𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜

★
1990
Neverland Ranch
Word Count: 6.4k

The room was enveloped in darkness, the only light flickering from the fireplace, casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls. You lay against the headboard in your spacious bedroom, the weight of your husband's book resting on your lap. The scent of aged paper mingled with the subtle aroma of burning wood. The fire's glow provided just enough light to read by, illuminating the words on the page while the rest of the room remained in comforting shadow.

Moonlight streamed through the large windows, spilling across the bed and bathing the floral comforter in a soft, silver glow. The house was eerily quiet; the staff had been sent home for the weekend, leaving you alone in the vast, echoing space. Michael was still out, likely caught up in another late-night session at the studio. His passion for music knew no bounds, and neither did his relentless drive to perfect every note, every lyric. It was something you admired, but it also left you lonely in moments like these.

You were absorbed in your reading when the bedroom door creaked open, drawing your attention. Michael stepped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The exhaustion was evident in his every movement—his eyes were half-lidded, dark circles etched beneath them, and his broad shoulders slumped as if carrying an invisible weight.

He shrugged off his winter coat, the fabric whispering as it slid from his shoulders, and hung it neatly on the coat rack along with his signature black fedora. His loafers, scuffed and dusty from long hours of wear, were kicked off and pushed against the wall with a resigned sigh.

You watched him, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his face, noting the weariness etched into his features. Without a word, he crossed the room and collapsed onto the bed beside you, his head landing heavily in your lap. His legs dangled off the edge of the bed, too tired to fully climb in. The weight of his body pressed against you, grounding you in the moment.

Gently, you closed your book, placing it on the nightstand with a soft thud. Your hand moved instinctively to his hair, fingers slipping through the dark curls that had become so familiar to you. You found the scrunchie holding his hair back, carefully removing it and setting it aside. Then, you resumed running your fingers through his hair, untangling the knots with delicate care.

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of Michael's breathing. There was no need for words; the quiet was filled with an unspoken understanding, a shared intimacy that required nothing more than your presence. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as if seeking warmth and comfort after a long, grueling day.

Yet, something felt off. You could sense it in the way his body tensed slightly, in the way his breathing hitched now and then, as though something heavy weighed on his mind. But you didn't ask. Not yet. You knew he needed this time to unwind, to let the day's stress melt away before he could talk, if he ever chose to. Maybe it was a good day, maybe it was a bad one. Or maybe, like most days, it was a little bit of both.