˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ What’s a Prince to a King?
Content: Michael Jackson x fem reader, slow burn, friends to lovers, love triangle, toxic relationship, jealousy, yelling, cussing, arguing, fluff- a LOT of fluff, alcohol, smoking, celeb rivalry, mutual pining, emotional infidelity
Summary: Prince finally discovers the truth about you and Michael, bringing your relationship to an end. Left to face everything you’ve both been avoiding, you and Michael spend one last night as friends before deciding what comes next.
A/n: This is my favorite chapter I think, I thought it was kinda cutesy. I may or may not make a pt 4, and if I do, I may or may not include smut… probably not just cause I’m not good with ts, but if enough of you want it i could def make it happen. As always, tysm for reading I love you all <3 and hope u enjoy
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The air of your apartment is thick and stale.
A few lights in the kitchen are on, but you blame your own forgetfulness for it. You kick off your heels at the door and throw your clutch on the sofa.
As you hang your coat, your ears perk up at the sound of clutter in your bedroom.
“Prince? Baby, is that you?”
He emerges, exposing less than a third of himself from the doorframe.
“Baby? I’m not your baby.”
“What?” You scrunch your face as if he were being unreadable, but the pounding drum in your chest knew otherwise.
“I watched the Grammys. Why were you sitting by him? No— why were you talking and laughing with him?”
He didn’t even have to name ‘him,’ and you knew. Hell, he didn’t even have to say anything at all.
“Brooke Shields was his date, not me. They just sat me there, I don’t know! It was nothing more than surface-level small talk.”
“Why the hell would they just sit you there? In the front row? Give me a break.”
“Prince, I swear to god, leave me the fuck alone right now. I’m so tired.”
You swat him away and walk to your bedroom to undress.
He follows you, raising his voice that seemed to be unwavering despite the sight of your bare body.
“Why do you always embarrass me like this? I don't know what else to do to keep you happy! You're an ungrateful cold bitch— that's what you are.”
Guilty tears stream as you try to maintain an unsuspecting face.
“Fuck that. You can't leave me for weeks and hold it against me when I make friends!”
“Friends?! Friends with the man who made a fool of me? Who's trying to make a fool of me, even now by taking you from me?!”
“It wasn't like that— he's not like that!”
His tone lowers a notch, speaking directly in front of you rather than yelling from a distance.
“Tell me then, what the hell is he like?”
“I don't know. He's just a work friend. We did a few tapes together, and that's all.”
Prince laughs. Not loudly. Not bitterly. Defeated.
“Work friend? Wanna know something funny? I can’t ever tell when you’re lying through your tone.” His eyes gloss over. “You lie with your face.”
He shifts his soft demeanor within seconds. His fist pounds on your armoire, knocking down a framed photo of the two of you.
“Stop lying to me, damn woman!”
He sighs deeply and wipes the sweat off his forehead forcefully.
“You're always understating how close you are. Tell me everything. Tell me now.”
Rubbing your head to generate a response, the phone beside your bed interrupts.
You catch Prince’s wicked stare before he races you to the phone.
With a tight fist on the handset, he rests a watchful ear against the receiver.
“Hello? Y/n? Just—um—making sure you got home safe.”
Prince’s venomous eyes lift from the floor to your guilty face— with a soft expression that couldn’t bear to see the betrayal on his face.
“Yep. She did. This isn’t Y/n. This is Prince.”
He sucks his teeth for a second before bowing his head in defeat.
Prince stops listening to the voice on the other end of the line. His eyes never leave your face.
You weren’t frightened of him. You were frightened for Michael. That very realization hollows him out.
Something beneath the anger finally gives way.
“Look, Jackson. You’ve got nothing but nerve. You know— it’s over, you’ve won. Whatever the hell you wanted, you got it. You sick, greedy bastard. If I ever hear from you again, I’ll pop a bullet in your lanky ass.”
His fists tighten and force the phone down.
You cross your arms with a hand picking at the skin of your swollen lips.
“Prince,” you barely whisper.
“This isn't working. Wherever this is.”
He gives a humorless laugh, shaking his head while standing on his two feet.
“Please, be my guest. As if women aren't fucking throwing themselves at me while you sit here like a cold, ungrateful prostitute.”
“Kay, so get the fuck outta my apartment.”
He doesn't move as fast as you'd like, so you throw whatever you can find on your armoire— makeup brushes, crinkled receipts, and jewelry.
“I said get the fuck out!”
You chase him out, your face flushed, new tears waterfalling.
You drop your weight onto your bed and muffle your cries with your pillow. Suffocated in your tears and cotton, you lay there for a period to think this through.
The worst part? You loved Prince enough to cry for him— just not enough to wish you’d stayed.
That truth disgusted you more than anything else.
You wondered if you were narcissistic for being so self-centered and playing your boyfriend as a pawn without caring for his emotions.
You wondered that, even now that you've crushed him, there was something so immoral within you that you lacked empathy and remorse.
Prince had never gave you a reason to be unfaithful.
You shouldn't have dragged this relationship on for so long if you caught feelings for Michael.
What if you never really understood your feelings for Michael? What if you had left Prince; would Michael even want you? Your mind raced between offensive and defensive thoughts.
The phone’s ringing sounds drowned through the pillows.
You raise yourself slowly as a string of snot briefly follows your lead towards the phone.
Hesitantly, your delicate, tired fingers wrap around the handset and raise the transmitter to your mouth.
“Y/n?” Michael’s delicate concern echoed in his soft voice.
You whisper because a sound other than that would've made your torn vocal cords apparent.
You hear his breath, slightly worked up for your sake.
His broken voice freed whatever was holding the rest of your tears.
You try to collect yourself, but your stuffy nose still strained your voice.
You sniffle and wipe your tears away with the neckline of your nightgown.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His soothing voice buzzed against your ear.
You held your head on your hands.
“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so suspicious— having you sit by me while I knew it was being televised.”
“And I’m so sorry about the Brooke thing. I was—I don’t know. It was stupid. I wanted her to know about you.”
“I just—I don’t know. I wanted her to know. I wanted someone to know how magical you were to me.”
For months, you only existed behind closed doors, whispered phone calls, and hurried goodbyes before Prince came home.
A selfish part of him wanted somebody else to know you existed.
Your chest aches— heart pounding at each word.
“What’s done is done. You’re forgiven,” your hands caress the telephone, with sealed eyelids imagining he was in front of you.
The room is still and silent, with the man on the other line swiping at his forehead in hopes that he could come up with anything worthwhile to say to make it up to you.
His name on your tongue makes him freeze.
The nickname softens the tension in your face, tugging at the corner of your mouth faintly.
“Why did you let me go so long thinking you didn’t remember our kiss?”
“Oh-um. I didn’t want you to get scared and run off on me.”
“Mm.” You seal your eyes once again and massage the back of your neck.
A dull chuckle, “Terrified.”
“I knew it,” you heard his lips parting in a smile.
The sound of his lips clicking made your chest—heavy in guilt and pain— lighten and sooth.
You’re a single woman now— he’s all yours.
Michael’s mind went through a similar line of reasoning.
He can openly flirt. He can make a move. No more secrets, no more hiding.
He couldn’t yet act on him impulses, though, as something within him still resisted.
“Eight Grammys, huh?” You shift the conversation while you roll into a more comfortable position on the bed.
“Mmhm, a record,” he gloats.
“Enough about me. About your performance— you did incredible.”
Your tone picks up, “Why are you buttering me up? That wasn't a performance; that was me being a prop that occasionally made sounds.”
“I don't even remember who you sang for— I only watched and heard you,” he chuckles.
The words sunk deep into your soul. Your eyes fell as his words soothed you like a lullaby.
“Right. Okay, goof.” You exhale an elated breath.
“Seriously, though. You looked beautiful tonight.” His leg bounces in nervousness at his flirtation.
You blush, covering your cheeks as if he could see them through the phone. “Thank you.”
A moment passed where he wasn’t sure how to speak his mind. You knew he hadn’t yet hung up or been disconnected by his frustrated breaths.
“Could you use some company right now?” He took your silence as a no.
“I mean— to cheer you up and stuff. I know today’s been rough. Maybe a movie?”
Batting your eyelashes, you hold your heart through your chest.
“I mean—you just got home. Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m definitely worn out. I’ve still got too much adrenaline to be tired, though,” you bite your lip as you nasally huff.
“Now answer my question.”
“Honestly, not really, no.”
“Would you like to keep me company?”
“Would you like me to keep you company?”
“God’s sake, Michael,” you sneer and shake your head. “You know, maybe I would.”
“Then I’ll see you in a few.” Springing up, he stuffs his arms through the sleeves of his flannel, his shoulder holding on for the last bit of goodbye you had for him. Wherever and whenever you needed him, he wouldn’t refuse to be of aid.
Your lipstick tugs at your pillowy soft lips before you swipe the excess with your thumb.
You wore it on nights you wanted him to look at you a little longer, kiss you a little deeper, remember that there was more to life than the next album.
Tonight you wore it for Michael. The realization should have made you wipe it away.
Instead, you pressed your lips together once more.
Something ached within you for being so willing to fold under satan’s whispers.
Prince was simply a good man whose emotions and schedule conflicted with your own— he was your best friend. How dare your emotions lack repercussions so wickedly?
Another side of you argued, Michael offered an entirely new side to love that you never felt with Prince.
The butterflies never went away no matter how comfortable you grew with each other— but not the nervous type— the type that made you feel alive in his presence, like chasing a high.
Nobody had ever been so attentive towards you. He can always tell when you’re upset, and without fail, cheer you up.
Most importantly, you can be your unfiltered and raw self around him. Somehow, in his presence, you become an open book, free to talk, dress, or act the way you want.
Though he’s never told you he loves you, out of respect for your relationship with Prince, he was absolutely head over heels for you. Something in his soul has you imprinted so far within it— a spiritual instinct none of you can describe— but you know it’s love.
The door buzzer silences your thoughts instantly, fluffing your hair once more before buzzing him in.
You stand in front of the door, smoothing down your nightgown while the pounding of your chest accelerates with each step you hear through the hallway.
For months, you had fantasized about this moment. Michael in your apartment, with no Prince to hide from, no phone to hang up, no guilt to swallow before admitting how deeply you craved him.
Now that it was finally happening, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
Your fingers hover over the handle while you inspect your reflection in a nearby frame, wiping a loose trail of mascara under your eye and pressing your lipstick together.
You don’t know why you bothered. He had already seen you in a hospital looking like roadkill, with a rat’s nest for hair and a leaking nose.
Three polite knocks tap at the door.
You grip the handle and pause.
You were no longer sneaking around with another man. You were no longer someone’s girlfriend. Still, letting him inside felt like stepping across a line you couldn’t uncross.
Michael stood there with both hands resting deep in the pockets of a frayed black jacket, his shoulders nearly raised to his ears from the cold.
The Grammy outfit was gone, replaced with black slacks, loafers, and a soft shirt tucked neatly into his waist.
His curls were no longer held together by product, now hanging loosely and unevenly over his forehead. He was without the flashes, sunglasses, and gold ornaments demanding attention.
His eyes instantly study your face, from the puffiness beneath your eyes to the fading lipstick over your lips.
Neither of you move for a few moments.
He expects you to initiate the invitation, and you expect him to already know he was welcome.
“You gonna stand out there all night?”
His large eyes widen before he gives a low chuckle and takes a step inside. “Sorry.”
You shut the door behind him, now aware of how intimate your apartment appeared at night. A few dim lights warmed the dark living room, the candles you forgot to blow out earlier still burning against the windowsill.
Prince’s glass remained on the table. His jacket was no longer there, but the shape of it stayed imprinted into the couch cushion where he had thrown it.
Michael notices, though he pretends not to.
You cross your arms and clear your throat. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He takes a few cautious steps into the living room and looks around. “Nice place.”
You stand behind him, fingers fidgeting with the fabric on your waist while he looks over the decor and the framed pictures around the room.
His eyes stop briefly at a picture of you and Prince on a side table. You had yet to turn it over or remove it.
You immediately walk ahead of him and place it face-down.
Michael drops his gaze, pretending he hadn’t seen you do it.
He watches you drag your fingers down your face, exhausted from everything that had occurred tonight.
“No.” You answer too quickly, forcing your tone to soften when his eyebrows raise. “No, I mean— you came all this way.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to stay.”
He nods, shifting his weight and folding his hands in front of him.
You sit onto the couch first, tugging the hem of your nightgown beneath you before crossing your legs.
Michael sits on the opposite end, leaving enough space between you to fit two more people.
You tilt your head. “Why are you sitting all the way over there?”
“I don’t know where you want me.”
Your lips part slightly at the sentence.
You knew he meant the couch, but the way his eyes remained fixed on you gave it another meaning.
He shifts over one cushion.
“You’re sitting like you’re waiting for a job interview.”
He relaxes his back against the cushion, but his hands remain tightly clasped over his lap.
“Not really, but whatever.”
You pull your legs onto the couch and lay against its arm.
The silence between you became so heavy that the ticking clock from the kitchen echoed louder than it ever did.
Michael repeatedly opened his mouth as if he had something to say, but shut it every time.
You were equally useless. You had spoken to him for hours over the phone. You had laid beside him in the grass, laughed with him, cried in front of him, sang for him.
But now that the secrecy had been stripped away, the atmosphere felt completely different.
A proud, yet constrained smile finally raises his cheeks. “Yup.”
“It does.” His smile fades gradually. “Would’ve felt better if you stayed.”
You look toward the floor, remembering the humiliation of Brooke’s question and the way Michael refused to defend you until you were already gone.
“You shouldn’t have told her.”
His hands unclasp as he cracks his knuckles discreetly. “I was excited.”
You blink, resisting the warmth that rose into your cheeks. “Michael.”
“I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He scratches his scalp and looks around, unable to settle his eyes on you.
“But I couldn’t keep acting like you meant nothing. I wanted to tell somebody.”
“So you told Brooke Shields that I kissed you while I had a boyfriend?”
“No, I didn’t say all that—not like that. I just said something happened between us. That you were special to me. And she figured the rest out.”
“Mmkay.” You nod while looking toward the face-down picture.
“It was selfish,” he admits quietly.
“Part of me really liked having something between us that Prince didn’t know about.”
The confession wasn’t noble. It wasn’t the soft and respectful version of Michael he often tried to present. It was honest.
He had enjoyed the secrecy as much as you did. He had liked being the man you called when Prince wasn’t around. He liked knowing your boyfriend could never reach the parts of you that Michael had.
“You wanted to take me from him,” you say.
“Didn’t you?” You pressure him.
The immediate response catches you off guard.
Michael lowers his eyes again.
“You didn’t try very hard.”
“I called you every day.”
“You answered every day.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“I know.” He takes a breath.
“But it made it hard to stop.”
You raise your eyebrows, unable to argue with that.
He finally turns his body toward you.
“I didn’t wanna hurt him.”
A pause to collect his thoughts.
“No.” His voice becomes more certain.
“I wanted you. I wanted him out of the picture. I knew that was wrong, but I did.”
Your lips part, but no words dared to come out. You had waited months for him to say something real about the way he felt—not through lingering glances or softened compliments.
Not by asking you to stay longer or inviting you to Hayvenhurst for work he never really needed.
Now, he was sitting in your apartment admitting he wanted your relationship to fail.
It should have repulsed you. Instead, the confession made your heart swell.
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Prince is gone.” You gesture around the apartment. “You got what you wanted.”
His expression falls. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Because you’re not some trophy I stole from him.”
The words settle between you.
You shift your legs and sit upright, now facing him more directly. “Then what am I?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His teeth punish his bottom lip for being so loose.
“You?” His own eyes seem confused by his dialogue.
He reasserts his claim, as a statement rather than a question, “You.”
You give him a blank look. “Groundbreaking.”
His hand lifts in front of him, then drops onto his thigh when he fails to explain.
“I don’t want this to be some competition between me and Prince. I don’t want you because he had you first, or because the world keeps comparing us.”
Your face softens slightly.
“I’m not gonna be another Prince.”
The sentence catches your attention.
Michael’s eyes remain steady on yours now.
“I’m not gonna come in here and expect you to become my girl because he left. I’m not gonna tell you where to sit, who to talk to, or how to act when people are looking.”
You think back to the limo, the warning through clenched teeth, the grip on your fist for the cameras.
Michael notices the way your eyes dim.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says.
“You don’t owe me a relationship because I waited. You don’t owe me a kiss because I drove over. You don’t owe me anything for showing up when you were at your lowest.”
“Michael—” Your lips form to generate words— anything, but can’t bear to speak over him.
“If you wake up tomorrow and decide you don’t want this,” he swallows, struggling to finish the sentence without exposing the fear behind it, “I’ll still answer the phone.”
Your mouth opens, but the ache forming in your throat keeps you from speaking.
“I’ll still be your friend,” he continues. “I’ll still wanna hear your voice. I’ll still let you beat me with pillows and call me names.”
“You make it sound like I abuse you.”
A tearful laugh slips past your lips. His smile grows from the sound, but his eyes remain serious.
“I’m not gonna disappear just because you don’t give me what I want.”
Prince’s absence suddenly becomes heavier.
He had cared for you once. Deeply, you knew that. But his attention often came with an expectation that you were there when he demanded it. His gifts and affection were frequently followed by reminders of what he provided for you, as if love were a favor you were expected to repay with obedience.
Michael sat in front of you now, painfully close to everything he had spent months wanting, and refused to reach for it.
His eyebrows crease. “Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Acting like I’m important?”
His face twists with disbelief. “You are.”
“You don’t even know what I’m even like in a relationship.”
“I know what you’re like with me.”
You look down at your fingers. “Prince used to think I was perfect.”
“I don’t think you’re perfect.”
He gives a quiet laugh and inches closer. “You’re messy.”
“You leave things everywhere. You complain about everything. You curse too much.”
He points his chin to the ashtray on your coffee table.
“Damn, I feel so much better, thanks for that.”
“You’re stubborn. You get jealous and try to act like you don’t. You make these scary faces when you’re irritated.”
You smack his shoulder, causing him to let out a chuckle.
“See?” He rubs the spot dramatically.
“Keep talking and you’ll see violent.”
His laughter settles, and the ease in his eyes gradually returns.
“I know you’re not perfect.” His voice lowers.
“That isn’t why I love you.”
Michael’s face reacts a second after the word slips. His lips part while his eyes widen, as though he had broken something by saying it too early. Neither of you speak.
His eyes drop to the floor. “I do.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”
“I really don’t.” He gives a nervous laugh and shakes his head.
“That doesn’t explain why.”
He swallows. You shift closer, now leaving only one empty cushion between you.
The question strikes him harder than you expected.
His eyebrows lift while he studies your face, almost offended that you could ask.
“You know what scared me?”
You frown, “Great, more insults.”
“You were pretending you didn’t care.” His lips curl slightly.
“You acted like being Prince’s girlfriend didn’t mean anything. Like you weren’t angry. Like you didn’t wanna go back inside and strangle him.”
You huff. “I was trying to be polite.”
“You were doing a terrible job.” You roll your eyes.
“I’ve met thousands of people pretending,” he continues.
“Pretending they like me. Pretending they aren’t staring. Pretending they don’t want something from me.”
His eyes trail toward your lips, remembering the cigarette between them that night.
“In that instant, you weren’t.”
“I was pretending I wasn’t miserable.”
“Exactly.” His smile grows faintly. “You were angry. You were messy. You were smoking. You looked miserable.”
“Stop. This is a horrible love confession. You’re not very good at this.”
A laugh escapes his nose.
“You didn’t care if I liked you. You barely cared that I was Michael Jackson.”
“You said Jackie was your favorite.”
His smile stretches wider, but his voice remains soft. “You were the first honest person I had talked to in months.”
“I didn’t have to wonder what you wanted. You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t try to impress me. You looked at me like I was just some annoying man interrupting your cigarette.”
“I know.” His teeth flash briefly. “I liked that.”
“Because I got to be normal.”
You tilt your head, absorbing his words.
“And then you started talking to me.” His eyes grow softer.
“You’re funny. You listen when I talk about music. Really listen. You ask questions instead of nodding and waiting for me to stop.”
Your chest aches with warmth.
“You remember little things I tell you. You treat Bubbles like he’s a person. You make me laugh when I’m mad, even when I don’t want to.”
His fingers fidget against his thigh.
“When I’m with you, I don’t have to think about saying the right thing all the time.”
You look down, hiding the tears forming in your eyes.
“You make silence feel good,” he says.
“And when something happens, you’re the first person I wanna call.”
A tear falls onto your hand. Michael shifts closer immediately, but stops himself from touching you.
You wipe the tear away with a limp palm. “I don’t know what to do with all of this.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“I want to. Just don’t know what.”
You look at him, irritated by his patience. “Stop saying everything’s okay.” A strained laugh escapes you as more tears gather in your eyes.
Michael watches you carefully, his hands still planted on his own knees despite every nerve in his body screaming to hold you.
“I feel horrible,” you admit.
“For everything. I was lying to him for months. I acted like I was still waiting for him while I spent all my time talking to you.”
“You tried to make it work.”
“Because it was convenient— because I liked the life he gave me, and I was afraid to be alone.”
A crack in your voice humbles its tone lower.
You shake your head as tears stream freely now.
“And I let him believe I was loyal when I was kissing you in a hospital and fantasizing about you every night.”
The word ‘fantasize’ made him flush.
“I temped you. I was the home wrecker.”
“I wanted you to choose me. I wanted you to stop loving him. Every time you complained about him, part of me felt bad for you.”
“And another part was happy because it meant I had a chance.”
You look at him through wet lashes.
He lifts his shoulders weakly. “I’m a horrible person.”
The admission comforts you more than any excuse would have. Michael wasn’t a saint who had merely waited patiently for your relationship to end. He had quietly encouraged the distance between you and Prince, enjoying every call you hid and every moment Prince wasn’t present.
He was selfish— and so were you. For some reason, though, sharing the blame made the weight on your chest feel lighter.
You move closer until your knees nearly touch his thigh. His eyes follow the movement.
“You can touch me, you know.”
His chest rises sharply. “I know.”
“Because I don’t know if you actually want me to.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
His eyes fall to your lips again.
You lean closer, enough to recognize the faint scent of his cologne and the remnants of whatever product remained in his curls.
He doesn’t move. His restraint irritates you. “What are you waiting for?”
“You’re clearly waiting for something.”
He exhales and rubs his palms into his knees.
“I don’t wanna be another Prince.”
“I don’t want you going from belonging to him to feeling like you belong to me.”
“I never belonged to him.”
“You know what I mean.” You do.
“I don’t want our first real moment to happen because you’re sad and angry at him.”
“He left a few hours ago.”
“We’ve been over for months.”
“Then stop treating me like I don’t understand my own feelings.”
His lips part. He nods slowly. “You’re right. But I’m still not kissing you.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Wow.”
He fights a smile. “Not tonight.”
You scoff, leaning back into the couch. “So you drove all the way down here to reject me?”
“I’m not rejecting you. I’m staying, aren’t I?”
“For what? To stare at me from across the couch?”
“You’re annoying.” You roll your eyes.
The words leave him with a playful confidence, but his face softens immediately after.
He knew you had yet to say it back.
“I do, don’t I?” You moisten your lips, staring at your feet in shame.
You stare at him for a moment, observing the way his fingers pressed repeatedly into each other from nervousness.
He could perform for thousands without missing a beat, but sitting beside you reduced him to a fidgeting, anxious man who didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“You can hold me,” you say softly.
He hesitates just long enough to irritate you again.
His arm gradually extends along the back of the couch.
You shift beneath it, resting against his chest before he could overthink.
The contact causes both of you to release a heavy breath.
His arm lowers around your waist cautiously, fingertips barely pressing into your side.
You rest your cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt and close your eyes.
This was different from the hug outside Hayvenhurst— different from the hospital, the grass, and every playful moment where physical contact was cut short by guilt. There was no guilt now.
Still, Michael held you as if one wrong movement would shatter whatever existed between you.
You grip a handful of his shirt.
“You’re stiff as a board.”
His laugh vibrates through his chest and into your cheek. “I’m trying to behave.”
He jerks and tightens his arm instinctively, pulling you closer than he intended. Neither of you correct it.
His chin lowers against the crown of your head as his fingers gradually relax over your waist.
You shut your eyes and take in the heat his body exerted.
The cologne that had followed you in your thoughts for months now filled your apartment. His breathing, his heartbeat, the occasional movement of his fingers against your side— all of it was finally real.
You begin crying again before you realize it.
Michael looks down. “What happened?”
“No.” You press your face deeper into his chest.
He nods and holds you tighter.
The tears weren’t entirely for Prince. They were for the relationship that had once made you happy and slowly transformed into something unbearable.
For every time you told yourself it would improve, and every moment you stayed because comfort was easier than honesty.
You cried for how badly you hurt him. You cried for the way he looked at you before leaving.
But beneath all of that grief sat a disgusting amount of relief. No more lying.
No more pretending Michael’s voice meant nothing.
No more hanging up the second keys touched your door.
Michael rocks you gently, rubbing his hand along your back. He says nothing about your tears. He doesn’t tell you to cheer up, doesn’t remind you that Prince neglected you, and doesn’t use your weakness as an opportunity to finally place his lips over yours. He simply holds you.
After a while, your sobs turn into faint, uneven breaths. You raise your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I look horrible.”
“You said that when I had snot dripping down my nose.”
“So your opinion doesn’t matter anymore.”
He gives a low laugh and reaches toward your face, stopping inches before your cheek.
His thumb wipes carefully beneath your eye, cleaning the mascara that gathered there. His stare remained focused enough to make your cheeks warm.
Your lips tug into a tired smile.
“You really won’t kiss me?”
He lets out huff through his nose before shaking his head. “Not tonight.”
You study him with narrowed eyes.
“’Cause tomorrow—“ His fingers absentmindedly trace the fabric over your waist. “—tomorrow I want you to know you chose me because you wanted me.”
Not because you were lonely.
Not because you were angry.
Not because Prince walked out.
His forehead settles against yours.
Your chest aches. Neither of you speaks. Your noses barely brush whenever one of you breathes too deeply. His hand remains steady around your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your nightgown, while yours bunches softly into the front of his shirt. You can feel his heartbeat— it’s racing— almost matching your own.
Your eyes drift down to his lips. His do the same.
For one dangerous second, neither of you breathes.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your side.
Every sensible thought leaves his body.
His hand instinctively cups your cheek, his thumb brushing softly beneath your jaw. Your eyes flutter shut.
His don’t, as he studies your face for another second; the flushed cheeks, swollen eyelids, lipstick you had clearly reapplied. The woman he’d wanted from the very first night she stood outside with a cigarette between her fingers pretending she wasn’t falling apart.
His forehead presses gently back against yours.
“Wait ’til tomorrow,” he whispers.
Your eyebrows furrow together in disappointment. “I hate you. I want you now.”
His eyes close with a helpless smile.
“You have no idea how hard that is to hear.”
“Oh, I do.” He lets out a shaky breath, his smile growing despite himself. “I’ve waited months.”
You huff dramatically, letting your forehead fall against his shoulder.
“I liked you better when you had no self-control.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your cheek.
Without thinking, you curl yourself closer.
His arm slips around your waist, holding you there carefully—as if you might disappear if he held you too tightly. Your heartbeat slowly settles beneath the warmth of his chest.
For the first time in months you didn’t feel like someone’s girlfriend. You simply felt safe. And somehow that was enough.
────── *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ───────
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