off the record
PAIRING: mature era!michael x podcast host!reader (afab)
SUMMARY: michael listens to your podcast Off The Record and loves how you give celebrities the space to be themselves. when he insists (with the help of his PR team) to do multiple episodes with you, it turns your world upside down. you expect a polished version of the king of pop, but as you get to know him, you quickly find out there's more to him that his persona on stage.
WARNING: slow-burn romance, mostly fluff & eventual smut, 18+, age gap (Michael is in his 40s & reader is mid-to-late 20s)
PART 3 of ? (masterlist with parts 1 and 2)
WC: ~5.4K
A/N: here's part three of off the record!! thank you all sm for all the love on this fic, I'm having a blast writing it and I'm in loveee with how soft Michael and reader are with each other 🥹 this chapter heavily focuses on their relationship turning more romantic but don't worry: for those waiting for the breaking point, it's coming (and reader will be coming soon too). if you wanna be a part of my permanent taglist, you can comment here
TAGS: @pulsingeternity @lanibuggg @thebabykashmere @animegamerfox @munsons-mayhem28 @styleslover-1994 @wildpandorasky @thatpettyho @cafe-lectura @ella-jolie @fiyerobridgerton @xoxogossipgirl02 @notyourusualnia @mydeerest1 @peacemakersbeloved @mazza-0 @justboredroaming @oidloid @sclareclipse7 @niadaboss @flesheatingvamp @gingerrsnapp @slowlikehoney-stronglikemusic @moontunee @lovelyreadersposts @ekoxeko @prettyscientist @bananarama-llama @khxna @lovingyeet @tafuller @mochikofi @alimarie1331 @luv4kook @asillysimp @thebrunetteswan
A couple of weeks have passed since you were at Neverland. You’ve been busy working on editing the podcast episode (along with other episodes you’ve taken on since the one with Michael), while Michael has been busy being…well, Michael Jackson. The both of you have talked on the phone since then (most times, it’s him calling you), sharing laughs and stories while hoping to see each other again.
The late-night conversations quickly become something you both look forward to, often stretching far longer than either of you intended. Sometimes you talk about music and movies, other times about the little, ordinary things that happen throughout your day. Despite the age gap between the two of you, your connection with each other only seems to grow stronger, making the days until your next visit to Neverland feel both exciting and impossibly long.
On the Monday morning three weeks after the first episode with Michael, you finish making your breakfast and sit down at your small kitchen table. You glance at the clock: 7:30 am.
You decide to wait a couple of minutes before you start making your morning coffee. You take a bite of your breakfast when your landline decides to ring. You wipe your hands on a napkin and head towards the wall where your landline is at, and you pick up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Good morning Y/N."
You don't even need him to say his name anymore. You smile. "Morning, Michael."
There's a smile in his voice immediately. "You knew it was me."
"I did."
"How?"
You lean against the kitchen counter. "Besides the obvious that I recognize your voice and we’ve been talking for weeks now, I'm starting to recognize your pauses."
"My pauses?"
"The way you wait half a second before you speak."
A quiet laugh reaches you through the line. "I do that?"
"You do."
"Huh." He sounds genuinely fascinated. "Nobody's ever noticed."
"I listen for a living."
"I suppose you do. I hope I'm not calling too early," Michael says.
"You woke me up." You say, deciding to tease him.
His voice immediately fills with guilt. "I did?"
You grin. "I'm kidding."
"Oh..."
"I've actually been awake for hours, I’m just eating my breakfast now."
"You scared me!" He says, laughing.
"I know."
"You enjoyed doing that." He says playfully.
"Only a little."
"A little?"
"Maybe more than a little.”
He laughs again, that bright, genuine laugh you've already begun to recognize, and somehow hearing it through your telephone is enough to brighten your entire morning.
"I've been thinking about when you were at the ranch for the podcast episode," he says after a while.
"So have I."
"I don't think anyone's ever listened to me the way you did."
You look out your apartment window, watching people hurry along the sidewalk below. "It wasn't difficult."
"It was."
"No."
"It was," he insists softly. "People usually listen so they can answer me."
"And I listened because I wanted to understand you."
"Exactly." His answer comes so quickly that it makes something warm settle in your chest. "I kept waiting for you to interrupt me."
"I don't interrupt people."
"I noticed."
"That’s because you had things worth saying."
"So do you."
His response surprises you. "What do you mean?"
"You ask questions like they're gifts."
Your heart skips.
"That day" he continues, "you somehow made me feel interesting."
You laugh quietly. "Michael, c’mon now."
"I'm serious."
"You've sold hundreds of millions of records and you’re the biggest star on the planet."
"I'm talking about me." His voice is so sincere that your smile softens. "You made me feel like the person was interesting. Not Michael Jackson the King of Pop, but Michael Jackson…the man from Gary, Indiana."
You close your eyes for a brief moment.
"Thank you." He says.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do."
"No."
"I really do." His voice grows quieter. "I haven't stopped thinking about it.” He pauses “Or you."
You haven’t stopped thinking about him either, but you don't admit that.
Instead, you change the subject before your feelings become too obvious. "I’m almost finished editing the episode."
"Oh?"
"Mhm."
"And?"
"I think people are going to love it."
"I don't care."
You pause before you answer. "You don't?"
"I mean I hope they like it." He corrects himself with a shy laugh.
"But?"
"But I’ve already got what I wanted."
"Which was?"
"The conversation."
Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
"You know, I don't think I was nervous because of the interview. " he says.
"No?"
"I think I was nervous because I wanted you to like me."
The confession lands with enough force to take your breath away. "You wanted me to like you?"
"Of course."
"Michael..."
"What?"
"I liked you before we even turned the recording on."
"You did?"
"Well I mean, this is a bit embarrassing to admit but…you’re literally my childhood idol. Plus, you bought me coffee."
You can tell he’s smiling on the other end. "That’s cute, I didn’t know that you’re a fan. And yes, I did buy you coffee."
You blush. “I try to keep my personal feelings on the back burner when doing a podcast episode, so that’s why I didn’t mention it to you.”
“You should’ve, I would’ve gotten you a pastry along with your coffee.” He says teasingly.
"The exact coffee order was already a gift enough, and I can’t believe you memorized it!"
He laughs softly. "Well I had to impress you somehow."
"You’re literally Michael Jackson, that’s impressive enough." You reply, laughing.
A small, comfortable silence settles between the two of you for a moment and you find yourself smiling widely.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"Yes, of course."
"Would it be wrong if I asked you to lunch without microphones in front of us?"
You pause for a moment, not expecting that. "What?"
"I mean," You hear him exhale sharply, clearly flustered with himself. "I don't know if that's inappropriate. I know that I’m older than you, but I really enjoy talking to you and spending time with you."
"Michael…"
"I just thought," he continues nervously. "I realized we've only talked in person while one of us was technically working, and the other times we’ve talked has been over the phone. So I’ve wondered what it would be like if we were able to talk freely, face to face.”
Your heartbeat quickens and a smile slowly spreads across your face. "So..."
"So?" He says nervously.
"Are you asking me on a date?"
There's complete silence.
"Michael?"
"I...um…" He groans. "I wasn't trying to."
"You weren't?"
"I mean," he laughs, sounding embarrassed. "I was trying to ask if you'd like to have lunch."
"Just lunch?"
"Well." Another pause on his end. "I'd hope you'd enjoy it."
"I probably would."
"And then maybe we'd do it again."
"Oh?"
"If you wanted to, of course."
You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling too much. "I think you're accidentally describing a date."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I realized halfway through asking."
"And you kept going."
"I'm already committed to it, so there’s no going back now."
You laugh so hard you nearly snort.
"I can't believe this. I've performed in front of stadiums full of people, but somehow asking a woman to lunch is more terrifying." He says, disbelief in his voice.
You giggle, enjoying how flustered he’s become. "You know what the funny part is?"
"What?"
"I was hoping you'd ask."
"You were?"
"I kept wondering if I'd ever get to spend time with you without headphones between us."
There's another break of silence. When Michael finally speaks again, his voice is almost impossibly gentle. "I'd like that."
"So would I."
His relief is almost audible. "Really?"
"Really." A grin slips into your voice. "Although..."
"Oh no."
"You're not buying me a coffee."
He laughs. "I had a feeling you'd say that."
"I mean it."
"We'll see."
"No, Michael."
"We'll definitely see."
"You’re impossible."
"I've been told."
"By who?"
"You."
"I've only known you for a couple of weeks."
"You've learned quickly."
You shake your head, smiling so much your cheeks hurt.
"When are you free?" he asks.
You think for a moment. "Thursday?"
"Thursday sounds good to me."
"Assuming you don't suddenly become too busy being Michael Jackson."
"I think I can fit you into my schedule."
"Oh, can you?"
"I'll cancel something."
"You absolutely will not."
"I absolutely will."
You laugh again and the sound seems to make him smile. "Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm looking forward to Thursday."
You glance over at the index card you’ve kept on your kitchen table.
Who are you when no one's watching?
What makes you feel safe?
What do you hope people remember?
Somewhere along the way, another question has quietly appeared.
What happens when two people stop interviewing each other, and begin to fall in love?
You don't know the answer yet, but you're excited not to know. "I am too," you say softly.
Neither of you notices that nearly forty minutes have passed before you both finally remember to say goodbye.
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The rest of the week seems determined to move as slowly as possible. Every time you glance at the clock in the studio you go to edit episodes with your producer, you're convinced time has somehow stopped altogether.
"You're smiling again."
You look up from your editing console to find your producer, Liz, leaning against the doorway.
"I am not." You say defensively.
"You've smiled at that tape recorder at least six times in the last hour."
"I've been listening to a good interview."
She smirks. "Mhm."
"It was!"
"I'm sure it was." She says teasingly.
You narrow your eyes at her. "What?"
"Nothing."
"It wasn't nothing."
She folds her arms. "I've worked with you for the past two years."
"So?"
"I've never seen you replay one person's laugh so much."
Your cheeks are immediately warm. "I was checking the audio."
"Oh yes, I’m sure you were."
"The levels."
"Of course."
"The...quality?"
"The quality of his laugh?" She says, laughing at your attempt to come up with an excuse.
You sigh, covering your face. "Please leave."
She laughs again as she starts to walk away. "I'll stop teasing you."
"Thank you."
"Unless this turns into something."
"It isn't."
"Sure, whatever you say Y/N." Liz says with a smile, closing the door behind her.
You wait several seconds before pressing play again. Michael's voice fills your headphones. "You seem like someone who deserves extra caramel."
Without meaning to, you smile again.
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Thursday arrives and you spend far too long deciding what to wear.
You try to convince yourself that you’re not trying to impress him, but you clearly are. You’ve rejected three different outfits before settling on a soft blue sundress with a cream cardigan.
Comfortable and simple. You think to yourself. You walk to your bathroom mirror to finish applying your favourite lip gloss. You sigh as you examine yourself. "You are going to lunch," you tell yourself. "Not accepting an Academy Award. Even if this lunch is with Michael Jackson."
Your reflection offers no helpful advice to calm your nerves.
The doorbell rings and your stomach immediately fills with butterflies. You hurry to answer it, grabbing your purse that’s on the counter next to the door. When you open it, Michael is standing there with one arm behind his back.
"Hi."
"Hi."same tone:
He smiles, his gaze lingering as it slowly travels over your outfit, open appreciation flickering across his features. The warmth in his expression is unmistakable, and when his eyes briefly dip to your chest before meeting yours again, you feel a rush of heat creep into your cheeks. You suddenly become acutely aware of what you're wearing. Maybe the dress is a little shorter than you remembered, the hem riding higher than expected whenever you shift.
The neckline also leaves a touch more cleavage on display than you'd intended. Instinctively, you smooth your hands over the fabric, your blush deepening.
"You came yourself." You say, smiling at him but still a bit flustered.
"I said I'd take you to lunch."
"I thought Bill would pick me up."
"I wanted to." His smile is shy. "I hope that's okay."
"It's more than okay."
Only then does he reveal what he'd been hiding behind his back. A single white daisy. He suddenly looks uncertain. "I didn't know if flowers would be too much."
Your heart nearly melts. "It's beautiful."
"I asked someone what the right flower was."
"And they said daisy?"
"They said roses."
You laugh. "So why a daisy?"
He looks down at it. "Because they seem happier." His voice grows quieter. "I know that probably doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
He lets out the breath. "I thought you might like something that looked like it had been picked instead of arranged."
You gently take the flower from him. "Our first date..."
The words slip out before you can stop them. Both of you freeze for a moment, and then a smile slowly spreads across his face. "So that's what we're calling it?"
Your face immediately turns pink. "I..."
"You don't have to."
"No, I..." You laugh nervously. "I guess I just answered the question."
"I guess you did." His smile widens. "I was hoping it was a date."
"It is."
"It is?"
You nod. "It is."
For a moment, he simply looks at you like he's trying to memorize you and this moment. "You look beautiful, by the way." He whispers softly.
Your breath catches. "You don’t look too bad yourself, handsome."
He glances down at himself. He’s wearing dark trousers and a cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. "I wasn't sure what people wear on first dates." He admits shyly.
"I don't think there are rules."
"There should be."
"There definitely shouldn't."
"I spent twenty minutes deciding between this sweater and another sweater."
You grin. "Which one won?"
"This one."
"What happened to the other?"
"It looked too formal."
"So you asked someone?"
He smiles sheepishly. "I asked Frank."
You laugh. "What did Frank say?"
"He said..." Michael clears his throat dramatically. "'Michael, she already agreed to lunch. Stop acting like you're going to prom.'"
You burst into laughter. "He actually said that?"
"Word for word."
"I like Frank."
"So do I." He hesitates. "But he also said something else."
"What?"
"'If she likes you, she won't remember what sweater you wore.'"
Your smile softens. "He's right."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
He looks relieved. "Good."
Without really thinking, you reach forward and gently smooth a tiny fold near the collar of his sweater. "There."
The second your fingers brush the fabric, you realize what you've done. Your hand stills. "So much for no rules," you murmur. You're standing close enough now that you can smell his cologne: light, clean and mixed with something warm you can't quite place.
His eyes meet yours. "You know," he says quietly, "I almost moved your hair again."
Your heart flutters. "You can."
"I can?"
You nod your head slowly.
This time, he doesn't stop himself. His hand rises with almost unbelievable care. The backs of his fingers barely graze your temple as he tucks a loose strand behind your ear. The touch is featherlight and gentle enough that it sends a shiver down your spine.
His fingertips linger for only the briefest second before he lets his hand fall again. "There." His voice is almost a whisper. "I can see your eyes."
You look at him, suddenly unable to remember what either of you had been saying.
The silence stretches, but it’s the kind of silence that says everything words are suddenly too small to hold. Michael is the first to smile. "I think we should probably get going."
You smile back at him. “Yes, we probably should.”
He offers you his arm with exaggerated formality. "May I?"
You slip your hand through his arm, smiling up at him. "You may."
His smile in return is so bright it almost rivals the afternoon sun. You both walk out of your apartment building towards his car, and Michael opens the passenger door for you before you have the chance to reach for the handle.
"You know," you say as you climb in, "you're making this very difficult."
He closes the door gently before walking around to the driver's side. "How?"
"You keep doing thoughtful things."
He settles behind the wheel and glances over at you. "I don't see the problem."
"The problem," you laugh, fastening your seatbelt, "is that you're setting the bar impossibly high."
He pretends to think about that. "I guess I'll just have to keep meeting it."
You shake your head, smiling. "I walked right into that one."
"You did."
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Rather than pulling towards Los Angeles, Michael takes a quieter road lined with oak trees.
You notice immediately. "This isn't the way into town." You say, your brows furrowing in confusion.
"No."
"Where are we going then?"
He smiles without taking his eyes off the road. "I thought if we went somewhere public, I'd spend the whole afternoon signing autographs and paparazzi would show up, making a spectacle of us."
You nod. "Yeah, you’re probably right. I sometimes forget that you’re famous"
He laughs. "Yes, well…if we went out in public, we'd never actually get to know each other."
"So?"
"I made us lunch."
You blink. "You made us lunch?"
He smiles shyly. "I may have had some help."
"Frank?"
"Definitely Frank."
"And your chef?"
"Also definitely my chef."
You giggle. "So this isn't really your cooking."
"I made the sandwiches."
"You did?"
"I nearly burned toast."
"Michael!" You say.
"I'm serious."
"You can burn toast?"
"I have many talents."
"I can see that, but cooking clearly isn't one of them."
He bursts out laughing, and you can’t help but join in.
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Ten minutes later, he turns onto a quiet road that winds around a small lake on the edge of the Neverland property. The water sparkles beneath the afternoon sun as a large willow tree comes into focus, its branches stretching toward the shoreline.
Beneath the willow tree sits a plaid blanket. A wicker picnic basket rests at one corner beside two crystal glasses and a chilled bottle tucked into a small grey bucket. Between the glasses lies a single white daisy, its petals impossibly bright against the deep green & red of the blanket, as though it had been placed there with deliberate care.
As Michael opens the door for you, you gasp softly. "You set this all up?" You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
The confidence he'd worn throughout the drive falters almost instantly. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint blush creeps across his cheeks.
"I wasn't sure if it was too much," he admits with a nervous laugh. "I kept thinking maybe you'd find it, I don't know, cheesy."
You look around. The lake is perfectly still as ducks swim across the water. It feels private and peaceful, the perfect place to have a conversation. You turn back to Michael, whose expression remains uncertain, as though he's bracing himself for disappointment.
"It's perfect." The words leave your mouth without hesitation.
Relief washes over his face so quickly that you almost laugh. His shoulders relax, and a genuine smile spreads across his lips, replacing the anxious expression he's been trying to hide. "Really?" He asks, searching your face to make sure you mean it.
"Really." You say, smiling up at him.
Michael lets out a quiet breath, almost as if he'd been holding it the entire drive. "Okay," he says with a soft chuckle. "Good. Because I was this close to pretending we'd taken a wrong turn."
You laugh, the sound echoing gently across the water. "I'm glad you didn't."
His smile grows a little brighter. "So am I."
He extends his hand toward you, palm open in a quiet invitation. You slip your fingers into his without thinking.
His hand is warm, his grip gentle but reassuring as he helps you out of the car. Neither of you lets go once your feet touch the ground. Together, hand in hand, you walk across the soft grass toward the picnic waiting beneath the willow tree, the lake shimmering beside you and the afternoon stretching endlessly ahead.
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As the two of you enjoy lunch, you talk about everything except fame. He tells you about learning to dance by watching James Brown until the moves became second nature to him, while you tell him about the first cassette recorder your grandfather bought you at a garage sale and how Thriller was the first album you ever listened to. Of course, he asks you what your favourite song is from that album and without hesitation you say Human Nature, which he hums in agreement.
He laughs when you admit you used to interview your stuffed animals.
"You gave teddy bears interviews?" he says, unable to hold back another laugh.
"Hey, don't judge! They were excellent guests."
"Were they?"
"They never interrupted."
"It seems like I've been taking notes from them."
"You have."
The smile on your lips never leaves as the conversation drifts effortlessly from one story to the next. Time seems to lose all meaning beneath the willow tree.
Michael tells you about his pet llama Louie, acting out how stubborn he could be until you're laughing so hard you have to wipe tears from your eyes.
"I can't believe you're making fun of a llama."
"I'm not making fun of it," you protest between laughs. "I'm making fun of your impression of the llama."
"My impression was accurate."
"It was dramatic at best."
"It was artistic!"
"No Michael, it was quite ridiculous." You say, laughing.
He places a hand over his chest in mock offense. "I've been insulted."
"I'll make a note of it."
"Oh?" he asks. "For your next interview?"
You grin. "'Michael Jackson, age forty-three, deeply wounded after being told his llama impression lacked emotional depth.'"
He throws his head back, laughing. "You are impossible."
"It seems like we’re both impossible then."
The laughter settles into an easy silence as the two of you finish eating. Neither of you seem in any hurry to pack everything away. The breeze carries the scent of fresh grass across the lake while ducks continue gliding lazily over the water.
Michael absentmindedly plucks a blade of grass from beside the blanket, rolling it between his fingers. "Can I ask you something?"
You glance over. "You just did."
He smiles, shaking his head. "There you go again, you know what I mean."
"I do."
His expression softens, becoming quieter than before. "When we first met," he begins, "were you nervous?"
The question catches you by surprise. "A little."
"Only a little?"
You nod. "I was more curious than nervous."
"Curious?"
"I wanted to know who you were when nobody else was around."
His gaze drops to the grass for a moment. "And?" he asks quietly.
You look at him for a long moment before answering. "I think I'm finding out."
His eyes meet yours again. "And?" He asks yet again.
You smile. "I like him."
The corners of his mouth lift into a smile so genuine it almost seems to catch him off guard. "Good, because I like you too. I'm also relieved."
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't sure if he would be enough."
The words linger between you. You realize he isn't talking about the performer the world knows, or the records he's sold, or the stadiums he's filled. He's talking about the man sitting beside you on a picnic blanket in the shade of a willow tree.
You reach over without thinking, brushing a tiny piece of grass from the sleeve of his jacket. "I don't think you have to worry about that."
Michael's eyes remain on yours, warm and searching, as though trying to memorize the moment. "I've had a really nice day," he says softly.
You reach over and squeeze his hand, still resting near yours on the blanket. "I have too."
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After a while, the two of you get up and wander slowly around the lake. Every few minutes one of you notices something small, whether it’s the family of ducks in the lake or a strangely shaped cloud in the sky. It feels wonderfully ordinary. Michael stops near the end of a wooden dock. "This is my favorite place."
You step beside him, taking in the view. "I can understand why."
The lake reflects the afternoon sky so perfectly that it almost looks endless.
"When things get loud, I come here." He says softly, gesturing vaguely toward the world beyond the trees.
"You don't bring many people here, do you?"
He shakes his head. "No."
"So why me?" You ask, tilting your head.
He looks down at the water for a long moment. Then back at you. "Because it didn't feel like bringing someone."
You tilt your head.
"It felt like bringing you."
You smile, blushing at his words.
You both walk to sit on the edge of the dock, talking and laughing more. Michael’s shoulder brushes yours often, and you notice how intense his brown eyes are as he listens to you speak. Soon, the afternoon slowly melts toward evening and the sky begins filling with soft shades of yellow, pink and orange.
"I should probably get you home." He says, looking at you.
"You probably should." You say, look up at the sky then towards him.
Michael laughs quietly. "We're doing it again."
"What?"
"The not leaving thing."
"Oh."
"I think we're getting good at it."
"I think we are."
You lean against his shoulder, not even realizing you’re doing it until his arm wraps instinctively around your waist. Butterflies flutter in your chest at the feeling.
"Can I tell you something?"
"You can tell me anything." His voice is so gentle that your heart skips.
"I was nervous today."
He looks down at you and smiles. "You hid it well. Since we’re sharing, I almost postponed today."
Your eyes widen. "You did?"
He nods. "I kept thinking," He laughs at himself, "what if that was just a really good interview?"
You frown. "What do you mean?"
"What if you only liked talking to me because there was a microphone?"
You stare at him. "Michael."
"What?"
"You honestly thought that?"
"I wasn't sure."
You move in a little closer. "I liked talking to you before the interview."
"I know."
"I liked talking to you after the interview."
His smile grows. "And now?"
You look directly into his warm brown eyes. "I've liked every conversation we've had."
Something changes in his expression, you can see the hope quietly replacing the uncertainty. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"I know."
"How?"
"You have that pause again."
He laughs softly. "My pause."
"Your pause."
"I should stop doing that."
"No." You smile. "I think I'd miss it."
The breeze lifts your hair once more. This time, Michael doesn’t hesitate and reaches slowly, gently tucking the loose strand behind your ear. His fingertips brush your cheek. You don't pull away, instead, you instinctively lean ever so slightly into his touch.
His hand lingers there. Almost as though he's afraid the moment might disappear if he moves too quickly.
"Y/N..." Your name leaves his lips barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to rush anything."
"You aren't."
"I just want to get it right," he murmurs, his gaze flickering down to your lips for a fleeting second before returning to your eyes. "Whatever this is, I don't want to mess it up."
You feel a smile touch your lips, soft and genuine. "You couldn't mess it up, Michael. Not when we're just being us."
He lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping. A small, relieved smile graces his face. "I like 'us'."
"Same here."
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After a little while, you both walk back toward the car: not quite holding hands, but close enough that your fingers brush every few steps, a steady rhythm of contact that sends a quiet thrill through you.
The drive back to your apartment feels shorter than the drive out, filled with a comfortable silence that feels less like space to fill and more like a shared understanding. When Michael pulls up to your building, he doesn't rush to open the door. He sits for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel.
"So," he says, turning to face you. "Today was..."
"Today was lovely." you finish, turning to face him as well.
"It was," he agrees, his voice dropping into that quiet, sincere tone you've come to adore. "And I'd like to do it again. If you're free."
"I think I can find the time." you tease, feeling the warmth of the day still lingering in your chest.
He laughs, a low, melodic sound that stays with you even after you’ve climbed out of the car. He walks you to your door, the distance between you feeling entirely different than it had earlier this afternoon.
"I'll call you." he promises, standing just far enough away to be respectful, yet close enough that you can still feel the heat radiating from him.
"I'll be waiting." You say, smiling.
He smiles back. “Can I give you a hug?” He asks sheepishly.
You open your arms. “Of course, I’d love a hug.”
He grins as he wraps his arms around you. You rest your head on his chest, feeling the steadiness of his heartbeat. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isn't awkward: it feels warm and comforting, as if words would only get in the way. His hand gently rubs your back, and you let yourself relax into the embrace, breathing a little easier with every passing second.
When he finally pulls away, he keeps his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, smiling at you with quiet affection. "I really needed that," he admits with a small laugh.
"Me too." You answer.
After a moment, he lowers his hands from your shoulders, causing you to miss the warmth of his embrace already. “Goodnight Y/N.” He says.
“Goodnight Michael.” You reply, giving him one last smile.
You watch him walk back to his car, and it isn't until he's driven out of sight that you realize you're still holding the white daisy he gave you. You smile as you enter your apartment building and unlock your apartment door.
You tuck the daisy carefully into a vase on your counter, knowing that this is just the beginning of something neither of you are ready to label yet; but you know eventually, you will.
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A/N: I hope y'all enjoyed part three! part four is being worked on now and it should be ready by early next week 🫶🏽