01 - Six Years Later.
You didn't remember the first time you met Michael Jackson.
But you remembered the first time he carried you to bed.
You had been nine years old, exhausted and overwhelmed by the flashing lights, loud music, and far too many unfamiliar faces crowding the enormous Neverland dining room. Your father had been working security that night, walking around with a serious expression and a hand constantly pressed against the earpiece tucked into his ear.
"Stay where I can see you," he had warned you at least six times already.
So you stayed quietly in the corner booth with a cup of untouched soda and your sketchbook balanced on your knees.
Everyone at the party seemed important. Famous actors. Singers. Women covered in glittering jewelry and expensive perfume. Men in velvet jackets laughing too loudly.
You hated it.
You had only come because your babysitter canceled last minute and your father had no other option.
At some point during the night, Michael noticed you sitting alone.
You remembered looking up nervously when his shadow fell across the table.
"You're awfully quiet over here," he said softly.
His voice surprised you. Gentle. Nothing like the screaming crowds on television.
You stared at him for a moment before shrugging awkwardly. "My dad said not to bother people."
A smile spread slowly across his face.
"You're not bothering me."
That was the first real conversation you ever had with him.
After that, things changed naturally.
Whenever your father worked late around Neverland or the studio, Michael would somehow appear with snacks, movies, or coloring books. He always treated you like you belonged there — never like you were in the way.
At eleven years old, you learned how recording studios smelled.
Coffee.
Leather chairs.
Warm equipment.
And Michael's cologne lingering in the air long after he stepped out of the booth.
You would sit quietly in oversized headphones while he recorded vocals through the glass, completely mesmerized by the way everyone in the room moved around him.
Sometimes he'd ask your opinion on tiny things just to make you feel included.
"Too loud?" he'd ask after replaying a song.
You'd nod seriously.
And he'd actually listen.
"You spoil that girl," your father muttered once while watching Michael hand you another candy bar.
Michael only laughed softly. "She's good company."
Years passed that way.
Birthdays at Neverland.
Movie nights.
Long studio sessions where you'd fall asleep curled up on couches while your father worked nearby.
Safe.
Familiar.
Normal.
At fourteen, you stood backstage at one of his concerts with giant protective headphones over your ears while Michael adjusted the sparkling gold jacket resting on his shoulders moments before going onstage.
"You nervous?" you asked.
He grinned. "Always."
"You don't look nervous."
"That's because I'm professional," he whispered dramatically.
You laughed loudly enough that several dancers turned around.
Michael pointed at you with a playful glare. "See? You distracted me."
Your father rolled his eyes nearby. "Five minutes, Mike."
"Yeah, yeah."
Before stepping toward the stage entrance, Michael looked back at you briefly.
"Stay close to your father tonight, okay?"
You nodded immediately.
That had always been the rule.
Stay close.
Stay safe.
And you always did.
—
Six years later.
History Tour rehearsals were chaos.
People rushed through hallways carrying costumes, equipment, paperwork, and coffee cups. Security teams moved constantly through the building while music blasted through the studio walls hard enough to shake the floor beneath your boots.
"Door stays shut unless I say otherwise."
Your father adjusted the wire beneath his suit jacket before handing you a clipboard.
You nodded. "Got it."
"You sure?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Dad, I've been doing this for months." You were 20 now.
"Yeah, but tonight's crowded."
"Relax."
He sighed dramatically before walking off toward the hallway intersection.
You leaned back against the wall outside Studio B, arms crossed loosely over your black blazer.
Inside the room, Michael had been recording the same section for nearly an hour.
Nobody was allowed in.
Apparently nobody understood that.
A producer approached first.
"I just need five minutes."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He stared at you for a moment before muttering something under his breath and walking away.
You smirked slightly.
A few minutes later the studio door cracked open.
Michael peeked out carefully, curls damp around his forehead.
"You're terrifying people."
"You said no interruptions."
"I know," he laughed softly. "But I think one of them nearly cried."
"Occupational hazard."
His eyes lingered on you longer than necessary.
That had been happening more often lately.
Little pauses.
Longer stares.
Moments that felt strangely heavy before he looked away again.
"You eaten yet?" he asked quietly.
You blinked. "What?"
"You've been standing here for hours."
"I'm working."
"That wasn't my question."
Something warm twisted awkwardly in your chest.
"I had fries earlier."
Michael frowned immediately. "That's not dinner."
You laughed under your breath. "You sound like my father."
"Well somebody has to."
Before you could respond, someone called his name from inside the studio.
Michael glanced back toward the room before looking at you again.
"I'll send somebody with food."
"You don't have to do that."
But he was already disappearing back inside.
You stared at the closed door for a second longer than you should have.
—
"People are talking."
You nearly choked on your coffee.
Your father sat beside you at the security table flipping casually through paperwork.
"What people?"
"Crew."
Your stomach dropped slightly. "About what?"
"That Michael listens to you more than anyone else."
You scoffed immediately. "That's ridiculous."
Your father shrugged. "You calm him down."
The words settled strangely in your chest.
Before you could answer, movement across the room caught your attention.
Michael had just entered the studio lobby surrounded by assistants and managers, dressed completely in black with dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.
Yet somehow, almost instantly, his gaze found yours across the crowded room.
Always.
You looked away first.
Your father noticed.
"You know," he said carefully, "he trusts you."
You swallowed quietly. "I know."
"And I trust him."
Guilt hit you so suddenly you hated yourself for it.
Because lately something had changed.
Not intentionally.
Not suddenly.
But enough for you to notice.
It lived in small moments.
The way Michael always searched for you first in crowded rooms.
The way his hand rested briefly against your lower back while guiding you through paparazzi.
The way his expression softened whenever you walked into a room after stressful rehearsals.
And worst of all—
The way you had started noticing him too.
Not Michael Jackson.
Just... Michael.
Exhausted after long rehearsals.
Laughing quietly at stupid jokes.
Hair messy at three in the morning while replaying recordings over and over again.
Human.
Dangerously human.
—
It was nearly 2AM when rehearsal finally ended.
The building had emptied slowly over the last hour until only a handful of staff remained.
You stood near the hallway entrance checking schedules when you heard footsteps approaching behind you.
"You're still here."
You turned.
Michael stood a few feet away, jacket hanging loosely over one shoulder.
"So are you."
He smiled faintly. "Fair point."
For a moment neither of you moved.
The silence felt different lately.
Thicker somehow.
"You should go home," you said quietly.
"So should you."
"My father's still finishing reports."
Michael nodded before glancing toward the empty studio behind him.
"You wanna hear something?"
Your heartbeat betrayed you immediately.
"What?"
"A new mix."
You hesitated.
This wasn't unusual.
He'd shown you music before.
So why did it suddenly feel dangerous?
Michael seemed to notice your uncertainty because his expression softened instantly.
"Only if you want to."
That was the problem.
You always wanted to.
Finally you sighed. "One song."
His smile returned slowly.
Inside the studio, the lights were dimmed low except for the glowing equipment surrounding the soundboard.
Michael sat beside you closely enough for your shoulders to almost touch while the music played softly through the speakers.
For several minutes neither of you spoke.
You closed your eyes briefly, letting the music surround you.
"It's beautiful," you whispered.
Michael didn't answer immediately.
When you looked over, he was already watching you.
Not casually.
Not absentmindedly.
Just... watching.
The air shifted.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Then suddenly—
A knock sounded against the studio door.
Both of you pulled apart instantly.
Your father stepped halfway inside.
"There you are," he said, completely unaware of the tension he'd interrupted. "Ready to go?"
You stood so quickly the chair nearly tipped backward.
"Yeah."
Michael looked down briefly, running a tired hand across his mouth.
Your father frowned slightly between the two of you.
"You okay?"
"Fine," you answered too quickly.
Michael forced a soft smile. "Long night."
"Tell me about it," your father muttered.
The three of you walked out together, but you could still feel the weight of Michael's eyes on you long after you stopped looking back.
