𝗧𝗛𝐼𝗦 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝐼𝗘𝗦 .ᐟ.ᐟ contains depictions of 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘺, 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴. Reader discretion is advised. 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗞 is a 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘀. It is not intended to depict or make claims about the real lives, intentions, or relationships of any real individuals. 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛.
♥︎ 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖. 𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑎. The first letter arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, tucked between a department-store catalogue and a handful of bills she had no interest in opening.There was nothing remarkable about the envelope itself. Cream-colored paper. Her name written neatly across the front. No return address. No indication of where it had come from. She knew anyway. Michael's handwriting had become familiar to her long before she had ever given herself permission to study it.
There was a certain looseness to the way he formed his letters, the occasional flourish at the end of a word, the places where his pen seemed to hesitate before continuing. He wrote as though his thoughts moved faster than his hand could keep up with them. She had seen the same handwriting in notes passed around the house, on scraps of paper left beside records, on little reminders he'd written for himself and promptly forgotten about.
This was different.
She stood in the hallway with the envelope resting between her fingers, staring at her own name. For a long while, she did nothing.The sensible thing would have been to tear it in half. The decent thing would have been to give it back unopened.The safest thing would have been to tell Jackie. Instead, she carried it upstairs.That was the first mistake.The letter was four pages long. Michael began with ordinary things. he told her about a song he had been working on. Mentioned that Randy had been bothering him. Complained, rather dramatically, about having been awake far too late the previous night. There was something almost charming in the way he filled the first page with inconsequential details, as though he were trying to convince himself that he had written for some harmless reason.
Then, halfway down the second page, the tone changed.
I know this isn't something I ought to be writing to you.
She stopped there. Her thumb pressed against the edge of the paper. She continued.
But I've tried keeping it to myself, and that hasn't made it go away.
The room seemed quieter. Outside, a car passed along the street. Somewhere downstairs, the telephone rang once before falling silent. She read the next sentence.
I think about you much more than I should.
Her eyes lingered.Then came another. Sometimes i think you already know. She folded the letter.She couldn't read any further. It was absurd, really. She had known Michael for years. He was Jackie's younger brother, somebody she'd seen at family dinners and studio gatherings and quiet afternoons when the Jackson household seemed to have more people moving through it than any ordinary home could possibly contain. She knew his laugh. Knew his temper. Knew how quickly his moods could change when he was tired. Knew how he became quieter when something had genuinely upset him.
She knew him.
That was precisely why this frightened her. Because she knew enough to understand that Michael rarely said something he hadn't thought about first. And she knew enough to understand that this was not a passing whim. She placed the letter inside the drawer beside her bed.
She did not throw it away.
The flowers arrived two mornings later. White roses. Not an enormous arrangement designed to attract attention, but something smaller. Tasteful. Almost modest.There was no card. She didn't need one. She stood in the doorway looking at them while the delivery boy waited patiently for her signature. After he left, she carried the vase into the kitchen and set it near the window.Then she stood there staring at the flowers as though they had personally offended her. They were beautiful.That irritated her even more. Michael had always possessed an almost infuriating understanding of small gestures. He didn't need extravagance. He knew precisely how much was enough to make something difficult to dismiss.That evening, Jackie came by.
he walked through the front door carrying a paper bag from the restaurant down the street, kissed her cheek and began talking about his day before he'd even taken his coat off. his gaze eventually wandered toward the window.
he smiled when he saw the roses. "Those are lovely." She looked over her shoulder. "They are." He placed the food on the counter. "Who sent them?" She hesitated. It lasted less than a second. It was enough. Jackie looked at her. She lowered her eyes toward the flowers. "They were delivered." He laughed softly, unaware of the carefulness in her answer, and began unpacking dinner. She watched him for a moment.
The guilt came quietly.That was the worst part. There was no dramatic betrayal yet. Nothing had happened. She hadn't kissed Michael... she hadn't encouraged him.. she hadn't told him she felt the same. But she had read the letter. She had kept it. She had put the flowers in water. And somewhere inside herself, in a place she refused to examine too closely, she knew why. Michael had always liked beautiful things. Music. Old records, flowers, children's drawings, the gardens at Hayvenhurst. Women with striking faces whom he sometimes called beautiful fish in that odd, private way of his, as though beauty itself were something to be admired without necessarily needing to be possessed. But this was different...
the fourth letter contained a pressed flower again, the fifth contained a photograph, michael was sitting on the floor of a studio in the picture, his curls falling loosely across his forehead, one knee drawn toward his chest and a notebook open beside him. He looked tired. Younger than the photographs that appeared in magazines. Less polished. More like the Michael she knew when there weren't cameras around. She turned it over.
On the back, in his handwriting, were the words: This is what I look like when I miss you.
She sat there for a long time.Then she placed the photograph inside the drawer beside her bed. and the letters continued. Michael never sent them all together. He understood that too much of anything could become ordinary.One would arrive after several days. then nothing, then another. sometimes there were only a few paragraphs, sometimes there were pages. One evening she found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her bed with 9 of them spread before her.
The first had been soft and careful.
The second had been hopeful.
The third was unmistakably Michael and the rest repeated again...
You don't have to answer me.
She read further.
I'd rather know what you truly think than have you say something because you feel sorry for me.
That line should have made her angry. Instead, it made her chest ache. Because she could hear his voice in it. She could picture the expression he'd wear while writing. His head bowed, His curls falling forward, His mouth moving slightly as he searched for the right words.. another sentence followed.
I don't want to make trouble between you and Jackie.
She stopped. For one brief moment, she thought perhaps he understood.Then she read the next line.
But I can't pretend I don't want you simply because wanting you is inconvenient.
She closed her eyes. "Michael." His name escaped her like a reprimand.There was nobody there to hear it. She folded the pages carefully. Every letter went into the same drawer. She never told herself why she kept them. She didn't need to. Michael became more confident once he realized she wasn't destroying them. He had never asked whether she read every word. He didn't have to.There were things a person could learn from silence. the fact that the letters disappeared from the mailbox without being returned. the fact that the flowers remained in her apartment. the fact that she never once complained to Jackie. the fact that, whenever Michael caught her looking at him across a room, she looked away with an expression that was not quite anger.
It was enough to keep him hopeful. Perhaps too hopeful. He began waiting for moments when Jackie wasn't nearby. Nothing improper at first.
A conversation in the garden. A few minutes in the kitchen. A walk down the driveway after a family gathering.
He would ask about her work. Her plans. The things she wanted from life. He listened carefully. That was part of his charm. Michael could make listening feel intimate. He remembered details people assumed he had forgotten. He would bring something up weeks later and watch the surprise cross their faces. With her, he remembered everything;
The actress she admired.The record she couldn't stop playing.The dress she had mentioned wanting.The way she disliked carnations.The way she always drank her coffee.
He collected little pieces of her without ever admitting he was collecting them. And every time she tried to put distance between them, he found another harmless reason to be near her. It would have been easier if he'd behaved badly. It would have been easier if he had been crude. instead, he was gentle.That was what made him dangerous. One evening, she found him alone upstairs.
Jackie had gone out. The house had settled into the quiet that came after everybody else had disappeared into their own lives, and she had only gone upstairs because she needed to return something she'd borrowed. Michael was in his room. He was sitting near the edge of the bed, a record playing softly somewhere behind him. He looked up when she entered. For a second, neither moved. Then his expression changed. Michael rarely needed drama when a look would do. His attention settled entirely upon her.
She placed the item on the dresser. "I came to return this." His eyes followed her. "..you could have left it downstairs."
"I could have." There was a pause. She turned toward the door. "don't go yet." The words stopped her. She looked back. Michael had risen from the bed.
There was something unusually serious about him. she knew that expression. It meant he had decided to say something and had already convinced himself he was entitled to be heard. She folded her arms. "This needs to end." Michael came a little closer. She could see the faint confusion in his face, though she suspected he understood perfectly well. "The letters," she continued. "The flowers. Waiting for me whenever Jackie isn't around. All of it."
he studied her quietly.Then he said, "If you truly wanted them gone, you would have sent them back." Her jaw tightened. "You don't know what I want." His gaze didn't leave hers. "Then tell me, girl."
"I don't want you." The words were firm. The silence afterward wasn't. Michael took another step. She didn't move.The space between them diminished until she could feel his warmth against the air between their bodies. His voice lowered. "Look at me and say it again." She did. "I don't fucking want you. michael." He moved a little closer. She remained where she was. "You need to listen to me, Michael. i'm serious."
"I am listening, girl."
"Then listen carefully again." His expression softened, but he didn't look away. She took a breath. "I don't want you." The words landed between them again. Michael didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her face with an attentiveness that made her suddenly conscious of every inch of distance separating them. then he said quietly, "If that's truly what you want me to believe, then show me." Her brows drew together. "What?"
"Show me, girl." He took another step. "Look at me and tell me there isn't anything here. again." She stared at him. "You're Jackie's brother."
"I know who I am."
"Then you know why this is wrong."
"I know why you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid." His expression changed. Not quite a smile. Something more knowing. "Then don't look away." She hated him for saying it. She hated herself for obeying.
Michael moved closer again. Another step. Until there was almost nothing left between them. She could feel his breath against her face. His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.Then returned to hers. Her heart began beating too quickly. he lifted his hand, hesitated, and finally brushed a curl away from her cheek. She should have stopped him. She didn't. His fingers remained near her temple.Their foreheads nearly touched.The room had become unbearably quiet. Neither of them seemed willing to breathe too deeply. Michael leaned forward until the distance between their mouths was reduced to almost nothing, close enough that every breath passed between them, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his lips without actually feeling them.
She closed her eyes. For one terrible second, she thought he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. That was the part she couldn't forgive herself for. Her eyes opened again. "No." Michael stopped. He didn't retreat immediately.He remained there, his face inches from hers, his breathing unsteady.Then, slowly, he stepped back.The disappointment in his expression lasted only a moment before he covered it. She looked toward the door. "I can't do this."
Michael's voice followed her. "You always say that after you get close enough to make me believe otherwise." She turned. "You make me believe whatever you want."
"Nah." His gaze held hers. "You do that yourself." She stared at him. Michael's expression softened. "I've never had to make you keep the letters." She had no answer. He knew it.
The next letter arrived the following morning. She recognized the handwriting before she opened it.There was no greeting. No explanation. Only a page filled almost entirely with one thought.
you came into my room to tell me you don't want me.
She continued and sat down.
you stood close enough for me to hear your breathing.
Another line.
You looked at my mouth.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
I don't think I'm imagining everything.
Then, beneath it: you can tell me no as many times as you like.
then more: I'll still know what I saw.
She read the final paragraph slowly.
If you truly don't want me, I will respect that. But don't expect me to pretend I don't see what happens when you are near me.
Her cheeks burned, she folded the letter.This time, she nearly tore it. Nearly. Instead, she put it away. Beside the others. Then Michael disappeared from her life for several days.
No flowers. No letters. No waiting outside. No unexpected conversations. Nothing.
At first, she was relieved.Then she began noticing the absence.That was humiliating. She found herself glancing toward the mailbox. Listening for footsteps outside. Wondering whether Jackie had spoken to him. She hated that she missed something she had spent months insisting she didn't want. When the next letter finally came, there was no romantic confession inside.
Only a photograph.
Michael standing beside her best friend, monica. She stared at it.The two of them weren't touching. nothing about the photograph itself was incriminating. But there was something about Michael's expression. Something deliberate. She turned it over. No message.
Nothing.
She slipped it into the drawer. She told herself it meant nothing. A few days later, she went to Hayvenhurst. Jackie wasn't home. She hadn't expected Michael to be there.The house was unusually quiet, and she was already halfway down the hallway when she heard laughter from upstairs.
a woman's voice... very familiar. Her steps slowed.
she knew that voice..her best friend.. monica She stopped outside the bedroom. For a moment, she couldn't bring herself to look.Then she did. Michael was kissing her, definitely not a mistake, not an accident. not something that could be explained away by an awkward moment at a party. His hands were around her waist. Monica's fingers were resting against his shoulders. Michael's eyes were closed.The sight was so intimate that it seemed to erase everything else around it.
The letters.The roses.The photograph.The nights she'd spent staring at words he had written for her.The way he'd stood inches from her and asked her to tell him she felt nothing.The way he'd looked at her as though he knew. She stood completely still. Michael didn't see her. Neither did monica, her bestfriend friend. And perhaps that was the only mercy left in the room. Because she didn't have to hear an explanation. she didn't have to hear him plead. She didn't have to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd finally managed to make her jealous. She simply stepped backward.
Once.. then again.
the hallway seemed impossibly long. She walked toward the stairs without making a sound. Behind her, Michael remained unaware. For months, he had written to her as though persistence could eventually turn a refusal into permission. He had believed her silence meant there was something underneath it. He had been right.That was what made the moment unbearable. Because she had wanted him, secretly... quietly. Enough to keep every letter. Enough to preserve every flower. Enough to stand inches from his mouth and forget, for one terrible second, whose brother he was. And Michael had finally found the proof he'd wanted.
Only he had found it too late. By the time she reached the front door, the hurt had hardened into something far less forgiving. She stepped outside.The California evening was warm, the sky washed pale above the trees. She didn't cry.
She simply stood there with her hands trembling at her sides, realizing that the person she had spent months trying not to love had managed to hurt her without ever once being hers. And upstairs, Michael still had no idea that the game he'd been so certain he could control had finally become something neither of them knew how to survive.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 except for the television playing softly somewhere in the background.
You sat comfortably against the headboard while Michael rested with his head in your lap, one arm loosely around your thighs.Your fingers moved through his curls absentmindedly.
The second you started scratching lightly at his scalp, Michael's eyes closed.
A content sigh escaped him.
"Mmh right there mama.."
You smiled immediately. "Where baby?"
"Mmh..." His head tilted slightly into your hand. "There." Your heart melted.
You loved how comfortable he was with you. How he never hid when he wanted affection.
How he trusted you with every soft part of himself. You carefully combed your fingers through his hair again. Michael practically melted beneath your touch.
"Mmh...that feels so good." he murmured.
Then his hand found yours. Not to stop you.
Just to hold it.
His fingers slipped around your wrist gently, guiding your hand a little higher into his curls. "Right there, baby." You laughed softly.
"Oh, you bossy." His eyes remained closed.
A smile tugged at his mouth. "M'not bossy, baby."
"You absolutely are." You clapped back.
"Mmh..." He sounded far too relaxed to argue properly. Your nails lightly scratched through his curls again.
then again, he mumbles—"There."
A pleased sigh. "That's nice." You couldn't stop smiling.
to be honest, you could sit here forever. Michael's thumb slowly brushed across your hand while it rested in his hair, Back and forth.
Absent minded Affectionate. Like he couldn't help touching you whenever you were near. His eyes opened slightly.
Just enough to look up at you.
And ugh.
That Beautiful look, That Completely in love look.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead. Michael's smile deepened instantly. Then you kissed his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. Which made him laugh quietly.
"Hey baby."
You laughed too. "Hi, baby." He looked entirely pleased hearing that.
His fingers intertwined briefly with yours before placing your hand right back where he wanted it.. In his curls.
"Mama." You brushed a curl away from his forehead.
"Yeah?"
"I love you." The words came so naturally.
So simply.. Like breathing.
Your chest squeezed.You leaned down and kissed him again.
Very Slow and Sweet.
The kind of kiss that made Michael smile halfway through it. When you pulled away, his hand immediately found your cheek.
Just holding it there for a second. Looking at you. Really admiring you, Like he never got tired of it. "I love you too." Michael's expression softened even more.
If that was even possible.Then he settled back into your lap again, completely content.
Your fingers returned to his curls.
few seconds later—"Mmh..." His eyes fluttered closed.
"There, baby." Your nails lightly scratched against his scalp, Another satisfied sigh escaped him.
His thumb continued stroking the back of your hand while he relaxed beneath you.
Not saying much now. Just enjoying you.
The kisses & the touches & The comfort of being together.
After a while, he lifted your hand from his hair long enough to press a gentle kiss against your knuckles.Then another.. Then he tucked it against his chest. Holding it there.
"Mama."
"Hm?" You laugh quietly.
A sleepy smile appeared on his face."You take real good care of me." Your heart nearly burst.
You bent down and kissed his forehead once more.
And Michael smiled without even opening his eyes, perfectly happy right where he was.
𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. ౨ৎ part two is finally hereee , i had the worst writers block ugh. enjoy my luvs ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ read part one.
By midnight, the arcade was nearly empty. Only a couple machines still blinked in the dark corners, lights flashing lazily while the speakers overhead played some old Prince song too quietly.
You were wiping down the counter for the third time when you looked up and saw Michael still at the Pac-Man machine. Still. “Mike,” you call out, laughing a little. “Don’t you got a home?” Without looking away from the screen, he says, “I’m busy makin’ history.”
“You’ve been playing for forty minutes.”
“And winnin’ for forty minutes.” He claps back.Which was unfortunately true. Nobody had beaten his score all night. Michael leaned closer to the machine dramatically as the game sped up, his small curls falling in his face while the game lights flashed across his jacket.
Then the machine suddenly blared its victory sound again. Michael immediately spun around with both arms raised. “That’s twelve!” You clap slowly. “Incredible. Truly life changing.”
“You just jealous huh.”
“I’m employed.” He laughs loudly at that, head dropping back for a second before he finally lets the machine go and walks back toward the counter.
The arcade feels weirdly soft now that it’s empty. Quiet enough to hear shoes squeak against the floor.
Quiet enough to hear your heartbeat every time Michael looks at you too long. He hops onto the stool again while you stack cups behind the register. “You always close alone?” he asks. “Usually.” You sighed. “That ain’t safe.”
“You say that like this neighborhood is Gotham City.” Michael grins a little. “Still.”
You shrug while reaching up to turn off one of the menu lights.The dimness somehow makes everything worse...
Or better. Hard to tell anymore.
Michael watches you move around the counter quietly now, chin resting against his hand. Not even pretending not to stare anymore. “You know somethin’?” he says suddenly. “What?” You look at him.
“You real pretty when you work.” Your stomach flips instantly. You busy yourself rearranging napkins that absolutely do not need rearranging. “That line sounded better in your head, huh?”
“Nah,” he says softly. “Sound exactly right.” You look up before you can stop yourself. Big mistake. Because Michael’s already smiling at you—not teasing this time.
Just him being honest. The tension hits harder in quiet moments like this. Because they are no kids screaming, no arcade noise covering things up, Just him, Looking at you like he’s trying not to make it obvious how much he likes you.
You finally finish wiping the counter and sigh dramatically. “Okay. We’re officially closed.”
Michael glances around slowly. “Damn.”
“You really survived it.”
“I really did huh.” You laugh quietly while grabbing your bag from beneath the register. “Alright, superstar. Time to leave.” He slides off the stool immediately. “I’ll walk out with you girl.”
“You don’t gotta do that.”
“I know.” The answer comes too fast. And somehow that makes your face warm again. The night air outside feels cooler than before, neon signs buzzing overhead while you lock the arcade doors behind you.
Michael stays close beside you while you walk down the side alley toward the employee parking lot. Close enough that your arms brush once, Then again. Neither of you moves away. “You always this shy?” he asks softly. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when I’m nervous.” You glance at him immediately. “You get nervous?” Michael laughs under his breath.
“You think I’m smooth all the time?” You scan his face. “A little.”
“Nah.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just with you.” Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly fast.You stop near the brick wall beside the building to dig through your bag for your keys.
Michael stops too. And suddenly it’s quiet again, One of those realization silences. You finally find your keys and look up and realize Michael’s closer now. Just close enough to make your stomach twist.
“You know,” he says softly, “I kept comin’ back here thinkin’ maybe you ain’t interested.” You blink. “What?” He smiles shyly, eyes dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “Then you’d smile at me and mess me all up again.”
Your chest melts instantly. “Michael...what?”
“You got me sittin’ in broken arcade machines every night lookin’ stupid.” You laugh breathlessly. “You do that yourself.”
“Mhm..i know” Neither of you moves.The soft light fron the road flickers softly across his face while he looks at you like he’s trying to work up courage for something.
Then quietly: “Can I kiss you?” God.
The fact that he asks nearly ruins you on the spot.You nod once. That’s all he needs.
Michael kisses you carefully at first, one hand sliding lightly against your waist while your back brushes the brick wall behind you.
And the second you kiss him back properly—he exhales softly against your mouth like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
Very Warm and very Sweet.
A little shaky, Michael smiles into the kiss halfway through, actually giggling quietly when your hands grab the front of his jacket.“There she go,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You talk too much.” You said against his lips.
“You like it though.” You absolutely do. His hand slides gently along your jaw while he kisses you deeper this time, slower now, like he finally gets to do something he’s been thinking about forever.
❤︎ 🍼. imagine 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 Michael being so painfully in love with his ex aka his 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝗺𝗮. ─── blurb.
yall i'm just a tiny bit obsessed with baby daddy mike..gulp.. enjoy my pretty ladies <3 layout inspired by @kaiomii ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆
❤︎. It was one of those quiet, late nights. The kind where the house was dark, the world outside was asleep, and the only sounds filling the room were the tiny little noises your five month old daughter made as she drank her bottle.
Michael had been the first one to hear her soft cries through the baby monitor. Before you could even sit up, he was already moving. "I got her, mama. Stay in bed." You tried to argue "Michael, you have work tomorrow, I can—"
"No." His voice was gentle, but firm. "You’ve been with her all day. Let me take care of my girls tonight." My girls. those two words always made your heart ache a little. because he still said them like nothing had changed. Like you were still his, like he still belonged to you.
You watched him walk into the kitchen, his hair messy from sleep, his shirt slightly wrinkled, and somehow he still looked like the man you fell in love with. He made Michaella’s bottle perfectly, checking the temperature on his wrist like he’d done a hundred times before.
because he had.. and never complained, not once.
Now, he sat in the rocking chair with your daughter curled against his chest, feeding her slowly while humming some random little tune he made up.
and that’s when he saw you, still awake and watching him. His eyes lifted from the baby and immediately softened. "Baby?"
"Hm..?"
"Why aren’t you asleep?" You shrugged. "Couldn’t." He gave you that look.The one that said he knew you were lying. "Baby." Your breath caught.
He still called you that sometimes... usually late at night when he was too tired to remember he wasn’t supposed to. "What’s on your mind?"
"Nothing." You Sighed. "That’s a lie." You looked away and he sighed, setting the bottle down for a second after making sure Michaella was comfortable. "C’mere."
"Michael—"
"Come here."
There was no pressure in his voice, just love. the same love that had been there the first day he held your hand, the same love that was there when you told him you were pregnant, the same love that was there now. So you moved closer.
And without even thinking about it, he pulled you into his side while still holding your daughter. "You know i don't like when you do that hm?" he whispered.
"What?" You knew exactly what he meant. "You try to do everything alone." You didn’t say anything, because he was right. You always felt bad asking for help. You always thought you were being too much, but michael? he never saw you as too much. neverrrrr.
"You carried my baby for nine months," he said quietly. "You brought my little girl into this world. You stayed up through the sickness, the pain, the crying, the fear. And now you think I’m gonna let you sit there exhausted and do everything by yourself?"
Your eyes started burning. "Michael, we’re not even together anymore." The words hurt both of you. You could see it in his expression. But he shook his head. "Doesn’t change anything for me." Your heart stopped. "What?"
"You heard me." His eyes never left yours. "You are the mother of my child. You are the woman I loved. The woman I still care about more than anyone." He looked down at your sleeping daughter. "I’d do anything for both of you." Then he pressed a small kiss against your forehead. The same way he always used to. "Now go back to sleep, my lady"
"What.. about you?" a little smile appeared on his face. "I’m gonna sit here and finish feeding my princess."
"You need sleep too." He laughed softly. "I can survive being tired." you actually hate that when he says that. "Michael—"
"No, listen to me." He looked at you with so much love it made your chest hurt. "For once, let me love you the way you deserve to be loved. Let me take care of you." and that was the dangerous thing about Michael.
even when he wasn’t yours anymore… he still loved you like he was.
𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. oh and ladies, that mf be manipulative asf too... js remember that. anyways here a little blurb for yall <3
❤︎. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 is that nobody tells you what happens after. nobody tells you that your ex husband will still show up at your front door every Friday at six o'clock to pick up your daughter.
nobody tells you that he'll still knock even though he has a key, because he has your key. he kept it. And you never asked for it back.
maybe because you forgot, maybe because you didn't care, maybe because some tiny, embarrassing part of you couldn't handle another thing disappearing from your life.
a knock comes at the door right on time. ofcourse. Michael was never late when it came to his daughter. You open it And there he is.
There is that same face that used to make you forget every reason you were angry.
"Daddy!" Michaella runs past you before you can even say hello. Michael's whole expression changes. Every ounce of the world's biggest superstar disappears, and he's just a father. "Hey, princess." He drops down immediately, picking her up. "Y' been good for mama?" a tiny nod. "Good girl." and you stand there. Watching, because despite everything...
despite the papers, the arguments, the nights you spent crying over the man standing in your doorway—he is still a good father... a damn good one then his eyes find yours, and everything changes.
that little smile disappears and there's a sadness there now, sadness that wasn't there when you first met him. "Hey." a simple word and somehow the hardest one. "Hi."
"How y' been?" You actually amost laugh, almost. Because that is such a Michael question.
like he doesn't already know the answer, like he doesn't have people asking about you, like he didn't spend the last year wondering. "I'm fine." a lie. You both know it. "That's good." another lie. He's not glad that's all you gave him. He wanted more.
He always wants more. "Michaella, go get your teddy, baby. Daddy's gonna wait right here, okay?" the little girl runs off, and now it's just you again. Just like it used to be. You cross your arms. "Get our daughter, Michael. Keep her safe. Bring her back Sunday."
Cold & professional right? like he's a babysitter. not the man you spent years loving.His face falls for half a second. Only half.Because he's learned how to hide it. "That's all y' got to say to me?"
"What else is there to say?" He looks at you. really desperate. and fuck. You hate that he still does that.like he's reading every thought you've ever had. "a lot."
"Michael, There isn't."
"There is."
"Michael—"
"I miss y'." and silence hits. ofcourse, ofcourse he would say it like that, Just throw the grenade into the room and watch what happens. Your jaw tightens. "Don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." Your heart betrays you. You hate him for still having that effect. "We divorced."
"I know." He hates that you keep mentioning it. "We ended for a reason."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like that." That one catches him. His eyes soften. "Like what?"
"Like I'm still your wife." The room goes quiet. and the answer takes too long, Way tooooo long.Then—"Because in my head..." His voice drops, almost ashamed. "Some days, y' still are." You close your eyes, because that was unfair. So unfair. "Michael."
"I know." and for once, no arguments, no charming smile.Just a broken man standing in your doorway."I know I don't get to say that anymore." And somehow that's what hurts the most. a tiny voice interrupts. "Daddy, teddy!" Michaella comes running back.
And just like that, the moment is over. Michael wipes his face quickly. He picks her up and walks to the door. Then he stops. His hand rests on the handle.
The same hand that used to unlock this house every night.The same hand that still has your key. He turns around. "I still got it, y' know." You frown. "Got..what?" a small smile, a sad one. "The key." Your throat tightens. "Michael—"
"I know i should give it back." He looks around your home. his old home. The place where he held his daughter for the first time. Where he kissed you in the kitchen. Where he promised forever. "I just..." He swallows. "Couldn't make myself do it." And for the first time in a year... you don't tell him to leave.
Ive been having some hard days recently and i panic +overthink A LOT
so to kinda calm myself down (and this actually works, i love it sm), i just remind myself that like ill get to read ur works at the end of the day and the feeling after that is literally relieving
like. I genuinely feel motivated to do things that normally have me feeling like depressed or smth
so thank you so much for giving me motivation by doing what you do and just making me so much happierrrrrr 🎀
I feel so giddy when u post ml ♡♡♡
Pls never stop doin wht u do
I LOVE YOUUU 💝💝💝
my love :( 💓 girl you have NO idea what this just did to me. i’m actually sitting here with the biggest smile on my face 🥹💗 knowing that my writing can give you even a little bit of comfort or motivation on hard days genuinely means more to me than i could ever explain. i’m so so glad you have something to look forward to, and PLEASE know that you never have to thank me for doing something i love so much <333
knowing that you remind yourself you'll get to read my works at the end of the day genuinely makes my heart so full. i hope things get a little gentler for you soon, my love :( you deserve so many good days and so many reasons to smile.
I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCHHH MORE 🥲🎀🍰 thank you for being here, for reading my silly little words, and for always being so sweet to me. i genuinely feel so lucky to have you here <333
sometimes i remember that michael was actually a real person and not just a collection of beautiful performances and interviews and i get emotional </3
THIS! </3 it makes me emotional too :( like someone get the time machine. pls.
HAHA I was listening to michael on the way to school today and billie jean came on right when i was crossing the street 😭 i swear i started walking like i was in a music video
i would've done the exact same thing. so i can't judge you.
can we talk about michael during the dangerous era because i genuinely don't think people understand what was going on there. THE CURLS. THE OUTFITS. THE DANCING. THE EVERYTHING.
THE DANGEROUS ERA WAS INSANE 🤕 the curls, the black and gold, the little curls around his face, the dancing, the performances... like how was one person supposed to serve THAT much at once??? i'm obsessed.
i saw the prettiest sunset today and immediately thought “i need to tell someone” so hi. you're someone. hello 🥹
wait this is actually so sweet :( ♡ i'm glad you told me!! sunsets are one of those things that make me wish i could pause time for a second. i'm happy you got to see such a pretty one today ☹️
i hope you know your writing genuinely makes my day better <3
oh :( ♡ this actually made me smile so hard. thank you for taking the time to tell me, seriously. knowing that my writing can make someone's day even a little better is literally one of the nicest things ever.
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