happen, living in New York. You were bound to be caught in the crossfire eventually. You shouldn't be shocked, but you were. You had the naïve thought of that could never happen to me. Of course everyone thinks that, until it's their lucky day.
The pavement was sure to leave bruises on your back and your cat's claws dug into your skin from the fright. You barely saw the figures flying past in the sky, a blur in your dazed vision.
You groaned, getting up to your feet and your ears rang but you told yourself you had to move. People were running, so you assumed wherever the danger was, was coming from the opposite direction.
Your apartment was across town and you knew a cab right now would be impossible.
You just had to– there was another ear shattering bang and you screamed, clutching your cat closer but before you could feel any shrapnel tear into you, you were suddenly yanked off the ground. For the briefest of moments, you thought you were dead.
But wind was ripping past your ears and you were being held tightly against something. Someone. Gravity coming and going, your stomach dropping on a loop that made you a little nauseous.
Cedar greeted your nose but before you could even linger on the thought, pain tore into your arms as your cat continued to claw at you.
What must've only been seconds passed before the wind stopped roaring and you were set gently down on something soft and plush. A couch probably, but your eyes were still screwed shut.
You thought you heard your name, but your ears were ringing loudly.
Someone gently rested gloved hands against your face. The fabric durable but with a hint of softness. A voice eventually reached your ears as your hearing cleared.
"You okay?"
You forced your eyes open, your shock from what had happened nearly doubling as you realized Spider-Man was kneeling in front of you. Dirt covered part of his mask, his concern obvious even through the disguise as his head tilted down.
"You're bleeding–"
"My cat." You offered numbly.
Looking down, your pet was shaking but was slowly calming down, nudging its head against Spider-Man’s side.
Weird, your cat only ever did that with Michael.
Your eyes flicked up. He was still cradling your face and you were trying to come to terms with the fact you were this close to Spider-Man. Your head was hurting as you tried to take note of how familiar he sounded, but you couldn't place it.
"There's a first aid kit under the sink, I gotta go. Will you be alright?"
"I..." you sucked in a breath as his thumb gently scraped against your skin beneath your eye. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He nodded, appearing to hesitate a moment before he stood. He scratched your cat behind the ears once before walking to the window and stepping out onto the fire escape, jumping off of it a moment later as a web shot out.
After your breathing finally calmed down and your cat hopped off your lap, you walked to the kitchen and looked in the cupboard. Just like Spider-Man said, there was a first aid kit.
You looked down at your arms, grimacing at the deep cuts but you couldn't find it in your heart to be mad.
Taking your time cleaning them and wrapping gauze around your arms, you let herself look around the space you were in. It was clean. Neat. There was a bookshelf on one wall that looked overfilled, but it added some character to the familiarity of the layout.
It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize you were in Michael’s apartment.
Your brain short circuited when it dawned on you.
Why did he take you to Michael’s? Did he know you lived next door?
The thought that Spider-Man was Michael Jackson crossed your mind again.
But it just couldn't be.
You didn't mean to, you really didn't.
You had fallen asleep on Michael’s couch. Your knees pulled up to your chest, curled in on yourself as usual. You grew up having to share a bed so your body tried to take up as little space as possible on instinct.
When you felt something drape over you, your eyes slowly opened. Taking a moment to adjust to the low lighting. It was night time now and Michael was kneeling in front of you.
He smiled a bit. "Breaking and entering?"
Your eyes looked to the blanket he'd given you. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
He laughed quietly before reaching down to pet your cat, who was nudging its head against his leg.
"I think my cat has a type," you muttered, watching in amusement.
"What do you mean?"
"Tall, dark and handsome."
His smile deepened to a grin as he looked at you, his dimples painfully beautiful.
"Handsome?"
You rolled your eyes as you sat up. "Don't flatter yourself, my cat was all over Spider-Man, too."
Michael hummed, looking like he wanted to tell you something but decided against it. "He brought you here?"
You nodded, toying with the frayed edges of the gauze wrapped around your arms.
"You okay?" He gently took hold of your hands, his fingers trailing over the tops of your own.
You were a little breathless, being so close to him. The sight of him kneeling in front of you was overwhelming.
"It stings a little, but I'm fine."
He sighed, looking slightly angry which you weren’t used to seeing. "I'm sorry this happened to you."
"It's not your fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His jaw clenched, brown eyes looking darker behind his glasses.
"I should've–"
"Michael," your own hand came up and gently took hold of his chin, directing his eyes up to you. "I'm okay."
Eventually he nodded, seeming to lean into your touch but you tried not to dwell on it. It didn't mean anything.
He stood up and started to walk to his kitchen and you tried not to let the disappoint at the sudden distance show on your face.
"You need to eat something."
And then he made you dinner. Pasta. Something quick. He sat down next to you on the couch and put on a movie you loved.
"How did you..."
All he did was smile at you.
It didn't mean anything.
You were just friends. Neighbors.
You woke up the next morning in his bed. Your heart stuttered at even the mere flicker of possibility but you knew nothing happened.
You were curled up in a ball again beneath his comforter. The smell of cedar engulfing you and your cat was curled up next to you. Michael nowhere to be seen.
Sitting up on your elbows, you looked around. The comforter was a deep blue and his sheets white cotton. He had some articles from the newspaper framed on his wall, as well as some pictures you could only assume were with his relatives.
Some clothes were tossed on a nearby chair. You recognized his M.I.T. crewneck among the pile. Looking to the nightstand beside you, you saw a sticky note and a key.
Picking it up with nimble fingers, you took in the slight slant of Michael’s handwriting.
Figured you needed some rest. I left for work but here's a spare key to my place. I figured it's only fair since I still have yours. Here's my work phone if you need anything. And my home number for future use.
He also drew a little smiley face at the bottom and you felt your stomach churn.
You liked him. You really, really liked him.
You were so screwed.
You never called him. Ever.
What were you supposed to say? Any time your hand itched to tell him something funny that had happened, you’d pause, wondering what the point was. He wasn't interested. He'd likely reply to you with polite interest but why would he care?
Your life, besides Spider-Man swinging by now and again, was painfully uninteresting.
Michael probably talked to fascinating people all the time as a journalist. People doing remarkable things with their lives. Meanwhile you were just... there. Sitting at your desk, looking over data, and sobbing at some rom-com you stupidly decided to watch to stave off your own loneliness.
No, there was no point in calling him.
Michael was just your neighbor.
You didn't see him for a while.
Okay, maybe you were avoiding him. It didn't seem like he noticed, why would he?
One morning you had waited till you heard him leave for work before deciding to go get your mail downstairs. You barely made it into the hall before you paused, hearing a woman with a slight midwestern accent mutter something to herself close by.
Close by meaning a few feet away. You blinked at the older woman.
It took you a moment to realize she was the woman in most of the pictures Michael had hung up.
"Hi, do you need help?" You said before you could think better of it.
"Yes, actually." The woman said, half-heartedly glaring at the door. "I’m here to visit my nephew and he said he left his key under the mat but it's simply not there."
"Oh, that's no problem. I have a key."
Michael’s aunt blinked. "You do?"
You blushed so hard you thought your face would catch on fire. "For...emergencies."
A few more days passed before you fortunately but unfortunately got stuck in the elevator with Michael.
The space was silent for a few moments, your smile tight and awkward as you greeted him.
"So, I met your aunt–"
"Are you avoiding me?"
You stared at each other for a moment and you prayed he'd talk first.
As if taking pity on you, he relented and nodded. "I know, she told me. Said you were really sweet.”
You hummed. Not wanting to answer his question but of course he asked you again, but different.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not avoiding you, I'm just...busy."
He raised a brow at you. "You're busy?"
"Yes," you stuck your chin up a bit. "I do work, you know. I don't just rot in my apartment all day."
Michael’s eyes narrowed, only a little bit. Looking hurt more than annoyed and guilt chewed at your insides as he left the elevator without a word.
Later that night you didn't see Spider-Man arriving at Michael’s place, but leaving it.
You weren’t thinking. Not properly, at least.
Not thinking at all as you took hold of Michael’s spare key and walked next door. Not thinking at all as you unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The door shut softly behind you and you listened for any sign of life.
"Michael?” You called out.
Nothing.
You walked to his bedroom and took note of his clothes that he had been wearing earlier were thrown in a pile on his bed.
Walking down the hall, you knocked on the bathroom door before trying the handle. Empty.
You let out a breath of disbelief.
Later that night, much later, the clock on the oven said it was nearing four in the morning, you saw Spider-Man swing onto the fire escape before stepping back into the apartment next door through the window.
Biting at the inside of your cheek, you debated for a moment. If you confronted him, you doubted he'd tell you. Why would he?
Your eyes glanced at the newspaper that was flipped to a page with an article Michael had written about Spider-Man. You had been staring at the article for hours. Picking apart the diction and thinking about his voice until you felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner.
You thought about leaving him a voicemail while he was out and about.
I know who you are.
No, that was too ominous. Dramatic. You didn't necessarily care that he was a super hero. Didn't care that he was Spider-Man. Yes, it was baffling. Looks aside, Michael was just so... gentle. In every sense of the word. It was hard to imagine Michael punching people through buildings and shooting webs from his wrists as he swung through the city. Hard to imagine him catching cars and throwing criminals up in the air like it was nothing.
No wonder he wasn't interested. It was negative to think, but you told yourself it was simply pragmatic. What would a hero want with a person like you? So painfully not extraordinary. Not interesting. Not anything.
You were just his neighbor. A person on the blurry outlines of his secret identity. Sure, he still cared on the basic level of simple common decency. You didn't think he was faking anything. It wasn't fake kindness. It just... didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean what your hopeless romantic self wanted it to mean.
You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. Why even tell him that you knew? What would be the point?
You froze.
What if you ruined everything if you told him you knew? Would he have to move? Get a new job? Would he be angry with you? What if he thought you were in danger? What if you were? So many people were after Spider-Man’s actual identity, what if someone powerful found out and went after you? No, that would be dumb. Egotistical, even. Who were you? You hardly ever left your apartment. Why would you be important enough to even pique the interest of—
There was a single knock on your door.
With stiff limbs, you got up from the couch and walked to the door, not bothering to look into the peephole. Who else would it be?
Taking a breath as your hand landed on the doorknob, you willed yourself to open it, blinking against the bright light of the hall.
As anticipated, it was Michael.
Standing there in his college crewneck with a pair of sweats on and... "You own slippers?" You asked.
He blinked at you. It was probably the last thing he was expecting you to say. "Yes?" He looked down at them, they were simple. Black.
You finally looked up at him and you realized he wasn't wearing his glasses.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. It was nearing five. "What are you doing here, Michael?”
"I need to tell you something."
You raised a brow at him, though not at his request, it was his expression. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. But I just, I need... I've been waiting to tell you but I just haven't—“
Without thinking, you took hold of his arm, gently tugging him inside. You’d never heard him struggle to say something before. Not knowing what words to use. "Take a seat," you said once you shut the door, gesturing vaguely behind you as you walked into the kitchen.
You opened the cabinet and grabbed a mug, followed by filling a kettle with some water before setting it on the stove. You ripped open the box of new tea you had bought a few weeks ago. You didn't know why you did, you just... did.
After a few minutes it was ready and you padded into the living room, taking note of how he was sitting. Leaned forward with elbows on his knees, his chin perched on his hands. Looking deep in thought. Debating. You had a strong inkling you knew what this was about.
He still wasn't sure if he should tell you.
You came to a stop in front of him and handed him the mug. It was a little chipped and had a landscape painting of Bar Harbor on it. You loved it there. Once you were done with, well, everything you supposed, you wanted to move there.
Michael looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. His eyes taking in the mug and the steam billowing from the top. "You made me tea?”
You shrugged, repressing a shiver as he took the ceramic from you and your hands brushed.
Clearing your throat, you sat down next to him. "What's on your mind, Mikey?"
That got him to smile, at least a little bit.
He took a sip of his drink, humming in content as the subtle sweetness hit his tongue. "I'm not really sure how to go about this."
You bit at your lip, looking down at your hands as you twisted them. You didn't want to stress him out. It was probably the last thing he needed. Spider-Man shouldn't have to be pacing back and forth wondering how his neighbor is going to deal with the fact of him being a super hero. To some, a masked vigilante.
"Listen, Michael.” You said as evenly as you were able. Not wanting to look at him despite feeling his eyes watching you intently. At that moment, you wished you would've made your own cup of tea even though you preferred coffee.
"I," you wrung your hands so hard it nearly hurt. "I know."
"You... you know?" He echoed quietly.
You still couldn't look at him. "Yeah, I know. So you don't have to worry or anything. You don't have to tell me. I know."
When he said your name lowly, your body practically jumped into flight mode. Standing up and an excuse about the bathroom was about to leave your lips when his hand caught hold of your wrists. Firm but gentle. If you wanted to break away from him you could. He was giving you the opportunity to leave if you wanted.
Instead you stood still. Your brain not quite comprehending he was touching you again. God, were you really that touch starved?
Michael stood himself, tugging at your hand to turn you around. A small sigh left him when he noticed you were looking pointedly at your feet.
Your heart leapt when his fingers gently took hold of your chin and tilted your face up. Your eyes met his with what felt like a jolt of electricity.
You couldn't read his expression. Couldn't if you tried, if you were to be honest. Everything about him was a puzzle you hadn’t figured out yet.
"Why would I worry?" He asked. Voice quiet and dancing between you, his breath warm against your face.
"You seemed worried."
"I didn't want you to hate me."
Your brows furrowed. "Why would I hate you?"
He shrugged. "I can never tell with you. Sometimes I think you like me, sometimes it seems like you can't stand me."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Michael shook his head. "You don't need to apologize. I didn't exactly make it any easier, either."
"You actually made it kind of obvious."
He narrowed his eyes but the annoyance was feigned. "I didn't think you'd be able to see me from any angle in your place."
It was your turn to shrug. "I think I'm just an observant person."
His eyes flicked to the tea briefly. "I know."
It was quiet for a moment. You were sure he could not only feel, but hear your heartbeat tripping over itself.
"Listen, Michael, I won't—"
His mouth softly pressed to yours. Warm. Slightly tasting of vanilla.
You blinked. Not understanding. Your mind spinning with why why why...
Michael leaned back, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of your throat. His smile gentle and devastating.
"I know, sweetheart," he whispered.
You wanted to ask him why you? But he kissed you again and effectively told your mind and self doubt to shut up. Silenced it with the way you felt him smile into the kiss the moment he felt you melt against him.
Not a thought occurred to mind as he picked you up like you were nothing. His tongue sliding against yours as you gasped from the sudden movement.
You didn't think at all as your neighbor, Michael Jackson — Spider-Man, backed you into the wall. Feeling your sanity slip from your fingers as they buried in his hair, his hips pressing in to yours and his sweatpants not leaving much to the imagination.
you’re new to the big apple— the last thing you had expected was for your new neighbor to be so friendly, always hearing horror stories about how rude new yorkers were… oh, and you were pretty sure he was a super hero
cw/tw: spider-man au, fluff, 1980s, neighbors, angst if you squint, insecurities, bad communication, mdni/suggestive themes if you squint
wc: 6.2k
Spider-man lived in the building.
This wasn't some wild conclusion you were jumping to. Not some crazed delusion of a woman who lived in a high rise apartment in New York City. It took months before you were sure that yes, Spider-Man was indeed your neighbor.
Not only that.
Spider-Man was Michael Jackson.
Part of the reason it took you so long to accept this is because it simply didn't seem feasible. Michael Jackson? Slouched over, shy, ridiculously goofy Michael Jackson?
To be fair, you didn't know him very well. You were cordial, as neighbors go. You two had completely different lifestyles. He worked as a journalist for the Daily Bugle, (something you were only aware of because you’d see his articles in the papers), and you worked from home doing data analytics. You assumed his profession was the reason for his odd hours of arrival. You could hear him leaving or arriving at sporadic times. The walls were thin. And even then, he was hardly ever home for long. Half of the time you weren’t even sure if he slept there.
Meanwhile, you were always curled up at your desk. Blanket wrapped around you and some movie playing in the background for noise. Your eyes hurt from hours of looking at numbers. Your cat the only one to keep you company as it brushed along your legs or hopped up on your desk.
It wasn't abnormal to see Spider-Man swinging past.
Most of the time you just ignored it. Your eyes caught on the blur of blue and red for a moment before returning to your work, nursing a cup of coffee as you did so.
Everyone in the city was used to seeing him now.
As long as the threat was a few blocks away, you didn't care all that much. What were you supposed to do?
You remembered the first time you had met Michael.
You were moving in, pushing a box with your full body weight through the door because if you tried to pick it up you knew you’d injure yourself. You barely heard the door a few feet down the hall open before a polite voice rang out.
"Would you like help with that?"
"Yes, please." You sighed before looking up. Not caring who it was, exhausted.
But when he neared, your eyes danced up. Christ, you remembered how jarring it was when you realized he was tall. Like, properly tall. His lithe build stretching him in a way that felt imposing, but not intimidating.
He smiled at you, all charm and dimples. Dark curly hair a mess and reading glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing an M.I.T. crewneck and jeans, followed by a pair of mix matched socks.
You felt ridiculous for being speechless. Staring at him with lips parted. Watching blankly as he bent down and picked up the box like it was nothing.
He gestured for you to go first and you felt like you were walking for the first time as you stepped into your apartment.
Boxes were everywhere. Stacked in tilting towers with unintelligible scrawl written in sharpie to label what was what.
"Where do you want it?" He asked.
You blinked again like a deer caught in headlights. Speak, you idiot. "Um, on the counter is fine."
He set it down, his eyes catching on the content inside and he smiled. "You like to read, I take it?"
You shrugged, not knowing why you were blushing. "Most of these boxes are books, if I'm honest."
He laughed, the sound easy and warm at the edges.
"Thanks—“
"I can help move the other boxes in?"
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. Your new neighbor. Your kind, wickedly charming new neighbor. And the thought of having to move the rest of the boxes alone was exhausting. Not to mention putting furniture together, but you’d get to that later.
"I really appreciate it, thank you."
He held out his hand. "I'm Michael."
You looked at his outstretched palm a moment before shaking it. His skin warm and calloused. Larger than yours.
When you said your name and he repeated it back to you, as if committing it to memory, you did your best to ignore the butterflies going on a rampage inside your stomach.
That was nearly a year ago.
There were moments in between.
Muttered hello's in the hall or sometimes a goodnight.
When Michael had come over to help fix the sink because he was far more reliable than building maintenance. And of course he just knew how to do that.
He had also come over to help you build a new bookshelf you had got. Really, you could've done it yourself. In fact, you tried to. You were in the middle of such an attempt when you dropped one of the shelves with a loud bang and not five seconds later was there a knock on the door.
The first time you saw one of his articles in the Daily Bugle, you stopped him in the hallway. "I didn't know you were a journalist. And a photographer, it’s impressive.”
He shrugged a shoulder sheepishly, his hair still damp from a shower.
The one week you went home to visit your parents and he'd offered to watch your cat. When you got back from that trip, you laughed but were a little offended that your pet didn't want to let go of him. Your cat had a habit now of bumping headfirst into Michael’s leg, asking for pets.
You once set off your fire alarm while baking some cookies and Michael had practically bulldozed through the door. It had been a few months at that point and you didn't think to ask for your spare key back from him when he'd watched your cat– part of you didn't mind. You trusted him, ignoring how you might’ve just been being naive.
Michael Jackson smelt like fresh laundry and a hint of cedar. A little bit like cinnamon too, you noticed. Probably because you often saw him chewing Big Red gum. It hit you like a punch to the gut when you were in the elevator together. You were hardly ever this close or in such a small space. He had smiled down at you, muttering a Morning with a hint of a rasp to it. You blinked down dumbly at the stick of gum he was offering you. Your fingers brushed as you took hold of it.
The first time you noticed something odd, it was a late night of you working on a deadline. Probably well around two in the morning, when something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Blue and red. You were about to dismiss it like always but... he wasn't swinging by like you were used to.
You watched in bated breath as Spider-Man approached the building, at level with your floor. Closer and closer and... why was he now perched on the fire escape outside of Michael’s apartment?
He disappeared from your view as he neared the window and not a moment later you heard some movement on Michael’s side of the wall.
You knew he was one of the few and rare, if not only, journalists Spider-Man gave the time of day. When you’d tried to ask him about it he shrugged, like always. Blushing when you mentioned how impressive that was and how good of a journalist he had to be if Spider-Man was giving such exclusive interviews.
Not wanting to intrude despite your curiosity, you turned up the volume of the movie you had playing.
The first time you ever saw Michael look dumbstruck was on Halloween. You had gone out with some of your friends to a bar, and not having anything to really wear for the festivities, you bought a Spider-Man t-shirt from a small corner shop. It wasn't anything crazy. The cotton was bright red and had the infamous spider ironed onto the front. The rest of your outfit was lazy, you could admit that.
You were dancing on the edges of intoxication as you made your way down the hall, digging blindly in your purse for your keys when you heard a door open and shut.
"Happy Halloween– oh."
You looked up, your head spinning a bit with the action and it took your eyes a moment to adjust.
"Hi, Michael." You beamed, the alcohol giving you a little confidence boost.
You weren't sure if you were seeing things right but it looked like he was blushing as he looked at your shirt.
Looking down at it, one finger traced the logo. "You like it? I know you and Spider-Man are buddy-buddy and all that. I couldn't think of a costume to wear. Though to be fair, this isn't much of a costume. I just look like a groupie." You rambled.
At his silence, you looked back up. He was definitely blushing.
"You alright, Mikey?"
He blinked, your drunken nickname for him seeming to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. "Mikey?"
You nodded once. Like it was obvious. "Yeah, rolls off the tongue."
Michael smiled at you, his dimples devastating.
"I like the shirt." He muttered as he walked past you and towards the elevator.
Barely a week later you saw Spider-Man swing into Michael's apartment again.
You didn't put much thought to it.
Till it happened again a few days later.
You looked at your cat as if to ask, you saw that too, right?
Paying more attention to your view out the windows now, you took note of a few things. One, it wasn't every night. Two, you never actually heard Spider-Man and Michael talking. Three, Michael’s apartment was strangely silent up until Spider-Man entered.
The thought that they were the same person entered your mind suddenly, but briefly.
It can't be.
One cold morning as snow began to fall on the city, you were just returning from a coffee run when Michael was leaving for work.
His suit jacket was a little on the baggy side but his white button-down fit him snugly underneath. His hair was still damp and his glasses were sitting a bit crooked on his nose. He slung his bag over his shoulder when he looked up and spotted you, that easy smile tugging the corners of his lips up.
"Morning—“
"Why does Spider-Man come into your apartment so often?" Your head tilted to the side innocently as you asked the question. Taking note of the flicker of shock that rippled over his face.
"I- what?" He still had one hand on his doorhandle, looking at you as if you just smacked him.
"Spider-Man. I see him going into your place sometimes."
His lips parted, looking as though he was about to say something but he apparently couldn't think of anything.
"Are you like, together?" It was honestly one of the only things you could think of.
"Together?" He balked, followed by a laugh. "No, we're not–"
You shrugged. "I was just curious. He seems to favourite you is all. And like, come on, your apartment?" To be fair, you felt like you would definitely hear Spider-Man if they were–
"He meets for interviews." Michael said, cutting off your train of thought. "He couldn't come to the Daily Bugle, all the journalists there would want an interview with him."
You smiled and shrugged again. "Just curious." It was clear he didn't want to tell you, but who were you to pry? "Have a good day at work, Michael." With that you handed him the other coffee cup you bought (you knew he preferred tea) and disappeared behind your door, memorizing his dumbfounded look to keep in your mind.
The first time you ran into him outside of the apartment building, it was like a shock to the nerves. Michael must've been on his lunch break as he turned around and you ran directly into his chest. Your drink spilled over both of you.
The whiplash from the situation made you speechless as Michael grabbed hold of your waist to steady you, an apology stumbling from his mouth before he realized who you were.
You blinked up at him, dazed.
"Sorry, sweetheart."
Well, you definitely weren’t going to be able to function if he was calling you that.
"Your coat," was all you managed to get out. Forcing yourself to look away from his face, which was blushed from the cold and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck. His wool coat now had coffee soaked into it. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't–"
"It's alright," his hands were still resting on your waist. Large, warm even through your own coat. He looked painfully romantic with snow catching in his curls and his dark eyes glinted behind his glasses. "Let's get you somewhere warm."
You hadn't even realized you were shivering, and you knew it wasn't from the cold.
Your heart raced as he led you down the block, the Daily Bugle standing tall and daunting.
The moment you stepped inside, warm air brushed against your face and you felt like you could breathe again as you followed Michael through the lobby. Watching him as he flashed his badge before taking you to the elevator.
"Where are we going?" You asked eventually.
"I'm going to wash the coffee out of our clothes and you're going to eat something."
You turned to look at him. "I'm not–"
"Have you eaten today?"
You pursed your lips, the answer clear. How did he even know that?
He led you to his desk, which was cluttered but organized and after taking your coat, he left to get you something from the vending machine. You sat there motionless. Your eyes danced around the newsroom and the chaos of it. Everyone seemed to be moving. Hands flying over typewriters. Arguments over phones. People running to and from printers. TV's mounted on walls, each playing a different news channel.
You knew an office environment wasn't for you. You loved working from home. You could set your pace, your own volume. You liked being in your own space. Then again, if you did work in an office you’d probably have better social skills. You had two friends you talked to on a semi-regular basis and...Michael. Whatever he was. Your neighbor.
As if summoned, he approached, now coatless, and his blazer fit him a little loose. You didn't know why he bought clothes too big for him. It made him look smaller than he was. You remembered the first time you saw him in a t-shirt as he took the trash out, not quite sure if you were drooling at the sight of his arms.
"I got you an egg sandwich and those spicy chips you like." He also set a water cup down next to your makeshift lunch.
"How'd you know I like those?" He seemed to know everything.
"How'd you know I like tea?" He asked in return, smiling knowingly at you.
It was your turn to blush, but at this point it seemed like a permanent state. "I just pay attention is all," you muttered as you took the top slice of bread off and layered up some chips. You liked making your sandwiches have a crunch.
You ignored the way Michael was looking at you.
"Michael?” Someone said and you both turned.
The woman was stunning and she leaned back in her chair, "who's this?"
"Oh, Betty, this is my neighbor." He scratched the back of his neck as he said your name and the woman, now known as Betty, smirked.
"Oh, this is the girl?"
Your brows furrowed as you looked between Betty and Michael. “What?"
"Betty–"
"He talks about you. Often." She rolled her chair over, ignoring the helpless look Michael was now wearing and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
You shook it, sure your face was now melting in embarrassment. "It's nice to meet you, too."
When Michael walked you outside to get a cab, you couldn't help it as you grinned up at him. A little bashful. "You talk about me?" Before he could get a word out, you added, "often?"
He shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Not that often. I really talk about your cat."
"Ah." You mused. Why can't you stop smiling?
When you got in the cab, Michael held the door open for you and handed you some cash, despite your protests.
"I'll see you at home– later. I'll see you later." He corrected before shutting the door. As the cab drove off, you saw him shaking his head at himself before going back inside.
Home.
Despite the slip-up, he meant it.
The hour was late, but there was a knock on your door and you opened it to find Michael standing there with your now clean coat and a bag of take-out. He smiled at you, lopsided and shy. "Can I come in?"
It didn't mean anything.
You knew that.
He was just being nice. Neighborly.
The next time you saw Spider-Man crawl into Michael’s apartment, you thought to call him. Only to then realize you didn't have his number.
You remembered the time you first met Spider-Man.
You had just left the vet, your cat in your arms as you tried to call for a cab when a nearby explosion knocked you off your feet.
It was bound to happen, living in New York. You were bound to be caught in the crossfire eventually. You shouldn't be shocked, but you were. You had the naïve thought of that could never happen to me. Of course everyone thinks that, until it's their lucky day.
The pavement was sure to leave bruises on your back and your cat's claws dug into your skin from the fright. You barely saw the figures flying past in the sky, a blur in your dazed vision.
You groaned, getting up to your feet and your ears rang but you told yourself you had to move. People were running, so you assumed wherever the danger was, was coming from the opposite direction.
Your apartment was across town and you knew a cab right now would be impossible.
You just had to– there was another ear shattering bang and you screamed, clutching your cat closer but before you could feel any shrapnel tear into you, you were suddenly yanked off the ground. For the briefest of moments, you thought you were dead.
But wind was ripping past your ears and you were being held tightly against something. Someone. Gravity coming and going, your stomach dropping on a loop that made you a little nauseous.
Cedar greeted your nose but before you could even linger on the thought, pain tore into your arms as your cat continued to claw at you.
What must've only been seconds passed before the wind stopped roaring and you were set gently down on something soft and plush. A couch probably, but your eyes were still screwed shut.
You thought you heard your name, but your ears were ringing loudly.
Someone gently rested gloved hands against your face. The fabric durable but with a hint of softness. A voice eventually reached your ears as your hearing cleared.
"You okay?"
You forced your eyes open, your shock from what had happened nearly doubling as you realized Spider-Man was kneeling in front of you. Dirt covered part of his mask, his concern obvious even through the disguise as his head tilted down.
"You're bleeding–"
"My cat." You offered numbly.
Looking down, your pet was shaking but was slowly calming down, nudging its head against Spider-Man’s side.
Weird, your cat only ever did that with Michael.
Your eyes flicked up. He was still cradling your face and you were trying to come to terms with the fact you were this close to Spider-Man. Your head was hurting as you tried to take note of how familiar he sounded, but you couldn't place it.
"There's a first aid kit under the sink, I gotta go. Will you be alright?"
"I..." you sucked in a breath as his thumb gently scraped against your skin beneath your eye. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He nodded, appearing to hesitate a moment before he stood. He scratched your cat behind the ears once before walking to the window and stepping out onto the fire escape, jumping off of it a moment later as a web shot out.
After your breathing finally calmed down and your cat hopped off your lap, you walked to the kitchen and looked in the cupboard. Just like Spider-Man said, there was a first aid kit.
You looked down at your arms, grimacing at the deep cuts but you couldn't find it in your heart to be mad.
Taking your time cleaning them and wrapping gauze around your arms, you let herself look around the space you were in. It was clean. Neat. There was a bookshelf on one wall that looked overfilled, but it added some character to the familiarity of the layout.
It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize you were in Michael’s apartment.
Your brain short circuited when it dawned on you.
Why did he take you to Michael’s? Did he know you lived next door?
The thought that Spider-Man was Michael Jackson crossed your mind again.
But it just couldn't be.
You didn't mean to, you really didn't.
You had fallen asleep on Michael’s couch. Your knees pulled up to your chest, curled in on yourself as usual. You grew up having to share a bed so your body tried to take up as little space as possible on instinct.
When you felt something drape over you, your eyes slowly opened. Taking a moment to adjust to the low lighting. It was night time now and Michael was kneeling in front of you.
He smiled a bit. "Breaking and entering?"
Your eyes looked to the blanket he'd given you. "Doesn't seem like you mind."
He laughed quietly before reaching down to pet your cat, who was nudging its head against his leg.
"I think my cat has a type," you muttered, watching in amusement.
"What do you mean?"
"Tall, dark and handsome."
His smile deepened to a grin as he looked at you, his dimples painfully beautiful.
"Handsome?"
You rolled your eyes as you sat up. "Don't flatter yourself, my cat was all over Spider-Man, too."
Michael hummed, looking like he wanted to tell you something but decided against it. "He brought you here?"
You nodded, toying with the frayed edges of the gauze wrapped around your arms.
"You okay?" He gently took hold of your hands, his fingers trailing over the tops of your own.
You were a little breathless, being so close to him. The sight of him kneeling in front of you was overwhelming.
"It stings a little, but I'm fine."
He sighed, looking slightly angry which you weren’t used to seeing. "I'm sorry this happened to you."
"It's not your fault. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His jaw clenched, brown eyes looking darker behind his glasses.
"I should've–"
"Michael," your own hand came up and gently took hold of his chin, directing his eyes up to you. "I'm okay."
Eventually he nodded, seeming to lean into your touch but you tried not to dwell on it. It didn't mean anything.
He stood up and started to walk to his kitchen and you tried not to let the disappoint at the sudden distance show on your face.
"You need to eat something."
And then he made you dinner. Pasta. Something quick. He sat down next to you on the couch and put on a movie you loved.
"How did you..."
All he did was smile at you.
It didn't mean anything.
You were just friends. Neighbors.
You woke up the next morning in his bed. Your heart stuttered at even the mere flicker of possibility but you knew nothing happened.
You were curled up in a ball again beneath his comforter. The smell of cedar engulfing you and your cat was curled up next to you. Michael nowhere to be seen.
Sitting up on your elbows, you looked around. The comforter was a deep blue and his sheets white cotton. He had some articles from the newspaper framed on his wall, as well as some pictures you could only assume were with his relatives.
Some clothes were tossed on a nearby chair. You recognized his M.I.T. crewneck among the pile. Looking to the nightstand beside you, you saw a sticky note and a key.
Picking it up with nimble fingers, you took in the slight slant of Michael’s handwriting.
Figured you needed some rest. I left for work but here's a spare key to my place. I figured it's only fair since I still have yours. Here's my work phone if you need anything. And my home number for future use.
He also drew a little smiley face at the bottom and you felt your stomach churn.
You liked him. You really, really liked him.
You were so screwed.
You never called him. Ever.
What were you supposed to say? Any time your hand itched to tell him something funny that had happened, you’d pause, wondering what the point was. He wasn't interested. He'd likely reply to you with polite interest but why would he care?
Your life, besides Spider-Man swinging by now and again, was painfully uninteresting.
Michael probably talked to fascinating people all the time as a journalist. People doing remarkable things with their lives. Meanwhile you were just... there. Sitting at your desk, looking over data, and sobbing at some rom-com you stupidly decided to watch to stave off your own loneliness.
No, there was no point in calling him.
Michael was just your neighbor.
You didn't see him for a while.
Okay, maybe you were avoiding him. It didn't seem like he noticed, why would he?
One morning you had waited till you heard him leave for work before deciding to go get your mail downstairs. You barely made it into the hall before you paused, hearing a woman with a slight midwestern accent mutter something to herself close by.
Close by meaning a few feet away. You blinked at the older woman.
It took you a moment to realize she was the woman in most of the pictures Michael had hung up.
"Hi, do you need help?" You said before you could think better of it.
"Yes, actually." The woman said, half-heartedly glaring at the door. "I’m here to visit my nephew and he said he left his key under the mat but it's simply not there."
"Oh, that's no problem. I have a key."
Michael’s aunt blinked. "You do?"
You blushed so hard you thought your face would catch on fire. "For...emergencies."
A few more days passed before you fortunately but unfortunately got stuck in the elevator with Michael.
The space was silent for a few moments, your smile tight and awkward as you greeted him.
"So, I met your aunt–"
"Are you avoiding me?"
You stared at each other for a moment and you prayed he'd talk first.
As if taking pity on you, he relented and nodded. "I know, she told me. Said you were really sweet.”
You hummed. Not wanting to answer his question but of course he asked you again, but different.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
"I'm not avoiding you, I'm just...busy."
He raised a brow at you. "You're busy?"
"Yes," you stuck your chin up a bit. "I do work, you know. I don't just rot in my apartment all day."
Michael’s eyes narrowed, only a little bit. Looking hurt more than annoyed and guilt chewed at your insides as he left the elevator without a word.
Later that night you didn't see Spider-Man arriving at Michael’s place, but leaving it.
You weren’t thinking. Not properly, at least.
Not thinking at all as you took hold of Michael’s spare key and walked next door. Not thinking at all as you unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The door shut softly behind you and you listened for any sign of life.
"Michael?” You called out.
Nothing.
You walked to his bedroom and took note of his clothes that he had been wearing earlier were thrown in a pile on his bed.
Walking down the hall, you knocked on the bathroom door before trying the handle. Empty.
You let out a breath of disbelief.
Later that night, much later, the clock on the oven said it was nearing four in the morning, you saw Spider-Man swing onto the fire escape before stepping back into the apartment next door through the window.
Biting at the inside of your cheek, you debated for a moment. If you confronted him, you doubted he'd tell you. Why would he?
Your eyes glanced at the newspaper that was flipped to a page with an article Michael had written about Spider-Man. You had been staring at the article for hours. Picking apart the diction and thinking about his voice until you felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner.
You thought about leaving him a voicemail while he was out and about.
I know who you are.
No, that was too ominous. Dramatic. You didn't necessarily care that he was a super hero. Didn't care that he was Spider-Man. Yes, it was baffling. Looks aside, Michael was just so... gentle. In every sense of the word. It was hard to imagine Michael punching people through buildings and shooting webs from his wrists as he swung through the city. Hard to imagine him catching cars and throwing criminals up in the air like it was nothing.
No wonder he wasn't interested. It was negative to think, but you told yourself it was simply pragmatic. What would a hero want with a person like you? So painfully not extraordinary. Not interesting. Not anything.
You were just his neighbor. A person on the blurry outlines of his secret identity. Sure, he still cared on the basic level of simple common decency. You didn't think he was faking anything. It wasn't fake kindness. It just... didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean what your hopeless romantic self wanted it to mean.
You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. Why even tell him that you knew? What would be the point?
You froze.
What if you ruined everything if you told him you knew? Would he have to move? Get a new job? Would he be angry with you? What if he thought you were in danger? What if you were? So many people were after Spider-Man’s actual identity, what if someone powerful found out and went after you? No, that would be dumb. Egotistical, even. Who were you? You hardly ever left your apartment. Why would you be important enough to even pique the interest of—
There was a single knock on your door.
With stiff limbs, you got up from the couch and walked to the door, not bothering to look into the peephole. Who else would it be?
Taking a breath as your hand landed on the doorknob, you willed yourself to open it, blinking against the bright light of the hall.
As anticipated, it was Michael.
Standing there in his college crewneck with a pair of sweats on and... "You own slippers?" You asked.
He blinked at you. It was probably the last thing he was expecting you to say. "Yes?" He looked down at them, they were simple. Black.
You finally looked up at him and you realized he wasn't wearing his glasses.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you considered him. It was nearing five. "What are you doing here, Michael?”
"I need to tell you something."
You raised a brow at him, though not at his request, it was his expression. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. But I just, I need... I've been waiting to tell you but I just haven't—“
Without thinking, you took hold of his arm, gently tugging him inside. You’d never heard him struggle to say something before. Not knowing what words to use. "Take a seat," you said once you shut the door, gesturing vaguely behind you as you walked into the kitchen.
You opened the cabinet and grabbed a mug, followed by filling a kettle with some water before setting it on the stove. You ripped open the box of new tea you had bought a few weeks ago. You didn't know why you did, you just... did.
After a few minutes it was ready and you padded into the living room, taking note of how he was sitting. Leaned forward with elbows on his knees, his chin perched on his hands. Looking deep in thought. Debating. You had a strong inkling you knew what this was about.
He still wasn't sure if he should tell you.
You came to a stop in front of him and handed him the mug. It was a little chipped and had a landscape painting of Bar Harbor on it. You loved it there. Once you were done with, well, everything you supposed, you wanted to move there.
Michael looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. His eyes taking in the mug and the steam billowing from the top. "You made me tea?”
You shrugged, repressing a shiver as he took the ceramic from you and your hands brushed.
Clearing your throat, you sat down next to him. "What's on your mind, Mikey?"
That got him to smile, at least a little bit.
He took a sip of his drink, humming in content as the subtle sweetness hit his tongue. "I'm not really sure how to go about this."
You bit at your lip, looking down at your hands as you twisted them. You didn't want to stress him out. It was probably the last thing he needed. Spider-Man shouldn't have to be pacing back and forth wondering how his neighbor is going to deal with the fact of him being a super hero. To some, a masked vigilante.
"Listen, Michael.” You said as evenly as you were able. Not wanting to look at him despite feeling his eyes watching you intently. At that moment, you wished you would've made your own cup of tea even though you preferred coffee.
"I," you wrung your hands so hard it nearly hurt. "I know."
"You... you know?" He echoed quietly.
You still couldn't look at him. "Yeah, I know. So you don't have to worry or anything. You don't have to tell me. I know."
When he said your name lowly, your body practically jumped into flight mode. Standing up and an excuse about the bathroom was about to leave your lips when his hand caught hold of your wrists. Firm but gentle. If you wanted to break away from him you could. He was giving you the opportunity to leave if you wanted.
Instead you stood still. Your brain not quite comprehending he was touching you again. God, were you really that touch starved?
Michael stood himself, tugging at your hand to turn you around. A small sigh left him when he noticed you were looking pointedly at your feet.
Your heart leapt when his fingers gently took hold of your chin and tilted your face up. Your eyes met his with what felt like a jolt of electricity.
You couldn't read his expression. Couldn't if you tried, if you were to be honest. Everything about him was a puzzle you hadn’t figured out yet.
"Why would I worry?" He asked. Voice quiet and dancing between you, his breath warm against your face.
"You seemed worried."
"I didn't want you to hate me."
Your brows furrowed. "Why would I hate you?"
He shrugged. "I can never tell with you. Sometimes I think you like me, sometimes it seems like you can't stand me."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Michael shook his head. "You don't need to apologize. I didn't exactly make it any easier, either."
"You actually made it kind of obvious."
He narrowed his eyes but the annoyance was feigned. "I didn't think you'd be able to see me from any angle in your place."
It was your turn to shrug. "I think I'm just an observant person."
His eyes flicked to the tea briefly. "I know."
It was quiet for a moment. You were sure he could not only feel, but hear your heartbeat tripping over itself.
"Listen, Michael, I won't—"
His mouth softly pressed to yours. Warm. Slightly tasting of vanilla.
You blinked. Not understanding. Your mind spinning with why why why...
Michael leaned back, his other hand coming up to cradle the side of your throat. His smile gentle and devastating.
"I know, sweetheart," he whispered.
You wanted to ask him why you? But he kissed you again and effectively told your mind and self doubt to shut up. Silenced it with the way you felt him smile into the kiss the moment he felt you melt against him.
Not a thought occurred to mind as he picked you up like you were nothing. His tongue sliding against yours as you gasped from the sudden movement.
You didn't think at all as your neighbor, Michael Jackson — Spider-Man, backed you into the wall. Feeling your sanity slip from your fingers as they buried in his hair, his hips pressing in to yours and his sweatpants not leaving much to the imagination.
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。summary : a little something about michael’s relationship with the gold chain you gifted him! <3
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。before you interact : no warnings, just touch of smut :)
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。word count : 1.1k
At twenty one, Michael still occupied a strange space between boyhood and adulthood. The rest of the world insisted he was a man—and he was, of course. His records sold in impossible numbers, strangers screamed his name from behind barricades, executives twice his age submitted to his word in the studio, and magazines crowned him with titles that suggested he had complete confidence in who he was. Yet beneath all of that, there remained an unmistakable youthfulness that refused to leave him. Left entirely to his own devices, Michael rarely spent money on symbols of adulthood. If he indulged himself, it was almost always in ways that reflected the child he had never fully been allowed to be. Exotic animals fascinated him. Toys cluttered corners of his home. Arcade machines, elaborate gadgets, miniature trains, anything that inspired wonder rather than status drew him in with almost magnetic force. His idea of splurging was rarely a tailored watch or an expensive ring. It was always something that invited curiosity, play, or comfort. Material things interested him only if they preserved some piece of innocence.
A gold chain had never crossed his mind.
It was a purchase he admired on other people without ever imagining it around his own neck. His brothers wore chains. Older musicians wore them—rappers wore even larger ones. Men in the industry paired them with silk shirts and wore rings that knocked against piano keys and watches that cost more than cars. He appreciated the way they looked in the same way he appreciated a well-tailored suit or a beautiful stage costume, but it ever occurred to him as something he should own. It looked right on other people. But they represented a.. specific kind of adulthood that felt grown. He felt like he was posing as something he’s not whenever he tried to imagine himself with these pieces.
So when you placed the small velvet box into his hands, his immediate reaction wasn’t excitement—it was disbelief. The chain was beautiful, but he had never viewed himself as someone worth.. adorning. Love, in Michael’s mind, was demonstrated through action. He stayed on the phone until sunrise with friends. He wrote songs for people. He remembered birthdays, favorite flowers, childhood stories mentioned only once. Affection existed in the things he could do. Receiving something beautiful simply because someone wanted him to have it felt almost foreign.
The necklace itself was understated, it wasn’t oversized or ostentatious, nor did it demand attention the moment he entered a room. It rested naturally against his collarbone, catching light in subtle flashes. It looked expensive, elegant and so pretty against his deep brown skin tone.
Watching you fasten it around his neck for the first time stirred something he couldn’t name in the moment. Your cool fingertips brushing up the curls at the nape of his neck, the soft click of the clasp settling into place, the sudden awareness of a new weight resting against his skin. It wasn’t heavy enough to notice physically, yet psychologically it altered the way he occupied his own body. When he turned toward the mirror, he found himself looking longer than he usually allowed because the image staring back at him felt.. more mature. For perhaps the first time, he saw a glimpse of the man everyone else seemed convinced already existed.
There was something a little transformative about it. The chain framed the graceful line of his neck, disappearing beneath open collars and reappearing whenever he moved. Against his skin, the gold emphasized the masculinity he had always struggled to recognize in himself. Michael had spent much of his adolescence feeling painfully aware of his own gentleness. His voice was soft even when he wasn’t singing. His mannerisms were careful and thoughtful. He had never been the loudest person in a room, nor the broadest, nor the sort of man who filled space through physical confidence like some of his brothers. Michael thought about it more than he would have liked to admit—the toxic relationship with black men and what is expected of them in terms of what masculinity should mean to them and how they should carry it. The chain muted that bit of insecurity in the gentlest possible way.
There was a masculine quality to the way it rested against his chest. It wasn’t one of the glittering stage jackets he slipped into before becoming Michael Jackson. This remained after the lights went down. Even when Michael shifted above you—knees braced on either side of your thighs, strong arms caging you in, the gold links stayed right there: resting against his neck, swaying faintly with every deep roll of his hips into yours.
And you loved it. You loved seeing it glint each time he leaned back slightly to watch your face as he moved inside you. Loved how its cool metal pressed ever so lightly against the heated skin between them whenever your chests touched during an especially intense thrust.
Michael caught himself touching it absentmindedly throughout the day, his fingers brushing over the links whenever he grew lost in thought. Each time, he experienced the same shy satisfaction. He looked—he looked handsome. More importantly, he felt handsome and he really liked how that made him feel on the inside.
The feeling surprised him.
Because he could still delight in the whimsical, still collect the things that made him smile, while wearing something that reminded him he was no longer merely the youngest Jackson brother following his father’s forceful lead.
It wasn’t long before the necklace ceased to feel like an accessory and instead became something that was just as part of him as a limb. He reached for it every morning with the same unconscious that he buttoned his shirt or tied his shoes. On the rare occasion he forgot it, something felt incomplete. His hand would drift to his collarbone during rehearsals only to find bare skin, leaving him oddly distracted until he returned home.
You also discovered that it offered you an excuse to indulge in his affection. Slipping one finger beneath the chain and giving the faintest pull was enough to draw his attention immediately. Sometimes you did it only to straighten the collar of his shirt. Sometimes to steal a kiss. Sometimes you simply wanted him closer, and the necklace became somewhat of a collar for him and your finger was the leash. Michael responded with the same thoughtless trust every time, drifting toward you instinctively because he had come to associate that delicate tug with affection waiting at the other end.
The gesture became its own private love language, remarkably intimate in the simplicity of it. Michael never seemed embarrassed by it. If anything, there was a pleasure in knowing someone wanted him close enough to reach for him first.
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。summary .ᐟ what do you do when the man you built your entire life around disappears without so much as a goodbye for another woman? do you love him enough to stay? or do you respect yourself?
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。before you interact .ᐟ divorce, emotional infidelity, substance abuse, addiction, mental health struggles, medication, anxiety, panic attacks, grief, codependency, public scrutiny, paparazzi harassment, family conflict, legal disputes, custody proceedings, fainting, unhealthy coping mechanisms, weight loss, weight depiction, and complex relationship dynamics. age gap in relationship (reader is now 27, michael is 36). “im your freaky nikki :)” reference for the girls!
﹒ ୨୧◞ 。disclaimer .ᐟ this work contains depictions of addiction, substance abuse, and deteriorating mental health. this piece is not an accurate depiction of any real life individuals. — 22k word count.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.
Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.
It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.
Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.
But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.
Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.
The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.
It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.
It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.
She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.
The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.
The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.
The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.
(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.
The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.
As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.
Twenty seven.
Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.
But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.
There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.
She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.
That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.
There he was.
Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.
He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.
On the coffee table sat three things.
The remote.
The small amber prescription bottle.
A bottle of vodka.
She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.
Her thumb found the rewind button.
The tape whirred backwards.
She watched it again.
Then again.
Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.
There wasn’t one.
Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.
Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.
The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.
She pressed rewind one more time.
Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.
Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.
It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.
Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.
(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.
As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.
The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.
It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.
For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.
Then somebody recognized her.
She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.
(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.
“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.
The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.
The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.
It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.
“(Name)! Over here!”
“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”
“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”
“Is the marriage beyond saving?”
“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”
“Are the reports about your health true?”
“Did Michael cheat on you?”
“Do you still love him?”
The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.
Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.
Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.
Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.
Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.
Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.
She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.
The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.
HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?
They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.
A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.
Another flash burst through the tinted window.
Then another.
Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.
The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.
She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.
But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.
The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.
“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”
(Name) smiled politely.
She could picture them too.
That was the problem.
She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.
She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.
The first house was beautiful.
So was the second.
The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.
Every realtor’s dream.
Every magazine’s dream.
None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.
The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.
He had known what questions to ask.
He had noticed things she hadn’t.
He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.
He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.
Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.
And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.
Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.
It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.
It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.
Choosing where her son would sleep.
The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.
After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”
(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.
Everything.
Everything except herself.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”
And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.
Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.
The closet was the worst.
She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.
Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.
His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.
Those were the things that hurt the most.
She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.
Because he always had.
Until he didn’t.
She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.
She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.
The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.
What belonged to her? What belonged to him?
At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.
Packing was supposed to feel productive.
People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.
It wasn’t that simple with her.
By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.
She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.
Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.
She frowned and pulled it free.
It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.
For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.
“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
She remembered.
They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.
Michael refused to believe him.
Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.
Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.
Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.
Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.
Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.
“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.
She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”
“It was an investment.”
“In what?”
“Our future.”
Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.
“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.
The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.
The gift itself was absurd.
Cheap.
Completely impractical.
By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.
KEEP.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.
The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.
Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.
She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.
Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.
A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.
Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”
“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”
She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”
For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.
“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.
Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”
No one corrected her.
Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.
Mrs. Jackson.
A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.
Not on a television screen.
The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.
Not in photographs.
Not through lawyers.
Not through headlines.
Him.
The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.
The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.
She wasn’t driving to see her husband.
She was driving to negotiate the end of him.
Her breathing changed before she realized it had.
It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.
She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.
Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”
The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.
She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.
“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.
The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.
The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.
Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.
Again.
Again.
Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.
It was him.
In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.
The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.
What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?
The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.
Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.
His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.
The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.
“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”
She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”
“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.
He simply acknowledged the truth.
She wasn’t.
Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.
“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”
He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.
“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”
“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.
Just someone else.
Just another meeting.
Just another signature.
Just another chapter he’d already closed.
Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”
She frowned. “I feel—“
“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”
Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”
His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”
“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”
Silence settled between them.
After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.
“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.
Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”
She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.
“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”
She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.
He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.
“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”
She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”
She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.
She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.
One.
Two.
Three.
Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.
By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.
The building came into view through the windshield.
Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.
Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”
The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.
When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”
She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.
Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.
The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”
Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.
“They’re expecting you.”
Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..
The thought tightened something in her chest again.
“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.
The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.
As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.
They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.
“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.
The hallway fell silent.
(Name) couldn’t move.
At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.
The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.
It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.
They refused.
A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.
It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.
Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.
She looked down.
Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.
Stress hives.
She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.
Not even metaphorically but,
Literally.
Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.
Run.
The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.
Run.
Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.
“..Hey.”
She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.
He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”
She tried.
God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.
It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.
“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.
“You can.”
She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”
Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.
“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”
He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”
She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”
She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”
“Your feet.”
She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”
“The floor underneath them?”
Another swallow. “Yes..”
“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”
Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”
His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.
“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.
Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.
“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”
She stared at him. “No..”
“But I’m staying right here.”
“No..”
“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”
“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”
For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.
Helpless.
If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.
“(Name).”
Neither of them turned.
“It’s time.”
The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.
She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.
One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.
The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.
She felt them before she saw them.
Eyes.
They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.
She kept her gaze lowered.
One step.
Then another.
The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.
Familiar.
Warm.
The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.
His cologne.
It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.
Now it made her feel violently ill.
She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.
Don’t look up.
The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.
Don’t look.
If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.
Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.
The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.
A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.
It was something to look at.
Something that wasn’t.. him.
Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.
Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”
The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.
The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.
“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”
The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.
She kept her eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.
Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.
He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.
Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”
A pause.
The room tightened slightly.
Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”
There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..
Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.
Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”
Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.
Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”
Documented instability.
A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.
Her fingers tightened under the table again.
Fifty-fifty.
Supervised visits.
The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.
Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”
“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”
She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.
Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.
The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.
Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.
“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”
Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”
Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”
“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”
“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”
His attorney gave a small nod.
“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”
Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”
Husband and wife.
As though those were just words.
As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.
As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.
As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.
And now..
Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.
(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.
Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.
“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”
Across the table, no one interrupted.
He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”
He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”
His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”
The discussion continued for another two hours.
Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.
Together, they sounded grotesque.
The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.
Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”
No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”
“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”
There was a quiet chorus of agreement.
Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.
(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.
Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”
The room stilled.
It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.
“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”
Silence settled over the room.
One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.
Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”
Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”
She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”
"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”
She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.
Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”
Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”
One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.
The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.
And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.
The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.
The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.
“Can you..” His voice stopped.
An uncertain pause.
Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.
“Can you look at me?”
The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.
That somehow made it harder.
“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.
She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.
But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.
Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.
Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.
It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.
She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.
And then the question came out before she could stop it.
“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.
“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.
“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.
“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”
“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”
“(Name), please..”
“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.
“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”
He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.
“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”
Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”
He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.
“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”
Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.
“You at least owe me that much.”
The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”
Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“No.”
She blinked. “What?”
“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”
The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”
“Nothing happened between us.”
Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.
A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”
He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.
If nothing happened, then why?
Why had everything changed?
Why had she been left behind?
Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?
Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”
His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”
“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall. “What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”
He looked away.
That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”
She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. ”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”
Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.
If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.
Something before.
Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”
A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”
Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”
He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.
“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”
She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.
“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.
“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”
The question lingered between them.
He didn’t answer, of course.
He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.
She felt the air leave her lungs.
“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”
Still nothing.
The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.
“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.
It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.
Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.
“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”
“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”
Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”
The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.
Neither of them spoke after that.
The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Neither of them responded.
Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.
“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”
She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.
Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”
She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.
It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.
“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”
Everyone remained still.
She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”
No one said anything immediately.
There wasn’t anything to say.
Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”
She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.
“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.
He knew it was a lie.
She knew he knew.
Still, he respected it.
The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.
“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.
(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”
Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.
Only then did she let herself unravel.
The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.
Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.
“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.
“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.
Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.
Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.
When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.
The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.
His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.
“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”
He closed his eyes.
Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.
Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.
He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.
“You don’t even know if you love her.”
He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.
It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.
But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.
That was her melting point.
Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.
She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.
There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.
Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.
Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.
There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.
There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.
I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.
But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.
A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.
From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.
A curtain shifted.
Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.
But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.
The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.
She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.
There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.
“She’s not—” Someone started.
“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.
A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.
Someone was talking about timing.
Someone else was talking about canceling.
Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.
Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.
Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”
Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”
And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.
“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”
She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.
The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.
Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.
Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.
A hand touched her back lightly.
“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”
The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.
There wasn’t.
The curtain up ahead shifted.
And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.
Michael almost didn’t attend.
The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.
Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.
You dont even know if you love her.
It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.
Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.
Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.
By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.
“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.
“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.
“Michael..”
“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.
The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.
“What happened?” he asked.
Nobody answered.
The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.
“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.
A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.
“She collapsed.”
The words struck him with almost physical force.
“What?”
“She passed out after she came offstage.”
For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.
“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.
“I’m sorry.”
Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”
“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”
For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”
The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.
He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.
contains-alcohol,heavy swearing ,angst i guess..?,jealous katsuki,denki is the love triangle,implied female reader,x bakugo,x denki??,literally so bussing,themes of fighting,blood,punching,angry shit, katsuki being daddy,one way or anotherrrr he gonna get you
sypnosis-when katsuki denies liking her because he gets the wrong idea, it leads to you getting closer with denki and ends with a fight!
wc- 10.3k ..
THIS IS PART ONE!!
PART TWO COMES OUT SHORTLY!!
──────────────────────
“hi?”
denki said it like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say it first.
his phone lowered slowly from in front of his face, golden eyes blinking up at you with that wide, caught off guard look
that made him seem a little too innocent for someone who definitely had a vape tucked into his sleeve and probably five screenshots of stupid shit saved in his camera roll.
you smiled anyway.
“hello.”
his brows lifted.
“hello?” he repeated, almost laughing under his breath. “damn. okay. formal. am i in trouble or something?”
“no,” you said softly, sliding into the seat in front of him. “i just have a question for you.”
denki sat up a little straighter.
then you blinked.
“actually. a few.”
“a few?” he echoed, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion.
“that’s how interrogations start, y’know. first it’s ‘a few questions’ then suddenly i’m crying under fluorescent lights telling a cop i don’t know where the body is.”
you laughed, and his shoulders loosened immediately, like the sound made him braver.
“it’s not like that.” you reassured
“that’s exactly what someone with a body would say.”
“denki.”
“okay, okay.” he held both hands up, grinning. “shoot. i’m an open book. a stupid one but open.”
you leaned forward just a little, resting your arms on the table
and his eyes flicked down for half a second before snapping right back to your face.
he really was trying his best.
“does katsuki ever talk about me?”
denki blinked.
once
twice
then slowly, his mouth started curling at the corner.
“oh.”
your smile thinned. “what?”
“nothing.”
“that’s not nothing.”
“nah, nah, it’s just—” he leaned back, dragging a hand over his mouth like he was trying not to laugh.
“that’s the first question? damn. we’re going straight for the boss fight?”
you tried to keep your face calm, but the warmth in your cheeks was already giving you away.
“it’s just a question.”
“yeah, and i’m just a six foot billionaire”
“denki.”
“right sorry.” he bit back the grin but it stayed in his eyes. “why do you wanna know?”
“personal reasons.”
“personal reasons,” he repeated slowly.
“nothing weird.”
“you saying ‘nothing weird’ made it, like, immediately weird.”
you gave him a look.
he pointed at you with both hands. “not bad weird. fun weird. spicy weird. suspicious weird.” he said each word getting more emphasis
“can you answer?”
“yeah, yeah.” his grin softened, not disappearing, but turning a little less teasing. “does bakugo talk about you? sometimes.”
your brows pinched slightly. “sometimes?”
“yeah. not like—” denki waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right words.
“not like he sits there kicking his feet and writing your name with little hearts around it. it’s bakugo. dude talks about people like he’s chewing glass.”
you looked down at the table for a second. “so no.”
“i didn’t say no.”
your eyes lifted again
denki scratched the side of his jaw, suddenly more careful.
“he brings you up weirdly.”
“weirdly how?”
“like…” denki dragged the word out, glancing to the side as if bakugo might materialise from the wall and punch him through the cafeteria.
“if someone says you looked nice, he tells them to shut the fuck up.”
your lips parted slightly.
denki nodded, pointing at your expression. “yeah. see. weird.”
“that doesn’t mean anything.”
“i know. that’s why i’m not saying it means something. i’m saying it’s weird.”
you tilted your head. “what else?”
“what else?”
“you said sometimes.”
“damn, okay, you came prepared.”
“denki.”
“okay.” he leaned his elbows onto the table now, getting more into it despite himself. “sometimes if we’re all doing something and someone asks where you are he’ll answer like way too fast.”
“too fast?”
“like he already knew.”
that made your expression shift, denki noticed it.
he swallowed down another smile
“for example,” he continued, “kirishima could be like, ‘where’s she at?’ and bakugo was all ‘library.’ like immediately. no hesitation. scary as hell. like he had you chipped or some shit.”
you tried not to smile. “maybe he just saw me there earlier.”
“maybe,” denki said, holding up a finger. “that is the boring normal explanation.”
“and the other explanation?”
“the other explanation is that he’s bakugo and he’s a freak.”
you laughed again, softer this time, looking down as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.
denki’s grin went a little stupid for a second before he recovered.
“don’t tell him i said that.”
“i won’t.”
“no, seriously. i like my teeth where they are.”
“i won’t,” you promised, amusement warm in your voice. “does he ever say anything nice?”
denki’s face twisted.
“about you?”
“yes, about me.”
“uh…”
your smile faded a little. “that hard?”
“no, no, not hard. just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, wincing.
“bakugo doesn’t really do nice. not with words. he does that thing where he insults something less than usual and that’s basically a love poem from him.”
your fingers brushed the strap of your purse, fidgeting lightly. “so he doesn’t.”
“he said you were good at training once.”
you looked back at him quickly.
denki snapped his fingers. “yeah. there. see. got one.”
“what did he say?”
“he said, and i quote, ‘she doesn’t move like a dumbass.’”
you stared.
denki lifted both hands. “i know. beautiful. put it on a card.”
you let out a small laugh despite yourself. “that’s horrible.”
“from him? that’s basically, like, ‘your eyes are stars and your soul is made of moonlight.’”
“you’re very dramatic.”
“thank you. it’s a disease.”
your smile stayed, but it was softer now. thinking.
denki watched you for a second, then tapped his fingers against the table.
“he also gets pissy when people talk too much about you.”
your eyes narrowed slightly. “pissy how?”
“regular pissy but with like extra murder in the seasoning.”
“that could just be him.”
“yeah. exactly. that’s the problem with bakugo.” denki leaned back again, shrugging.
“you never know if he’s jealous or if he just woke up and chose violence as a lifestyle.”
you hummed quietly, trying to act like the answer didn’t matter.
it did.
denki saw that too.
“does he act different around me?” you asked after a beat.
denki’s grin came back, slower this time. “you already know the answer to that.”
“i’m asking you.”
“yeah, because you want someone else to say it so you don’t feel crazy.”
your mouth opened, then closed.
denki pointed at you again, softer. “called it.”
“just answer.”
“yeah” he said, and for once he didn’t make it into a joke right away. “he acts different.”
your eyes searched his.
denki shrugged, gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to decide how honest he could be without getting murdered later.
“not in some cute movie way. he’s still an asshole. but he gets… less sharp? i dunno. like if you’re around, he catches himself more. not always. he still says stupid shit, obviously, because his mouth is allergic to peace. but he’s different.”
you swallowed.
“different good or different bad?”
“different weird,” denki said. “which, with him, might be good.”
you looked down again and denki’s chest gave a tiny uncomfortable pull at the way your expression dipped.
like you were trying so hard not to care and failing quietly.
he hated that.
you dragged in a slow breath, then sat up a little, forcing brightness back onto your face.
“soooo…”
denki immediately pointed at you. “there it is.”
“what?”
“that ‘soooo’ means your boutta drop a bomb on me.”
“i’m not!”
“that was a loaded soooo. that soooo has a knife behind its back.”
you smiled despite yourself. “do you think katsuki likes me?”
denki went still for a second.
not dramatically and not enough to make it obvious.
just enough that the question sat between you both with a little too much weight.
then he blew out a breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair.
“shit.”
your face warmed. “you don’t have to answer.”
“no, i’ll answer.” he rubbed his palms over his jeans. “i just gotta answer in a way where i don’t get turned into dust later.”
“i won’t tell him.”
“that doesn’t matter. bakugo senses betrayal. like a fucked up dog.”
“denki.”
“okay.” he tilted his head, lips pressing together for a second. “do i think he likes you?”
you nodded.
denki’s eyes softened a little.
“maybe.”
your face faltered before you could stop it.
it was only a flicker, but he caught it. the way your smile held for half a second too long before thinning.
the way your eyes dropped, like you were embarrassed for hoping for more.
he quickly sat forward.
“wait, no, not maybe like bad maybe. not maybe like ‘nah girl give up.’ i mean maybe because it’s bakugo. nobody knows what’s going on in there except explosions and unresolved childhood bullshit.”
you huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
denki’s voice got gentler.
“he cares about you. i can say that.”
you looked at him. “but liking me is different.”
“yeah,” denki admitted. “it is.”
you nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.
he winced.
“fuck. i’m bad at this.”
“no, you’re not.” your voice stayed warm, even if it had gone quieter. “i asked. you answered.”
“yeah, but now you look sad and i feel like i just kicked a puppy.”
you looked up, startled, then laughed. “i’m not a puppy.”
“you got sad eyes. same thing.”
“i do not.”
“right now? kinda.”
you tried to glare at him, but it didn’t land. not really.
denki looked over your face for another second, then suddenly straightened like an idea had physically slapped him.
“wait.”
your brows lifted.
“what?”
“i can ask him.”
you blinked. “what?”
“i can ask bakugo.”
your face changed so fast it almost made denki grin again. your eyes lit first, then your mouth,
warmth blooming across your expression before you could hide it.
“you’d do that?”
“yeah.” he shrugged like it was nothing, even though he was absolutely imagining his own funeral. “i mean, i might die. but i’ve had a good run.”
“denki, no, don’t if it’s gonna be weird.”
“it’s already weird. we’re way past that. you came over here asking me if lord explosion talks about you”
you laughed, bright and relieved.
“lord explosion?”
“is that not what he calls himself..?”
“close enough,” you admitted, standing slowly and grabbing your purse. “thank you.”
denki stood too, a little too quickly, his chair scraping under him.
“yeah, no problem.” he smiled, still looking a bit dazed from how pretty you looked when you were relieved. “i’ll be smooth about it.”
“will you?”
“absolutely not. but i’ll try.”
your smile widened, soft and grateful, and before he could process what you were doing
you leaned across the small space and wrapped your arms around him.
it wasn’t anything dramatic. just a quick hug. warm. sweet. your perfume brushing his hoodie
your cheek near his shoulder, your purse pressed lightly between you.
denki froze completely.
his hands hovered awkwardly for half a second before one landed carefully against your upper back.
“oh— shit. okay. yeah. you’re welcome.”
you pulled back smiling, not noticing the way his ears had gone pink.
“bye, denki.”
“bye,” he said, voice cracking just enough that he immediately coughed. “cool yeah .. normal. bye.”
you walked away still smiling, purse hooked over your shoulder, steps light now in a way they hadn’t been when you sat down.
denki stood there with one hand still half raised staring after you like his brain had momentarily unplugged.
“fuck,” he muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his neck. “this is so cooked.”
he didn’t see him.
neither of you did.
a few feet away, past the loose crowd of students shifting between tables, katsuki stood completely still.
kirishima was beside him talking about something. training, probably. maybe lunch. maybe whatever stupid plan the extras had for later. katsuki couldn’t hear a damn word.
his eyes were locked on denki.
more specifically, on denki’s hand where it had touched your back.
his jaw ticked once.
then again.
slow enough to look controlled if someone didn’t know him hard enough that the muscle jumped near his cheek.
his forearm flexed at his side, veins pushing up under skin, fingers curling once like he had to physically stop himself from moving.
because he’d seen all of it.
you sitting across from dunce face with that warm little smile. leaning in.
laughing at whatever stupid shit he was saying. looking at him with those soft eyes katsuki had gotten too used to thinking were his to earn.
and then the hug the fuckinnngggg hug.
quick and innocent supposedly nothing.
that somehow made it worse
because denki hadn’t done shit. you had leaned in first. you had smiled at him like that. you had wrapped your arms around him like it was easy.
katsuki’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing as you walked away from denki lighter than before.
his chest felt hot.
not embarrassed hot or like nervous hot angry hot.
jealousy crawled up his throat like smoke, thick and mean, making his shoulders square without him noticing.
denki really thought he was doing something good.
that was the stupid part.
he woke up the next day with the memory of your hug still sitting warm somewhere in the back of his mind
not in a serious way, or in some deep romantic way just enough to make him grin at his ceiling like an idiot and think yeah, okay if asking bakugo one little question got him another one of those
maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
which, honestly should’ve been his first warning.
because bakugo hadn’t looked normal yesterday
denki hadn’t seen it, but katsuki had spent the rest of that afternoon with your name lodged somewhere under his ribs like a blade he refused to pull out.
he’d gone through training with a meaner swing than usual, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, every blast out of his palms too sharp, too hot
too uncontrolled to be called clean. kirishima had said something once and katsuki had nearly told him to shut his whole face.
and all because of one stupid image of you leaning over a table, you smiling at denki, you hugging denki.
it kept coming back at the worst moments, slipping into his head when he was trying to focus
flashing behind his eyes when someone said your name, replaying itself in pieces that pissed him off more every time. denki’s hand on your back
your face soft and grateful. your body close to his for those two seconds katsuki had no right to be mad about.
no right at all
that was what made it worse.
you weren’t his
he hadn’t said shit. hadn’t done shit. hadn’t given you anything clear enough to hold onto.
just years worth of softened stares and quieter words and standing too close like an idiot, acting like if he guarded the space around you hard enough, everyone would somehow understand what he refused to say out loud.
and then there was denki.. smiling like a dumbass.
so when the next day came and denki spotted him at his locker, of course he didn’t think twice, he really should’ve.
katsuki was standing with one hand shoved into his locker
the other hanging at his side, face completely blank in that specific way that meant he was anything but calm. his eyes were low. mouth flat. shoulders slightly hunched forward like he was keeping something contained inside his chest by sheer force
the hallway was loud around them, crowded with students pushing past, voices overlapping shoes squeaking against the floor lockers slamming every few seconds.
katsuki didn’t move with any of it
denki strolled right into his space anyway.
“yo.”
katsuki’s hand paused inside his locker.
not even fully
denki leaned his shoulder against the locker beside him
lazy grin on his face, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a normal conversation and not him walking barefoot into a bear trap.
“what’s up, man?”
katsuki didn’t look at him.
“what.”
denki blinked, smile twitching a little
“damn. good morning to you too.”
katsuki pulled a notebook from the locker and shoved another one inside
movements short and sharp. the metal shelf rattled faintly.
denki’s eyes flicked to his jaw, it was clenched.. like actually clenched.
the kind where the muscle near his cheek kept ticking like something was winding tighter and tighter underneath his skin.
“you good?” denki asked, voice still casual, but thinner now. “you’re doing that thing where you look like you wanna bite through steel.”
katsuki finally turned his head.. slowly
his eyes cut to denki, dark and flat, and the shift in his face was immediate. sour. unimpressed. like denki’s presence alone had ruined the air.
“m’fine.”
denki lifted his brows.
“cool. convincing.”
katsuki stared at him
denki’s grin weakened.
“right. okay. not doing bits today. got it.”
katsuki went back to his locker, but the air had changed.
denki could feel it now. that stiff, ugly tension pouring off him in waves. bakugo had always been intense, always pissed, always one wrong word away from snapping, but this felt different.
quieter, like something had already happened and denki was just late to finding out what.
still he’d promised.
and yeah, maybe he was also thinking about that hug
so he swallowed once, shifted on his feet, and started.
“so…”
katsuki’s eyes shut for half a second.
fucking ‘so’ this was gonna be great.
katsuki’s mouth tightened.
denki rocked once on his heels, trying to keep the mood light even though his survival instincts had finally started screaming at him to stop.
“y’know y/n…”
the second your name left his mouth, katsuki’s whole body went still.
his fingers wrapped around the edge of his locker door, tightened until the metal gave the faintest creak.
denki noticed and his smile dropped by maybe a fraction, katsuki turned his head again.
“what about her.”
the words were dry, too dry.
scraped clean of everything except warning
denki’s eyes flicked over his face. “uh…”
katsuki stared at him, and denki suddenly understood, very clearly that this was going to be a lot harder than he’d pictured.
“well” denki said slowly, dragging the word out, trying to find a way to make it sound harmless. “you wouldn’t happen to have, like…”
katsuki’s stomach twisted before denki even finished.
it was immediate. ugly. hot. his body reacted before his brain had anything civil to offer.
because all he could see was yesterday.
denki’s pink face, denki staring after you, denki touching your back.
and now denki was here asking about you, leaning against the lockers with that lazy grin, acting casual acting like he was just testing the fucking water.
katsuki’s mind filled in the rest before denki got the chance to— obviously not the real thing.. but katsuki had an odd way of thinking when he was pissed.
he wanted to know if katsuki liked you.
not for you.
for himself.
to see if he had a clear shot.
to see if bakugo was in the way
the thought hit him so hard his ears almost rang.
his eyes widened slightly, but there was no shock in it. only rage. a sharp, bright flare of it that lit behind his stare and made denki’s mouth falter mid-sentence.
denki kept going anyway, because he was denki, and because he had no idea he was making it worse.
“a liking for her?”
silence.
the hallway kept moving around them, but for a second katsuki heard none of it.
just blood, just the low rushing pulse in his ears.
a ‘liking’
the words sounded childish coming from denki, almost stupid and somehow that pissed katsuki off more.
like this thing sitting in his chest had been reduced to some schoolyard bullshit. some little crush. some cute little rumour that denki could poke at with a grin and then run off to you with.
and the worst part was that it was true.
it wasn’t just liking you.
it was the way katsuki’s attention shifted whenever you entered a room before he even meant to look.
it was the way his voice lowered around you without permission, like some part of him didn’t want to cut you with the same sharpness he gave everyone else. it was the way he remembered stupid things.
where you sat. what you liked. how your face changed when you were trying not to smile. how quiet you got when you were hurt.
it was the way he got pissed when other people made you laugh, not because you were laughing, but because he wanted to be the one close enough to hear it first.
it was the way yesterday had carved itself into him, you hugging denki, you smiling at him like he’d given you something katsuki had been too much of a coward to give himself.
his grip tightened on the locker door.
say yes, some part of him snapped.
say yes and be done with it.
but then he saw it too clearly.
denki telling you.
denki running back with that stupid golden retriever face and saying, yeah, he likes you, like this was grade five, like katsuki couldn’t even speak for himself like the first real piece of him you got had to come out of someone else’s mouth.
humiliating.
worse than humiliating— weak.
his chest burned.
denki tilted his head slightly, nervous now but still trying to smile.
“bakugo?”
katsuki’s mouth moved before his pride could do anything else.
“no.”
it came out fast.. wayyyy too fast.
sharp enough that denki’s eyebrows lifted
katsuki felt the regret almost instantly. it dropped straight through his chest into his stomach, cold and heavy but his face didn’t change.
he slammed the locker shut.
the sound cracked through the hallway hard enough that a couple students nearby flinched.
“we’re just fucking friends alright?” he spat out
denki blinked the words hung there.
katsuki hated them the second they left his mouth.
he hated how clean they sounded. how final. how easy they made it seem. like you were nothing more than some person he tolerated.
like he didn’t think about you when he had no reason to. like his whole body hadn’t gone hot and mean from seeing your arms around someone else.
denki’s mouth parted slightly.
“oh.”
katsuki’s eyes snapped to him.
“what.”
“nothing,” denki said quickly hands lifting a little. “i just—”
“just what.”
denki paused.
for once he didn’t have a joke ready.
“i dunno,” he said slowly. “kinda thought maybe…”
“then just stop fucking thinking.”
denki’s brows pulled together, a little confused now. “dude, i was just asking.”
“yeah. don’t.”
“okay.” denki gave a small, awkward laugh, but it barely landed. “my bad.”
katsuki’s jaw worked once.
the jealousy was still there, moving under his skin like heat trapped behind glass. he wanted to say something else.
something that would make denki back off without actually admitting why. something that would put a wall up around you without naming it
but there wasn’t a way to do that without making himself obvious.
and he couldn’t be obvious.
not to denki, not like this
so he went mean instead, it was easier
“just fuck off, denki.”
denki’s expression went flat for a second, more startled than offended
“right. cool. love these chats.”
katsuki didn’t answer.
he turned on his heel and walked away before denki could say anything else, shoulders tight
hands flexing once at his sides like he was trying to shake off the feeling.
but the lie followed him, ‘we’re just fucking friends’ it repeated with every step
friends.
friends.
friends.
his mouth tasted bitter
behind him denki stayed by the lockers, watching katsuki disappear into the moving crowd.
he scratched the back of his neck slowly, smile gone now, replaced with a confused little frown
“no?” he muttered under his breath.
he glanced down the hall, then back at the locker bakugo had just slammed shut.
he really thought bakugo had something for you like really thought it.
the staring, the snapping, the weird possessive attitude
denki exhaled through his nose, brows still pinched
“huh.”
and somewhere down the hall, katsuki kept walking with his heart punching hard against his ribs looking furious enough that people moved out of his way without needing to be told
he looked pissed, he looked untouchable
but inside, all he could think about was your face lighting up at denki’s offer.
and the fact that if denki told you what he’d just said, that light might go out for good
denki found you during the first break between periods right when you were peeling away from your friends near the classroom door.
he meant to call your name.
he did well.. sort of.
it came out more like, “hey— uh, hey.”
you turned before he could embarrass himself any further
your conversation with your friends fading behind you as your attention settled on him.
and fuck.
denki forgot for half a second why he’d even walked over.
you were pretty in a way that made his brain trip over itself. not just pretty like, yeah, everyone knew you were pretty.
pretty like it hit worse up close. pretty like your lashes made your eyes look softer than they should’velike your smile actually had weight to it, like when you looked at him directly his whole body went a little stupid.
your lips curved.
“hi denki.”
he blinked.
then blinked again.
“hi,” he said weakly.
you tilted your head slightly, smile still warm, but it started thinning at the edges when you saw his face.
because denki was trying to smile back, he really was, but he must’ve looked like someone had handed him a live bomb and told him to be normal about it
your eyes shifted carefully over his expression.
“you okay?”
“yeah,” he said too fast. “yeah, no, totally. super okay. very normal. love being alive and stuff.”
your brows pulled in slightly.
“denki.”
he sighed, shoulders dropping.
“yeah. okay.” he scratched the back of his neck, looking down the hall for a second like he was praying for a fire drill. “i asked bakugo.”
your smile steadied
like your face had already started preparing itself before he even finished speaking.
denki hated that.
he hated the way your eyes changed too, all that soft hope sinking lower, trying to hide before it could get hurt properly.
you looked up at him through your lashes, quieter now, less sure.
“he said no?”
denki opened his mouth. then closed it.
you already knew
he nodded once, small and your face dropped anyway.
not dramatically or like in some big obvious way. just enough that the warmth slipped out of you.
your mouth softened, your eyes fell for half a second, and denki’s chest tightened like he’d done something wrong even though all he’d done was deliver the message.
“but,” he rushed out, lifting one hand, “but, like, it’s bakugo. y’know? he could totally be lying. actually, he probably was lying. dude lies about feelings like it’s his major. he says no to everything. he could be bleeding out and someone would be like, ‘are you dying?’ and he’d be like, ‘fuck off.’ so honestly—”
“denki.”
he stopped.
you gave him a weak smile.
it was worse than if you’d looked fully sad.
“it’s okay.”
“it’s not really.”
“it is.” your voice was soft, but it had that forced kind of calm in it. the kind people used when they were trying not to make someone else feel bad for their own hurt. “you asked for me. thank you.”
he blinked with those sad eyes
“yeah, but i don’t think—”
“it’s fine,” you said again, gentler this time. “i kind of thought that might be the answer anyway.”
“did you?”
you looked away for a second, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag.
“maybe.”
denki watched you do it. watched the little careful breath you took watched the way your fingers tightened around the strap before loosening again.
“he’s an idiot,” denki said before he could stop himself.
your eyes flicked back to him, he lifted both hands slightly.
“sorry. i mean. he’s still my friend. but also, like factually? idiot.”
that got a tiny laugh out of you barely there.
denki clung to it like a lifeline.
“see? there it is. smile’s not dead righhttt? we’re good.”
your smile faded again, but softer this time.
“it’s just gonna be awkward now.”
“why?”
you gave him a look.
denki winced. “yeah. okay. dumb question.”
“i can’t exactly un-know that he said no.”
“true.”
“and you asked him.”
“also true.”
“and if he knows i wanted to know…”
“he doesn’t,” denki said quickly. “i didn’t say it was from you.”
your eyes widened a little.
“you didn’t?”
“no. i mean, i’m stupid, but i’m not that stupid.” he paused. “most days.”
you let out another soft breath, some tension leaving your shoulders.
“thank you.”
“yeah.” he tried to smile. “no problem.”
but then silence fell between you, and denki could see you sinking back into your own head.
he didn’t like it.
you were still standing there, still pretty enough to make him nervous, still trying to look fine when you clearly weren’t
and something in him folded. not big. not dramatic. just a small, stupid, warm part of him that wanted to keep that sad look off your face for a little longer.
he shifted on his feet.
“hey.”
you looked up.
“you wanna come over after school?”
your brows lifted.
denki’s eyes widened slightly as if he’d only just heard himself
“not like— not weird. i mean, unless you want weird, but no, not— fuck, okay, restart.” he rubbed a hand over his face. “i just mean, come hang out. my dorm. i’ve got snacks nd weed if your into that... just to get your mind off it.”
you stared at him for a second.
denki’s grin came back smaller and lazier now, but there was something genuinely sweet under it.
“i can even pretend not to be annoying for, like, twenty minutes.”
your lips curved faintly.
“twenty?”
“fifteen if i’m being honest.”
you laughed, and this time it reached your eyes a little more.
denki’s chest warmed
“yeah” you said softly. “i’d like that.”
his brain stalled
“you would?”
“you offered..?”
“yeah, i know. i just didn’t expect the plan to work.”
your smile turned amused
“bye denki.”
“bye” he said too quick
you gave him one last little smile, fingers fluttering in a small goodbye before you turned and walked down the hall.
denki stood there for a second watching you leave.
then his mouth twitched into the dumbest grin.
“okay,” he muttered to himself. “cool. normal hangout”
you didn’t see him still smiling behind you.
you just kept walking, softer now, quieter, heading toward the bathrooms with your mind still half stuck on katsuki’s answer.
no, one word that was all— no.
it kept moving around in your head like something too heavy to swallow. you told yourself it was fine.
you told yourself you’d known already. you told yourself katsuki was katsuki, and maybe you’d read into things because you wanted them to mean more than they did.
you almost turned the corner.
then a hand caught your arm
not hard enough to hurt but with that recognisable warmth that radiated off the palm now against your skin.
sudden enough that your breath hitched
you turned and katsuki was already there pulling you gently but surely back into his view like he’d made the decision before you could disappear.
he had just come from class. you could tell by the notebook tucked lazily under one arm, the loosened tie,
the faint crease between his brows like he was already irritated with the world. he looked tired in that sharp way he always did. heavy lids. mouth flat. shoulders broad and tense beneath his uniform.
his fingers stayed around your arm for a second too long.
your cheeks warmed before you could stop them.. ohhh fuck
“hi,” you murmured.
katsuki’s eyes flicked over your face
he noticed the weak sound of it. the carefulness. the way you didn’t smile at him like usual
something in his chest pulled tight he let go of your arm, but didn’t step back
“you busy after school?”
your brows lifted slightly.
his tone was dry. almost bored. like he hadn’t been thinking about asking you all morning.
like he hadn’t spent half the last period staring at the side of his notebook without reading a damn thing, trying to decide whether asking you to train would sound normal enough
“um,” you said softly. “why?”
his jaw shifted
“train with me.”
you blinked
“today?”
“that’s what i said.”
it came out gruff, but not cruel. low and controlled. his eyes stayed on yours with that heavy unreadable stare that always made the air feel thicker.
you hesitated just for a second
but he felt it and his eyes narrowed.
you winced a little, already apologetic.
“sorryyy. i’m hanging out with denki.”
everything in him stopped
for one clean second katsuki didn’t move at all then his face changed, it drained into something darker.
his eyes sharpened first red deepening under his lowered brows. then his jaw tightened, slow and visible.
his head tilted a fraction closer like maybe he hadn’t heard you right, like the hallway had glitched and put the wrong name in your mouth.
“denki.”
you blinked at the way he said it sooo .. flat.
“yeah.”
his tongue pushed against his cheek.
“denki,” he repeated again, lower this time, like the name tasted bad. like every letter had dragged across his teeth on the way out
your brows pinched. “yes?”
katsuki’s stare locked on you, too intense, too sudden, the jealousy hit him so fast it was almost embarrassing.
hot and violent and immediate.
it poured through his ribs before he had the chance to shut it down
spreading under his skin, tightening his shoulders, making his pulse kick hard in his throat. denki. of course it was denki.
fucking dunce face. the same idiot who had asked him yesterday with that lazy little grin. the same idiot katsuki had convinced himself was asking for permission without saying it. the same idiot who’d looked way too pleased after you hugged him.
and now you were hanging out with him.. after school.. in his dorm.. maybe.. alone.. maybe.
the thought shoved itself into katsuki’s head before he could stop it. you sitting on denki’s bed. you smiling at him soft because he made some dumb joke.
denki getting to be the easy one. the nice one. the one who asked instead of froze. the one who didn’t spit out no like a fucking coward and then spend the next day choking on it
katsuki’s eyes darkened whilst his voice dropped.
“why the fuck are you hanging out with him?”
you looked genuinely confused.
“he offered.”
katsuki let out a humourless breath through his nose his head shook once.
“he offered..”
“yes.”
“he doesn’t just offer shit.”
your lips parted slightly
“what?”
katsuki stepped closer without thinking
not enough to crowd you completely but enough that the air between you changed. enough that you had to tilt your face up a little to keep looking at him.
his presence was hot and sharp, all controlled anger and something underneath it that made your stomach tighten.
his brows were pulled low one eye twitched faintly.
his mouth was set in a hard line, but his breathing had gone heavier like he was holding back words that wanted to come out meaner.
“denki doesn’t just offer to hang out with you outta nowhere.”
you stared at him.
“why are you mad?”
“m’not mad.”
“you look mad.”
“then quit lookin?”
your face fell a little at that
it hit right through the jealousy.
because you weren’t being cruel. you weren’t trying to throw it in his face.
you weren’t even aware there was something to throw. you were just standing there
looking up at him with that slightly wounded softness, like you thought you had to apologise for accepting someone else’s kindness.
your voice lowered.
“sorry.”
katsuki’s chest ached, hard he looked away.
his anger was still there, but it had nowhere clean to go now. it curled back into him, ugly and hot and useless
mixing with the regret already sitting in his stomach from yesterday.
‘no we’re just fucking friends.’
that was what he’d said.
so what right did he have to stand here pissed off because you listened?
his jaw clenched again whilst you straightened your spine a little
“katsuki, i didn’t—”
he shook his head once, cutting you off without looking at you
“whatever.”
your brows drew together but the blonde already stepping back
already turning away before he could say something worse. before he could ask why him and not me like some pathetic idiot. before the jealousy in his throat could make him say your name in a way that gave too much away.
his hand flexed at his side.
then he muttered low and bitter
“have fun with denki.”
that was how it started.
not with some big confession, not with some dramatic shift everyone could point at and say there. that was when it changed.
it started with you hanging out with denki after school once, and then again, and then again after that. it started with you laughing at something he said in the halls
your shoulder brushing his when he leaned in too close to show you something on his phone. it started with denki walking beside you like it was normal now
hands shoved into his pockets, grin lazy, head tilted down toward you because he liked the way you looked when you were listening.
and katsuki watched all of it happen from a distance he’d made himself.. he had no right to be mad. that was the line he kept dragging through his head like it could cut the feeling out.
he had no right!! he said no, he said you were just friends.
so when denki sat beside you at lunch, katsuki said nothing. when denki saved you a seat, katsuki looked away.
when you smiled at denki across a crowded hallway like he had become someone safe, someone easy, someone who didn’t make your chest ache from mixed signals and silence, katsuki felt something inside him twist until it almost snapped.
he started ignoring denki completely like full fuckin ghost.
if katsuki was sitting with the group and denki walked over, katsuki would stand before denki even got the chance to sit. chair scraping face blank eyes sharp enough to slice clean through him.
“bro,” denki would say sometimes, brows pulling together. “you good?”
katsuki would just glare, then leave.
no answer. no insult. nothing.
and somehow that was scarier then literally anything
kirishima noticed first. of course he did. he noticed katsuki getting quieter whenever your name came up. noticed the way his head turned when your laugh drifted through the common room.
noticed the way his fingers clenched around his bottle when denki mentioned you, casual and bright, like he didn’t know he was stepping all over something katsuki had buried alive.
but katsuki didn’t talk about it, he didn’t talk about shit to be honest
instead, he sat alone in his dorm at night with his phone in his hand and his knee bouncing so hard the bedframe clicked faintly against the wall.
your messages were open.
his thumb hovered over the screen.
over and over.
hey.
delete.
you busy.
delete.
stop hanging out with him.
delete.
come train tomorrow.
delete.
you okay.
delete.
he hated that one the most.
because it sounded too soft too much like what he actually wanted to ask.
are you okay because i’m not.
are you okay because i fucking lied.
are you okay because i think i lost the only thing that made me feel less like a walking disaster.
he never sent anything.
his strict bedtime came and went, but sleep never touched him right. he paced instead, barefoot across the floorboards of his dorm jaw tight, fists clenched and unclenched at his sides the room felt too small for him. too hot. too quiet.. all he could think about was you.
you walking beside denki.. you smiling at him… you getting closer to him by the day while katsuki stood back and let it happen because pride had crawled down his throat and made a home there.
it ate at him.
every fucking dayyyy..
by the time sero’s party came around, katsuki had already decided he wasn’t going.
parties were dumb and loud and crowded. filled with extras trying to look less miserable than they were. some dropout’s house packed full of people who probably couldn’t even spell their own names by midnight.
he had no reason to go.
until he heard you were going.
then he heard denki was going too.
and suddenly he had one.
the house looked like shit from the outside, warm light spilling through the front windows, music thumping hard enough to rattle the loose metal letterbox near the gate.
people were already spilling out onto the lawn, laughing too loud, red cups in hand, someone sitting on the curb with their head between their knees while two girls filmed each other dancing near the driveway.
high school party through and through.
cheap alcohol. too much perfume. too many bodies. bass shaking through the walls. someone yelling from the kitchen. someone else nearly eating shit on the front steps.
katsuki walked through all of it with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, face dark shoulders set.
he didn’t belong there
he looked too sharp for it wayyy too sober and too controlled like he had stepped into a mess and hated every single person inside it before they’d even looked at him
the second he pushed through the front door, the noise swallowed him.
music hit his chest first heavy bass, ugly and loud. the air smelled like alcohol, sweat, smoke from somewhere outside, and that sickly sweet mix of cheap body spray and spilt drink soaked into carpet.
kirishima found him almost instantly
“bakugo?”
katsuki barely looked at him.
kirishima was already holding a red cup, brows raised like he hadn’t expected him to show up
“didn’t think you were coming.”
“changed my mind.”
kirishima’s eyes flicked over him, curious, but he didn’t push. he just held the cup out.
“want one?”
normally, katsuki would’ve told him to fuck off.
normally, he would’ve looked at the drink like it had personally insulted him
but his eyes had already started searching the room, over shoulders, past faces, through the pulsing blur of bodies and coloured lights, then he found you.
standing a bit away near the edge of the living room, talking to a couple of your friends half turned toward them with that soft attention on your face. and the dress.
that little fucking dress, it hit him stupidly hard and katsuki’s mouth went dry.
you looked unreal under the dim party lights, your hair falling just right, your skin warm in the glow, your body framed by the crowd like everyone else around you had blurred out. there were people everywhere, noise everywhere, movement everywhere, but none of it stuck.
only you did.
his fingers tightened around the cup kirishima had pushed into his hand.
kirishima watched him stare.
“you good?”
katsuki lifted the cup to his mouth with no answer.
he poured it down his throat in one go and fuck it burned.
sharp and bitter dragging heat down his chest and into his stomach. he swallowed hard, face barely changing except for the slight tighten of his brow
kirishima blinked
“damn. okay.”
katsuki shoved the empty cup back at his chest.
“another.”
kirishima’s face shifted.
“uh—”
“another.”
there was already something wrong with his voice everyone knew katsuki was really like that, but usually he had some sorta tone in his voice. this was flat.
kirishima looked like he wanted to say something, but katsuki’s eyes had gone back to you again
so he got another
the first drink didn’t do much except loosen the edges of his anger. made the heat in his chest spread slower, thicker.
he stood near the kitchen doorway with kirishima and a few of the others, barely listening, eyes moving back to you every few seconds like it was instinct now
you laughed at something your friend said, katsuki’s jaw tightened you tucked your hair back his fingers flexed around the cup.
someone walked in front of his view and he shifted immediately just enough to see you again.
it was pathetic, he knew it but he didn’t stop.
the second drink disappeared slower than the first, but not by much
the room started getting warmer
his skin felt hot beneath his jacket, but he didn’t take it off. his shoulders stayed tense, body leaning back against the counter,
one ankle crossed over the other like he was relaxed when every part of him was locked on you
denki wasn’t near you yet funny enough that was the only thing keeping him still
for a while, you were just with your friends. smiling, talking, moving around the room in little pieces.
once you disappeared down the hall and katsuki’s stomach pulled tight until you came back. once some guy leaned a little too close while passing you and katsuki’s head lifted so sharply kirishima stopped mid-sentence.
“what?”
katsuki didn’t answer, the guy kept walking katsuki’s stare followed him anyway.
third drink.
then half of something kirishima told him not to mix, then another red cup from someone whose name he didn’t know.. time got weird after that.
not gone thankfully not black out yet.. just stretched
the music seemed slower and louder at the same time. lights smeared at the edges when he turned his head too fast. his mouth felt warmer, his tongue heavier
his thoughts less clean but more honest, and that was the scary part.
because the alcohol didn’t make him forget.
it made him worse.. so much worse made him stare longer it made the jealousy sit closer to the surface, and it made made every careful thought he’d been strangling for days start crawling up his throat.
you were across the room now, closer to the open space where people were moving to the music. denki had found you at some point, because of course he had. he stood beside you with that stupid lazy grin,
one hand wrapped around a cup, hair messy, shoulders loose like he didn’t have a single real problem in the world.
you said something
denki laughed
not a little laugh either
his head tipped back, eyes creasing, whole body leaning into it like you were the funniest person alive
katsuki’s grip tightened around his cup until the plastic dented, kirishima noticed.
“bakugo.”
“what.”
his voice came out rougher than before.
kirishima’s gaze moved to where he was looking, then back.
“maybe slow down.”
katsuki didn’t even blink.
denki bent closer to hear you over the music, leaning down to hear what you had said
katsuki’s pulse kicked.
his stare dropped to the space between you and denki like if he looked hard enough he could force it wider. his lips parted slightly, breath leaving through his nose, slow and hot.
he hated him, not .. actually but right then with alcohol sitting heavy in his blood and your smile pointed at someone else, katsuki hated him enough that it felt real.
denki lifted his hand while talking, casual, animated fingers brushing near your arm for half a second.
katsuki pushed off the counter and kirishima caught his shoulder immediately.
“hey.”
katsuki looked at the hand on him, then at kirishima.
his eyes were lower now. heavier. red half-lidded and mean beneath his brows, but unfocused at the edges in a way kirishima didn’t like.
“don’t.”
kirishima kept his hand there.
“you’re drunk.”
“m’not.”
“yeah, you are.”
katsuki gave a short, humourless breath. “m’fine.”
the words dragged a little not enough to sound sloppy yet, but enough.
kirishima’s brows pinched.
“come outside for a sec.”
katsuki’s eyes were already back on you, denki said something else.
you smiled again.. that soft fucking smile.
the one katsuki hadn’t gotten properly in days because you’d started looking at him carefully now. like you were trying to make yourself smaller around him so nothing else got awkward.
and denki got you easy, denki got you after katsuki ruined it the thought hit him ugly.
his throat worked.
he brought the cup up again and finished whatever was left in it, barely tasting it now. then he set it down too hard on the counter, plastic buckling under his fingers.
kirishima stepped closer.
“bakugo.”
katsuki’s mouth moved.
at first kirishima couldn’t hear him over the bass
“what?”
katsuki’s eyes stayed on denki.
his lips parted again, words lazy from the alcohol, rough from everything he’d been swallowing.
“..mm’gonnaa…”
kirishima leaned in slightly.
“huh?”
katsuki blinked slow.
his jaw clenched, but it didn’t hold the way it usually did. the anger leaked out of him now, drunk and hot and miserable
“gonna fight him.”
kirishima froze, still barely able to hear.
“what?”
katsuki’s hand dragged over his mouth, head dipping forward for a second before lifting again. his eyes were still locked across the room dark and burning through the haze.
denki had shifted closer.
or maybe katsuki just thought he had didn’t matter.
his voice dropped lower, words slurred just enough to sound dangerous in a different way. less sharp. more honest.
“..s’he keeps…”
he swallowed, brows tight, chest rising a little heavier kirishima’s hand hovered near his arm now, ready.
katsuki’s mouth curled faintly, but there was no humour in it like the thought of denki doing this was amusing in the drunk way.
“touchin my girl.”
he put the cup on the counter barely
“..keeps touchin my girl, kirishima..”
katsuki said it like it made perfect sense, his tone getting louder like a warning
like those words didn’t fall out of his mouth thick with alcohol rough around the edges, so low kirishima almost missed them under the bass shaking the kitchen counters.
kirishima’s brows pulled together.
“your what?”
katsuki didn’t answer
his head tilted instead, slow and heavy, eyes dragging across the room until they landed on denki again, denki was drunk too.
katsuki could tell from the stupid looseness in his body, from the way his grin sat too lazy on his face
from how he leaned a little too close when he talked to you. his cheeks were flushed under the party lights, hair messy, cup hanging from one hand while the other moved too freely, too casually too fucking comfortably around you.
katsuki’s stare sharpened as he watched denki say something, mouth moving close to your ear because the music was too loud. watched you smile.
not huge or flirty, nothing katsuki could point at and call damning, but it still burned through him like it was.
then denki’s hand landed on your shoulder.. just for balance maybe… just to get your attention maybe.
just because he was drunk and stupid and didn’t know where to put his hands.
but katsuki’s mind didn’t care, the second he saw denki’s fingers rest against you something in him repeated one word over and over until it drowned out the music.
rage.
rage.
fucking rage. (big mouth ref)
his cup hit the counter with a hollow plastic crack kirishima’s eyes widened at the growl in his throat already too knowing
“bakugo.”
katsuki pushed off the counter.
“bakugo, don’t.”
kirishima moved with him, hand coming up fast, but some dropout beside them already had a rough palm on kirishima’s shoulder
holding him back with a stupid smirk like he could smell the fight before it happened.
“leave it,” the guy said, grinning. “this’ll be good.”
kirishima shoved at him. “get off me, dumbass.”
but katsuki was already walking, not smoothly nah he was too drunk for smooth.
his steps cut hard through the room, shoulders squared, jaw ticking, knuckles curled so tight the skin over them looked pale under the flashing lights.
people shifted out of his way without fully knowing why yet but feeling it anyway. feeling the heat coming off him. feeling that ugly, focused violence in the way his eyes never left denki.
his teeth gritted for one weird second, the tipsy haze in his body disappeared the floor didn’t sway anymore.. the music didn’t blur.
the heat in his blood sharpened into something clean and brutal, adrenaline burning the alcohol down to one direct point.
denki.
fucking denki.
standing too close to you.
touching you like he had any right.
katsuki shoved between two people dancing, shoulder knocking someone back.
“oi.”
the music swallowed it, denki didn’t turn.
katsuki’s jaw clenched harder.
“oi, denki.”
that one cracked loud enough to cut through the bass.
denki’s head turned and there it was.. that stupid lazy smile.
half drunk, half confused golden eyes loose with alcohol as he blinked at katsuki like he had no idea why death was walking toward him.
“bakug—”
your face changed before denki even finished because you knew not fully or enough to stop it in time..
but enough for your eyes to widen, enough for your smile to vanish enough for your hand to lift slightly like you could catch whatever was already coming.
katsuki’s fist swung hard and fucking fast
no warning beyond the rage written all over his face.
his knuckles connected with denki’s nose with a sharp crack that seemed to arrive before the sound of the room did.
denki stumbled back, shoulder hitting someone behind him, one hand flying to his face as his cup dropped somewhere near his feet. red started slipping between his fingers almost instantly, warm and bright under the party lights.
for half a second, the music kept going then the room reacted late.
gasps.
“oh shit.”
“ooo—”
“fuckkk bro!!”
people surged back and forward at the same time, phones already lifting, bodies crowding in a loose ring because high school parties were always full of idiots who loved blood as long as it wasn’t theirs.
denki stared at katsuki through watery eyes, hand cupped over his nose.
“what the fuck, man?”
his voice came out thick, muffled, shocked more than hurt at first.
then the shock cracked into anger, the boy still drunk as bakugo
“what the fuck is wrong with you?”
he took a step forward, but some random guy caught him by the chest.
“nah, nah, chill—” the guy said
denki shoved at his hand, blood already running over his top lip.
“get off me.”
katsuki stepped forward too ready to hit him again, shoulders rolling like his body was begging for it.
your hands landed on his chest.
“katsuki.” he barely looked at you.
his chest was hard under your palms, rising too fast, heat rolling off him through his shirt. his eyes stayed locked on denki like if he looked away denki would touch you again.
“katsuki, stop.”
denki’s face twisted, drunk anger making him bolder than sense ever would.
“you hit me over what?” he snapped, voice loud now, cutting through the fading music. “you crazy or somethin?”
katsuki laughed once short and sharp and mean.
“don’t fuckin play dumb.”
“i’m not playing shit,” denki barked back, still holding his nose. “you just punched me for no reason.”
“no reason?”
katsuki lunged half a step, and your hands shoved harder into his chest, forcing him back just enough.
he looked down at you then just for a second.
his eyes were wild. drunk and dark, but the second they hit your face something in them flickered softer like your touch had dragged a thread of him back from whatever edge he was standing on.
then denki moved again and katsuki’s head snapped right back.
“s’for stealin my fuckin girl, you piece of shit.”
the words ripped out of him loud enough that the people closest went quiet.
even the music seemed to die around it.
someone near the speakers fumbled with a phone and the song cut off awkwardly, leaving behind the hum of voices, shocked breathing, the distant thump of bass from another room.
you froze against him, shit denki froze too.
then his brows shot up, drunk disbelief flashing across his face.
“your girl?”
katsuki’s nostrils flared denki barked a laugh, but it was all anger now.. he wasn’t even really mad more mad at the fact he just got punched.
“are you serious?”
“well you fuckin deaf?”
“i didn’t steal shit,” denki yelled, shoving the guy’s hand off his chest. “you said no.”katsuki went still barely, your hands pressed flat against him.
denki pointed at him, blood smeared across his fingers, eyes glassy from alcohol and fury.
“yeah. don’t look at me like that. you said no, asshole.”
katsuki’s eyes widened slightly, rage pulsing through his face.
“shut your fucking mouth.”
“nah” denki snapped. “nah, fuck that. you don’t get to say no, act like you don’t care, then punch me when someone else is actually nice to her.”
the crowd reacted again, quieter this time. murmurs rippling through the room.
katsuki’s lip curled.
“you were waiting for that, huh?”
denki blinked hard. “what?”
“waiting for me to say no so you could crawl in.”
“crawl in?” denki repeated, voice cracking with disbelief. “dude, are you fucking insane?”
“don’t act fuckin innocent.”
“i’m not acting innocent, you paranoid dickhead.”
katsuki surged forward again a step with a raised hand followed by the ohs of the crowd
your hands slid higher one catching the front of his shirt, the other pressing into his chest not directly infront of him though, more to the side incase he genuinely would swing.
“katsuki stop.”
he didn’t hear it properly well not at first.
denki’s words had gone straight through him and struck something raw. you don’t get to say no.
that was the part that burned. that was the part he hated. because denki was drunk and bleeding and loud, but he wasn’t wrong.
and katsuki hated him more for that.
his voice dropped low, dangerous despite the slur dragging at the edges.
“you think you know shit, huh?”
denki laughed, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand and swearing when more blood came away
“i know you’re a coward.”
the whole room seemed to tense as katsukis eyes widened with pure rage
kirishima finally shoved through the bodies, eyes wide. “denki shut up.” he immediately knew this wouldn’t end well
denki ignored him.
“you had a shot and you fucked it up. don’t swing at me because she stopped waiting around for you to grow a pair.”
katsuki moved immediately fists already tense as sero behind katsuki had to forcingly grab his shoulders pulling him backwards
whilst another dude beside sero had his hand on bakugos arm
your hand shot up before he could get past you, grabbing his face between your palms, forcing him to look at you.. you knew if this went any further katsuki would probably beat denki to the point he’d get suspended.
or a lawsuit!
“katsuki.”
he strained against the stop for half a second, breathing hard, eyes still trying to cut past you toward denki.
“move.” he grunted the smell of alcohol evident on his mouth
“no.”
his gaze snapped down to yours and you held it
your fingers were warm against his cheeks, firm enough to make him stay, gentle enough that it hurt more than if you’d pushed him.
his jaw worked under your palm. his breath came hot and uneven, alcohol sharp beneath it, his eyes blazing with a kind of jealousy so naked it made your own chest tighten.
“go outside,” you said, low enough that only he heard it properly.
behind you denki was still yelling drunk out of his mind, probably high aswell.
“yeah, go outsideeee bro. maybe cool off before you punch another friend over a girl you said you didn’t even like.”
katsuki’s eyes flashed.
“fuckin say it louder you piece of shit—“
your grip tightened on his face immediately
“don’t. please.”
his throat bobbed the room starting to spin a little
the word landed differently from you ‘don’t’
he stared at you, breathing hard through his nose, the whole room watching, denki bleeding behind you
kirishima hovering close like he was ready to tackle someone if he had to.
“katsuki” you repeated, quieter. “outside.”
his lips parted and for a second he looked like he might argue but then he swallowed thick and hard.
like the alcohol was burning all the way back up his throat.
his eyes stayed on you, and the rage in them shifted. not gone. not even close. but softer around the edges now because you were touching him
because you were looking at him, because even drunk and furious and half out of his mind, some part of him still listened when it was you.
he nodded once barely.
your hands slowly slipped from his face, but his stare stayed on you
behind you, denki muttered something under his breath, pissed and bleeding
katsuki’s gaze flicked over your shoulder one last time, dark enough to promise this wasn’t finished.
then he looked back at you and his voice came out low, drunk, rough.
That fierce little frown, the sharp look in your eye. The way his heart stuttered even when you mocked him.
He told Atsumu about the interaction that same night, “I can’t believe ya took that for me,” Atsumu laughs, sprawled out like he owns the place, grin wide and insufferable, “I owe ya one”
Osamu shrugs, sinking into the couch like it doesn’t matter, like he hasn’t been thinking about you for hours.
“Then introduce me to her”
Atsumu pauses, “…What?”
“Introduce me” Osamu repeats, small grin in place, “Ya owe me”
There’s a long look. Then Atsumu groans dramatically, throwing his head back, “Yer unbelievable”
The blonde begrudgingly finds you on campus the next morning, dragging a secretly giddy Osamu along, “Aye, y/n!”
You flinch at the sudden call, turning with a scowl already on your lips, “Fuck do you want Mi-“ but the words die in your throat at the sight before you.
Atsumu Miya, your biggest op, standing next to….
Atsumu Miya....?
You freeze in horror for a second, brain slow to process.
There’s a long, painful pause where nobody moves. Not a breath, a word, a twitch.
Finally, the blonde shoots you a shit eating grin, eyes glimmer with unbridled amusement, “Ya yelled at the wrong guy, psycho”
“Oh my god” You whisper, heat creeping up your neck.
In seconds, you’re bowing your head, words tumbling out before you can stop them, frantic and absolutely mortified, “I’m so sorry, oh my god, I didn’t know, you looked exactly like him-“
Osamu just laughs, bright and warm, completely unbothered.
And somehow, that makes it so much worse.
You glance up, mortified, and he’s smiling at you like this is the highlight of his week.
“No harm done, sweetheart” he drawls, smooth and sweet enough to make your stomach flip.
“Anyways”, the blonde cuts in, eyebrow raised, “I guess I should go work on my part” he snickers when you shoot him an ugly glare, throwing up a peace sign in goodbye.
“Try not to yell at the wrong twin again!”
And just like that, he’s gone.
You stand with Osamu in silence for a second, desperately trying to think of how to fix this when he clears his throat, “so… do I really look that bad in a hat?”
You groan immediately, loud and miserable, hiding your face in your hands.
“NO oh my god, no, he just pisses me off so bad, I only said it because I knew it would make him mad…I’m so sorry” you whine, embarrassment burning brighter with every word.
He laughs again, flashing you a bright grin that makes your heart beat a little harder.
And it suddenly hits you, you’re in trouble.
You’re so conflicted.
Atsumu Miya is the biggest pain in your ass, the very sight of him pisses you off, and yet…
Here you are, staring at his twin, heart beating just a little too fast for casual.
And, damn, he’s so hot.
And it’s so annoying.
“Lemme take ya on a date” the grey eyed man suddenly says, “As an apology”
You blink at him, “you want to apologize.. to me..?”
He grins, real soft and easy, “You’re stuck working with that idiot, that deserves an apology”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, surprised, extremely relieved.
And in that moment, everything suddenly feels easy. The tensions gone, replaced with something softer, warmer.
Like maybe yelling at the wrong twin wasn’t the worst mistake you could’ve made.
Like maaaaybe…
It was actually the right one.
————————————————————————
A/N: pt. 2 of he wants that cookie so damn bad
this wasn’t as funny as I wanted it to be but it’s cute so enjoy !
when a strange woman races him in the middle of the night - and wins - he simply doesn't know what to do with himself.
pairing: k. sakusa x fem!reader
content: smau, formula drift au, street racer reader, timeskipped characters, friends to lovers, mutual pining but they're both too dumb to realize, some car/drift jargon, I only included characters that look like car guys to me, written parts are probably wordy as fuck
series content warning: mdni!, illegal street racing, dangerous activities, language, sexual mentions, drinking, everyone is probably ooc [more may be added, check each chapter for warnings]
Messy, honey
Trippin' on cracks in the concrete
You're so clumsy
Got me thinkin' maybe you like me
➸ you leave a bad review about Onigiri Miya on your food blog. Osamu is a little annoyed about it but mostly worried why you cried so much in your food across of him at the counter.
❉ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒
completed!
✰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 & 𝐂𝐖 (updated as the story progresses)
meet ugly (my beloved!!), slow burn, enemies to lover vibes but not full on (they don’t hate each other, they are just a little messy and confused), SFW but will have some mention of alcohol and sex at some point, descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks (chapters will have an additional warning at the beginning), a lot of food mention obviously, mention of various pairings (Yukie/Konoha, Matsuhana, Bokuaka, Sakuatsu)
❦ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐒
real housewives of Y/N ❁ boyish whimsy
❉ 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗 (✑ contains written parts)
… prologue: dog tags
… chapter 01: love bites (✑)
… chapter 02: malewife era
… chapter 03: croquettes
… chapter 04: rotten apple (✑)
… chapter 05: lovers quarrel
… chapter 06: Miya kisser club (✑)
… chapter 07: 2AM lychee soju (✑)
… chapter 08: you up?
… chapter 09: my side of the bed
… chapter 10: to be loved
… chapter 11: siren song (✑)
… chapter 12: pomegranates
… chapter 13: the beach episode
… chapter 14: the bathroom floor (✑)
… chapter 15: animals
… chapter 16: candy wrappers
… chapter 17: cage fights
… chapter 18: side quest (✑)
… chapter 19: from me to you (✑)
… chapter 20: vows (✑)
✮ 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒
moodboard (Pinterest)
bonus chapter: honeymoon suite
bonus chapter: ask the cast!
unlocked lore: oikawa & y/n friendship
uquiz: which soft launch character are you?
commissioned art (for chapter 14)
a/n: this is my first SMAU ever and i'm not entirely sure what i am doing but when has this ever held me back? it's actually based on a drabble i wrote the other day and might also be the most self-indulgent thing i have ever written
if you enjoyed this, i would LOVE hearing your thoughts as the story moves on! ♡
she's always looking for new art. he's sending her pictures of romantic street art he finds in cities on away games. they say if you fall in love with an artist, you'll be in their art forever. she's the inspiration behind the love notes he's leaving on walls and sending her pictures of as if he's just stumbled upon them. he's the one she's thinking about everytime she's behind a camera.
suna x f! reader
COMPLETED haikyuu smau
taglist: CLOSED
playlists: 1 ( made by me </3 ) | 2 ( @eggyrocks's SUPERIOR playlist )
warnings & notes: language, alcohol/drinking, lots of written parts probably, extreme extreme pining, boths sides are in denial about how the other party feels about them, college timeskip, msby is a college volleyball team bc i said so and the team is slightly altered, timestamps don't matter, hurt & comfort having to do with family issues, comfort comes from found family <3, suna is a loverboy, miscommunication, friends to lovers, everyone's probably ooc. you can blame the horrors of my past relationships and zodiac sign. i know very little about photography and graffiti but i'm trying my best
THE EXHIBITS: coffee enthusiasts | ride or die bros for life
table of contents: (💌 for any chapters with written content <3)
part one: i know a guy (💌)
part two: backstabbing bitch
part three: rinnie poo (💌)
part four: the "i'm disappointed" card
part five: fire extinguisher man
part six: rowdy teenagers (💌)
part seven: there's life in these walls (💌)
part eight: if you're willing to listen (💌)
part nine: for as long as you'll have me (💌)
part ten: connected the dots
part eleven: would you light a building on fire for her?
part twelve: support small businesses day
part thirteen: big spoon deity
part fourteen: one step forward, two steps back (💌)
part fifteen: middle school boys locker room core
part sixteen: remember in the morning (💌)
part seventeen: sorry omi / the incident (💌)
part eighteen: making mac and cheese at two in the morning? (💌)
part nineteen: unspoken confessions (💌)
part twenty: epilogue (💌)
moodboards: love notes, suna, y/n, suna & y/n
extras: kenma photography refs, suna & y/n sending each other tiktoks hc
main m.list / playlist
status: completed
continued in: a kneading kiss
a new restaurant moves in next door and the construction and customers quickly overtake your store. the cozy feel of the shop and your class start dissipating and you worry your longtime customers will agree. despite all this, the owner finds the time to show you that his store, and him, are beyond beneficial for you. and he may just be right…
tags: restaurant owner, pottery shop owner, slight rivals to lovers, slight slow burn
warnings: will have smau moments, pretty much mostly written, mentions of food/eating, financial concerns, chapters switching between osamu and y/n
taglist: comment/dm/ask box to be tagged
chapters:
teaser
grievances and clay
love food critic
the key to my heart
shelter and food, the essentials
yearning for prosperity or love
don’t worry, it’ll be perfect
three mugs for one
love, unadulterated love
yeah this is it
currently thinking about bakugo “it’s not that deep” katsuki.
katsuki’s got a temper that makes him more chalant than not, but when it comes to everything else the blonde is relatively…unreactive. it’s not like he tries to be that way, he just has to be. when you’re surrounded by idiots like denki & sero on a daily basis, you eventually learn to choose your fucks & allocate them wisely.
“bakugo, class 1-B’s been hogging the hero equipment—how do we train now ?”
“it’s never that deep, tape face. just go later y’dumbass”
“bakubro, i think my situationship just blocked me—“
“literally just move on. really not that serious.”
the phrase has practically become katsuki’s signature one liner. so it’s a shock when his friends make you realize you’ve never actually heard the words from his lips.
“katsuki ? and nonchalant ? in the same sentence ? you must be joking.”
mina & sero are watching outer banks with your laptop while denki & kiri glance at each other in confusion. “you’re serious? he’s never said stuff like that to you ?”
“like ever?”
“never.” you run a brush through your hair. “though i guess i could imagine him talking to you guys that way.”
“double standards go crazy” mina mumbles. “real.”
“no, guys—all hope is not lost. it could be that y/n is really rational so he never has to say it, you feel me ?”
you scoff, but denki keeps talking, “we can test this out. just get y/n to act really dramatic and see how bakugo reacts.”
sero pauses the episode, ignoring the scowl that graces mina’s lips. “fifty bucks there really is a double standard and bakugo won’t act all nonchalant.”
“fifty bucks ? that’s half my salary!”
“not my fault you work at mcdonald’s dawg. you guys in or what ?”
kiri’s quick to strike the deal on kaminari’s behalf. denki’s about to protest when the fiery blond walks in.
“disgusting. why are you all sitting around like degenerates? not you baby.”
“what happened to ‘hello, how are you?’”
“hi ‘suki.” you purr, ignoring sero. katsuki dips his head to peck your lips, a quiet ‘hey pretty’ mumbled into your cheek.
sero snaps his fingers at the display of affection. “excuse me? in front of my obx?”
“the one you’re watching with my netflix subscription?” bakugo snaps the laptop shut and mina protests with a mouth full of popcorn. you’re about to playfully defend the duo when kirishima nudges your elbow. he cocks his head towards bakugo and you understand immediately.
“katsuki,” you tug at the hem of your boyfriend’s sleeve & look into his eyes with the most tender expression you can muster. “i’m out of lipliner.”
“okay ?”
you hear a snort and you know it’s from sero.
“there’s nothing ‘okay’ about it ‘suki. i need a new one or else i’ll literally die.”
bakugo’s brows knit in confusion. “is this your way of begging me for money?” he begins to dig at his wallet and you swat his arm away.
“beg is insane.”
“i don’t need your money.” you snap. “i need my lipliner. now”
“just order—“ “now.”
“what do you mean now? it’s almost nine pm, where the fuck are you going ?”
“nowhere. i just need it.”
“do you have a fever ?” “katsuki!”
“i need it now ‘suki,” you hug your arms around his body and place your chin on his chest. “if i don’t get it right now i’m literally gonna cry.”
your lips jut into a pout. you can tell he’s about to protest so you take his palm into your own. “it’s not that—fuck. whatever. where the hell are my keys ?”
he gently nudges you off him before grabbing the car keys off the front table, a string of grumbles leaving his lips as he sets out on the side quest regardless. he shuts the door behind him & suddenly the room buzzes back to life.
“y/n your pussy cannot be that good.”
“literally what i’m saying bro.”
“ho did you use rose quartz on him ??”
“i always knew you were a witch for real.”
“this whole interaction just piss me off.”
“i’m going home. denki and kiri, you owe me fifty bucks each.”
“EACH ?”
( bonus )
it’s nearly half an hour later & katsuki isn’t back so you’re starting to get worried. sero and the gang have already left, leaving you to deal with the growing anxiety by yourself. you finally decided to text your boyfriend only to find he’s sent you several messages already:
