𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝚃𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙾𝚏 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎

★
1992
New York City
Word Count: 8.9k

  The night sky over New York City seemed to blend seamlessly with shadows inside the luxurious suite at the New York Palace Hotel. The glow from the city's lights filtered through the tall, elegant windows, casting a soft, ambient glow that illuminated the room in a hazy, golden hue. The hum of the city's life was faint but constant, a distant reminder of the world outside, while within the suite, time seemed to slow to a crawl. The stillness of the space felt amplified by Michael's absence, the suite's opulence doing little to chase away the loneliness that had settled in his place.

You stood in the bathroom, the mirror fogged from the steam of your recent shower. The warm, humid air clung to your skin, soothing after the long day you had spent waiting. You methodically applied your cleanser, massaging it into your skin with practiced, gentle movements, the ritual bringing a sense of calm and normalcy to the quiet evening. Your hair, damp and fragrant from its wash, hung in loose waves around your shoulders, dripping occasionally onto the satin of your nightgown.

The nightgown, soft and luxurious, felt cool against your freshly cleansed skin, its silky fabric brushing against your thighs as you moved. It was a deep, rich color—perhaps a midnight blue or a deep burgundy—that contrasted beautifully with the warmth of your skin. The hem grazed the middle of your thighs, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, the light material clinging delicately to your curves.

As you rinsed the last of the cleanser from your face, you heard the subtle, familiar sound of the bedroom door creaking open. Your heart leapt at the sound, and you paused, peering out of the bathroom with a sense of anticipation. There he was—Michael, finally returning from his long day. He stepped into the room with an air of exhaustion, his broad shoulders slumped slightly as if the weight of the day had settled heavily upon him.

You watched as he reached up to unbuckle the thick belts that crisscrossed his body, securing the elaborate costume he had worn for the day's events. The belts were made of dark, worn leather, each one fastened with large, polished metal buckles that gleamed dully in the soft light. With practiced ease, Michael loosened them, one by one, and draped them over the back of the lounge chair near the window. The chair's rich upholstery contrasted with the ruggedness of the belts, a juxtaposition that mirrored the difference between Michael's public and private personas.

His usually vibrant and charismatic presence was subdued tonight, his frame more slouched than usual, his movements slower and more deliberate. His dark hair, usually styled with care, now fell in loose strands across his forehead, partially obscuring his tired eyes. The eyeliner he wore had smudged during the day, leaving dark traces along his waterline and giving him a slightly disheveled, almost vulnerable appearance. When he finally looked up and saw you standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his face softened, and a tired but sincere smile curved his lips.