Chapter Text
Just adding a body type/vibe reference for how I personally imagine OP physically: lean, athletic, and toned from years of boxing and training rather than exaggeratedly muscular, especially since she’s described as very nimble and agile throughout the story. I still prefer keeping her facial features, ethnicity, hair color, etc. ambiguous so readers can imagine her however they like 🤍
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The studio had gone quiet nearly twenty minutes ago, though the tape machine still rolled softly somewhere behind Michael, filling the room with the low hiss of unfinished work for Michael’s newest album. A half-produced demo drifted through the speakers in uneven fragments, basslines layered beneath scattered harmonies, bits of melody he still wasn’t satisfied with no matter how many times he replayed them.
The floor around the couch near the mixing console had long since disappeared beneath loose sheets of paper. Some pages were covered in rushed lyrics scratched out halfway through, others filled with isolated words, rhythms, little sounds he’d written down before they could disappear from his head entirely.
Michael leaned back against the cushions with a tired sigh, rubbing both hands over his face before glancing toward the clock on the wall.
10:47 PM.
Late enough for the rest of the house to have gone quiet hours ago, but still early enough for him to convince himself he had time to keep working.
He reached for the television remote beside him almost absentmindedly while keeping the notebook balanced against one knee, his pencil still moving lazily across the page.
“Need a break…” he murmured quietly to himself.
The television flickered alive.
Commercials. Static. A news segment.
Some late-night sitcom rerun he barely registered before flipping past it again.
Michael wasn’t really paying attention at first. His mind still lingered on the demo behind him, occasionally drifting back long enough for him to scribble down another lyric idea before it slipped away. He changed channels one after another without looking up properly until the sudden eruption of a crowd through the speakers finally caught his attention.
He paused.
“…Boxing?”
Only then did he glance toward the screen.
Two women stood beneath the harsh white lights of a crowded arena while a referee spoke between them at the center of the ring. Michael shifted slightly against the couch, mild curiosity surfacing almost immediately. Women’s boxing wasn’t exactly something he came across often on television, especially not as a live main event this late into the evening.
One fighter seemed determined to turn the entire pre-match moment into a performance. She paced aggressively in place, shoulders loose with exaggerated confidence while cameras followed her every movement. Even from the television screen, Michael could tell she was talking constantly, throwing comments toward the woman standing across from her.
Toward you.
In contrast, you barely moved at all.
The referee motioned for the staredown, and the arena noise seemed to swell immediately in anticipation.
Your opponent stepped forward first, clearly trying to intimidate you for the crowd’s entertainment. She smirked when you didn’t react, leaning closer to say something that made sections of the audience laugh loudly. When your expression remained unchanged, she became even more theatrical about it, waving a glove dismissively near your face and grinning toward the cameras as if waiting for you to finally snap back.
You never did.
Michael found himself lowering the notebook slightly.
There was something unexpectedly compelling about the way you held yourself. Not stiff, not emotionless, simply composed in a way that made the other woman’s behavior look increasingly childish the harder she tried to provoke you.
The cameras kept searching your face for irritation, embarrassment, anger. Anything they could magnify into drama.
They found nothing.
The longer you refused to give a reaction, the more frustrated your opponent visibly became, and Michael realized after a moment that he’d stopped writing altogether.
“Hm.”
The staredown finally ended when the referee stepped between you both again, but before returning to your corner, you extended your glove toward your opponent first in a quiet gesture of respect.
For half a second, Michael actually thought she might accept it.
Instead, she brushed your hand aside carelessly with a scoff dramatic enough to earn another loud reaction from the crowd.
Michael frowned faintly at the screen.
Again, the cameras cut toward you, almost expectantly.
You simply lowered your hand and walked calmly back toward your corner as though none of it had mattered enough to acknowledge.
That was the moment his interest sharpened properly.
“And in the black corner tonight,” the commentator announced over the roaring crowd, “rising contender Y/N L/N.”
Michael repeated your name softly under his breath without meaning to.
“Y/N…”
He didn’t recognize it.
Not surprising, really. Outside of hearing famous athletes mentioned around celebrities every now and then, he barely followed boxing at all, and women’s matches rarely received the kind of attention men’s fights did.
Still, he found himself settling more comfortably into the couch instead of changing the channel.
The opening bell rang.
Your opponent came at you aggressively almost immediately, throwing heavy punches with more emotion than control, still trying to overwhelm you the same way she had before the match began.
You avoided the first clean hit with such little wasted movement that Michael noticed it instantly.
Your footwork was unbelievably precise.
Every step looked balanced before it even happened, your body shifting smoothly into position as though each movement had already been rehearsed a thousand times beforehand. Even under pressure, nothing about the way you fought appeared frantic or careless.
Michael watched you slip beneath another punch before answering with a sharp counter that landed cleanly enough for the entire arena to erupt.
Your opponent stumbled slightly before regaining balance, frustration already beginning to show through her movements.
Michael leaned forward, notebook forgotten beside him now.
The longer the match continued, the more fascinated he became by the contrast between the two of you. Your opponent fought louder with every passing round, growing sloppier each time she failed to break through your defense. Meanwhile, you remained composed throughout every exchange, never chasing flashy moments for the audience even when the crowd clearly wanted them.
What struck Michael most was how disciplined everything about you felt.
Nothing seemed accidental.
Even the way you repositioned your feet between combinations reminded him strangely of watching dancers rehearse difficult choreography for hours until every movement became instinctive through repetition alone.
It was obvious you had trained endlessly for this.
Nobody moved that naturally without years of obsessive practice behind it.
Michael understood that kind of dedication immediately.
By the third round, he barely noticed the commentators anymore despite their growing excitement.
Instead, he found himself studying the rhythm of your movements. You were stronger than he expected at first glance, but it was your control that held his attention most. Your opponent struggled to land anything clean while you seemed to find openings almost effortlessly, timing every counter with an accuracy that looked almost frustrating to fight against.
And even after taking solid punches yourself, you never lost composure.
By the final round, the entire atmosphere inside the arena had shifted.
The same audience that had laughed during the staredown earlier now erupted every time you landed another clean combination, fully behind you by that point whether they had expected to be or not.
At some point, Michael had entirely forgotten about the demo still looping softly behind him in the studio.
Forgotten the notebook. Forgotten the time.
The final exchange happened quickly enough that he instinctively sat up straighter against the couch.
Your combination landed hard, forcing the referee to step in almost immediately afterward.
The arena exploded.
Your opponent immediately started arguing the decision while cameras flashed wildly around the ring, but you didn’t react to any of it. The referee lifted your arm while the crowd roared around you, and after a brief nod in acknowledgment, you simply returned to your corner to speak with your team.
Michael stayed staring at the television for several seconds after the match ended.
Only then did he realize how thirsty he suddenly felt.
He pushed himself up from the couch and wandered toward the small fridge tucked into the corner of the studio while highlights from the fight replayed behind him on the television. He grabbed a glass bottle of orange juice, twisting the cap open before taking a long sip as commentators excitedly replayed your counters and footwork from earlier rounds.
By the time he returned to the couch, the broadcast had shifted to post-fight analysis. Analysts discussed your growing reputation while footage from the staredown played again on-screen.
Michael noticed himself watching that part twice.
A few minutes later, the screen cut to a press room backstage.
You now sat behind a long table in front of a wall covered in sponsor logos and flashing cameras. Someone had cleaned you up slightly since the match, though signs of exhaustion still lingered beneath the harsh lighting. Your hair remained damp from sweat near your temples, and faint bruising had already begun surfacing along one side of your jaw.
Reporters immediately started talking over each other.
Questions about your rise in rankings. Your record. Women’s boxing finally drawing larger crowds. You answered each question.
Then one reporter leaned forward slightly.
“Y/N, people are already talking about the staredown before the fight. Your opponent was clearly trying to provoke you, especially after refusing your handshake. Were you angry?”
You adjusted the microphone slightly before answering.
“No.”
The reporter blinked, almost surprised by how matter-of-fact your answer sounded.
“Not at all?”
You shook your head once.
“I don’t really care what people say before a fight.”
“Why not?”
For the first time since the interview had begun, something faintly amused seemed to cross your face.
Not enough to become a smile.
Just enough to soften your expression slightly.
“Because if somebody has something to prove,” you said calmly, “the ring’s there for a reason.”
Soft laughter moved through parts of the room while camera flashes continued going off around you.
Michael lowered the orange juice bottle slowly, eyes still fixed on the television screen.
The room behind you remained noisy with overlapping reporters and constant camera shutters, but you yourself seemed strangely detached from all of it, answering each question with the same measured calm you had carried through the fight. Michael found himself lingering in front of the television even after the interview shifted toward statistics and commentary, waiting almost unconsciously for you to speak again.
You never did.
Eventually the broadcast moved on entirely, cutting back toward analysts replaying highlights from the match while discussing your growing popularity and the unusually strong ratings the fight had apparently pulled in. Michael barely listened to any of it.
Instead, his thoughts kept circling back toward the staredown at the beginning of the match.
The handshake.
The way you had refused to let yourself get dragged into a performance for the cameras even when the entire arena had practically been waiting for you to lose your composure.
Most people in entertainment spent their lives trying desperately to hold attention.
You had somehow managed to command an entire room by refusing to give people anything at all.
That was what stayed with him.
A few hundred miles away, long after the arena had emptied and the cameras finally disappeared, you stood beneath the steaming water of your hotel shower with one hand braced quietly against the tiled wall while exhaustion slowly settled into your body now that the adrenaline had finally begun wearing off.
Your shoulder burned.
Your ribs weren’t much better.
A dark bruise had already started surfacing along the side of your jaw where one of the cleaner punches had landed during the third round, and when you finally glanced toward the fogged-up bathroom mirror afterward, you inspected the swelling with the same detached focus you always gave post-fight injuries.
Nothing serious. Nothing unusual. Just another fight.
Outside the hotel windows, the city still glowed restlessly beneath the night sky, traffic lights flickering endlessly against distant buildings while muffled sounds from the street drifted upward every now and then. Inside the room, however, the silence felt almost disorienting after hours spent beneath arena lights and surrounded by thousands of screaming people.
No reporters trying to dissect every expression on your face.
No crowds calling your name while cameras followed close behind.
No opponent trying to provoke you into becoming entertainment for strangers.
Just quiet.
You changed into an oversized shirt, too tired to care about anything beyond finally getting some sleep, and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to dry your hair.
Within minutes, exhaustion pulled you under completely.
—
Over the next few weeks, Michael kept running into you everywhere.
At least, that was what it started feeling like.
It began innocently enough. A replay of one of your older matches airing late at night while he worked in the studio again. Then a magazine article left folded open in the living room downstairs that he found himself reading far longer than intended.
Before long, curiosity had quietly turned into active searching.
Which, in 1982, required considerably more effort than simply typing your name somewhere.
One afternoon, Michael sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television while an old recorded match played from a VHS tape Bill had managed to track down for him through one of the sports broadcasting contacts around Los Angeles. The quality was grainier than the live broadcast he’d first seen, colors slightly washed with age, but it didn’t matter much.
He was too busy watching your footwork again.
“You’re watchin’ boxing now?”
Jackie’s voice came from somewhere behind him, thick with amusement.
Michael barely glanced up. “Mm-hm.”
Jackie laughed almost immediately after realizing what was actually playing on the screen.
“Nah, hold on. Female boxing?”
That finally earned him a look.
Michael reached for the remote and lowered the volume slightly while Jackie wandered further into the room, staring openly at the television with growing confusion.
“What?” Michael muttered defensively. “She’s good.”
Jackie folded his arms, still watching you move around the ring on-screen before slowly turning back toward his brother with an expression that immediately made Michael regret answering at all.
“You got a crush or somethin’?”
Michael scoffed quickly. “No.”
The answer came just a little too fast.
Jackie grinned immediately.
“Oh, you definitely got a crush.”
“I do not.”
“You got tapes and everything!”
Michael instinctively glanced toward the small stack of VHS tapes near the television before immediately looking away again, which only made Jackie laugh harder.
“They’re research,” Michael insisted.
Jackie blinked.
“…Research for what?”
Michael opened his mouth automatically, ready to defend himself again, only to pause when he realized he didn’t actually have a proper explanation prepared.
Jackie burst out laughing.
“Man, you are gone already.”
Michael grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him without much force, earning another round of laughter before Jackie finally disappeared out of the room still shaking his head.
A few days later, Bill showed up at Hayvenhurst carrying another tape beneath one arm while Michael sat at the piano absentmindedly picking through unfinished melodies.
“Found another one for you,” Bill said casually as he handed it over. “Regional title fight from last year. Interview afterward too.”
Michael looked up immediately.
“Really?”
Bill nodded. “Had to make a few calls for this one. Sports stations don’t exactly keep these things organized.”
Michael took the tape from him almost carefully, already glancing down at the handwritten label across the front.
Bill noticed the growing collection stacked near the television and raised an eyebrow slightly, though he seemed smart enough not to comment on it directly.
Probably because by then, Michael himself had already stopped pretending the interest was casual.
He had started recognizing patterns in the way you fought.
The way exhaustion subtly changed your posture during later rounds.
The small habits you had before matches. Adjusting your wraps, rolling tension from your shoulders, pacing quietly through corners while reporters talked around you.
And strangely enough, the more interviews he watched, the more intrigued he became by the contrast between your public image and the occasional glimpses beneath it.
Because every now and then, usually during moments when you forgot cameras were still rolling, something softer surfaced briefly before disappearing again.
A small smile directed toward one of your trainers off-screen.
A shake of the head after a sarcastic comment somebody made nearby.
Small things most people probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.
Michael noticed them every single time.
Over time, Michael’s curiosity stopped feeling accidental.
At first, he had told himself he was simply interested in the discipline behind boxing, in the same way he admired dancers or musicians who dedicated themselves completely to perfecting their craft. But the more footage Bill managed
to track down for him, the more obvious it became that his attention had very little to do with boxing itself.
It was you. Always you.
He noticed how little your interviews ever revealed despite reporters constantly trying to pry into your private life. Nearly every article written about you seemed to circle around the same frustration: that nobody actually knew anything about you beyond what happened inside the ring.
No public relationships. No dramatic scandals. No gossip worth printing.
Even your interviews rarely lasted longer than a few minutes before shifting back toward training, upcoming fights, or women’s boxing itself whenever reporters attempted to push elsewhere.
One interview in particular stayed with Michael longer than most.
The interviewer had asked about your childhood after mentioning rumors about your family struggling financially when you were younger. The question itself had sounded almost opportunistic, as though he expected the audience to be rewarded with some tragic story they could consume.
You had looked at him quietly for a moment before answering.
“My childhood doesn’t really have anything to do with the fight tonight.”
The interviewer laughed awkwardly, clearly still hoping for more.
“But surely people are curious-”
“They’re paying to watch me box,” you interrupted calmly. “Not to hear about my private life.”
Then you had redirected the conversation back toward training camp without another word.
Michael remembered staring at the television afterward with the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You never gave people what they wanted from you.
And strangely enough, that only seemed to make people want more.
Eventually, admiration stopped feeling distant enough anymore.
One afternoon, after replaying another interview Bill had brought over earlier that week, Michael finally leaned back against the couch and said what had apparently been building in his head for days.
“I wanna call her.”
Bill looked up from where he sat nearby flipping through paperwork.
“…The boxer?”
Michael frowned slightly. “She got a name, Bill.”
Bill tried –and failed– to hide his amusement.
“Right. Sorry. Y/N.”
Michael ignored the look on his face entirely.
“I just…” He hesitated briefly, trying to explain something he himself didn’t fully understand yet. “I wanna tell her I think she’s great. And that I’m a fan of hers.”
Bill stared at him for another second before nodding slowly. “Alright.”
Actually getting in contact with you turned out to be considerably more difficult than either of them expected.
No direct line.
No public number.
No manager who was willing to casually pass along calls.
Every attempt somehow ended the same way: politely blocked before reaching you at all.
Michael found it oddly frustrating.
And, somehow, completely unsurprising.
“She really doesn’t let anybody in, huh?” Bill muttered one afternoon after another failed attempt through a promoter.
Michael sat curled sideways against the couch watching one of your older interviews play silently on the television.
“No,” he answered quietly, almost sounding amused by it. “She doesn’t.”
And honestly, the more difficult you became to reach, the more determined he found himself growing.
By then, work on the album had intensified enough that most days blurred together completely. The demos were finally finished, recording sessions stretching endlessly between Westlake and Hayvenhurst while discussions about the album title continued almost daily.
Michael still wasn’t entirely sure about Thriller.
Some days he liked it. Other days he didn’t.
Everything about the project had become bigger than expected, with schedules tightening constantly as producers, executives, choreographers, musicians, and engineers pulled him in different directions from morning until well past midnight.
Which was exactly why Bill looked so confused when Michael abruptly announced he wanted an entire evening cleared a few weeks later.
“You’re cancelling the session?”
“Just movin’ it.”
Bill blinked. “Michael, Quincy’s gonna kill me.”
“He won’t kill you.”
“He might.”
Michael barely looked up while adjusting the baseball cap lower over his curls in front of the mirror.
Your upcoming fight happened to be in California.
Close enough that he could go without attracting too much attention if they were careful.
And despite how absurdly busy he already was, despite rehearsals, recording schedules, interviews, and endless label meetings surrounding the album, he couldn’t stop thinking about seeing you fight in person.
Television suddenly didn’t feel like enough anymore.
The arena was already packed by the time Michael and Bill arrived.
Disguised or not, moving through crowds still required caution. Michael kept his head lowered beneath the cap while large sunglasses and a scarf obscured most of his face, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as Bill guided them carefully toward their seats.
Even then, he could feel people occasionally glancing his way, lingering just a little too long before dismissing the possibility entirely.
Nobody expected Michael Jackson to be sitting at a women’s boxing match.
That alone helped.
The atmosphere inside the arena felt entirely different in person than it did through television speakers. Louder. Rougher. Hotter beneath the overhead lights. The crowd buzzed constantly with overlapping conversations and cigarette smoke lingering heavily through parts of the venue.
Then you entered the arena.
And somehow, despite the noise surrounding you, Michael noticed the exact same thing he had the first night he saw you on television.
You carried yourself like somebody entirely untouched by the spectacle around you.
No dramatic gestures.
No exaggerated confidence for cameras.
Just quiet focus.
The fight itself ended up even more brutal than your previous match.
Your opponent fought defensively from the start, clearly aware of your reputation by then, but it hardly mattered. Michael watched from only a few rows back while you slowly dismantled her round by round with the same relentless precision he had become so fascinated by over the past weeks.
You moved beautifully.
Not beautifully in a delicate sense. Beautifully in the way highly perfected things often were.
Every pivot looked intentional, every counter timed perfectly.
Even your recovery between exchanges carried an odd sort of grace that reminded him painfully of rehearsals, of bodies trained so thoroughly they stopped hesitating altogether.
By the later rounds, Michael realized he wasn’t even pretending to casually watch anymore.
He was completely invested.
When the final bell rang and your hand was raised once again, he felt strangely proud despite the fact that you had absolutely no idea he existed somewhere in the audience.
Backstage access, however, proved significantly harder than getting into the arena itself.
“You realize they’re not just gonna let you walk in there,” Bill muttered while Michael continued watching security near the restricted hallway.
Michael frowned slightly. “I know.”
But he also wasn’t exactly used to hearing no very often.
Especially not after deciding he wanted something.
As soon as Bill had found a staff member and delayed the request, attitudes shifted remarkably fast.
Still, even while being escorted backstage, Michael found himself unexpectedly nervous for the first time all evening.
Because after weeks spent watching you through television screens and grainy VHS recordings, he was finally about to meet you in person.
Backstage felt strangely chaotic compared to the sharp focus of the ring.
People moved constantly through the narrow hallways carrying equipment, towels, paperwork, bottles of water. Trainers shouted over one another somewhere nearby while reporters still lingered around certain corners hoping to squeeze out final comments before fighters disappeared for the night.And somehow, in the middle of all of it, word had already spread.
Michael Jackson was backstage.
More specifically, Michael Jackson had personally requested to meet you.
Michael could feel the curiosity following him as he and Bill were escorted deeper into the restricted area. A few people tried very hard not to stare and failed completely. Others openly paused mid-conversation to look at him passing through the hallway.
“Can’t believe she got Michael Jackson coming to see her,” someone muttered nearby, not quite quietly enough.
Michael adjusted the sleeves of his jacket slightly, suddenly aware again of the nervous energy sitting uncomfortably beneath his skin.
Which felt ridiculous.
He performed in front of stadiums full of people.
He dealt with executives, interviewers, screaming fans, award shows.
And yet standing outside your dressing room somehow made him more aware of his hands than any of those things ever did.
He kept fiddling with his rings absentmindedly while Bill knocked lightly against the half-open door.
One of your trainers looked up first, confusion flashing briefly across his face before realization hit almost immediately.
“Oh–”
Another person standing nearby physically straightened in surprise.
Michael almost regretted coming for half a second.
Then your voice drifted from somewhere further inside the room.
“It’s fine. Let them in.”
The dressing room itself was quieter than the hallway outside, though traces of the fight still lingered everywhere. Athletic tape, water bottles, towels tossed across chairs, the faint lingering smell of sweat and antiseptic hanging in the warm air.
You sat near one of the mirrors with a small ice pack resting against the side of your jaw, still wearing parts of your fight gear while someone from your team cleaned a cut near your eyebrow.
For the first time since seeing you on television weeks ago, Michael was close enough to notice details cameras had never properly captured.
The faint scattering of freckles across your cheeks.
The slight tiredness around your eyes beneath the harsh dressing room lights.
The way your voice softened almost automatically when one of your trainers leaned over to quietly ask whether your ribs needed additional wrapping before the flight home.
You thanked him gently before finally looking back toward Michael fully.
There was a brief pause.
Not awkward exactly.
More like surprise carefully hidden beneath composure.
Michael suddenly became very aware of how absurd this entire situation probably looked from your perspective.
“Hi,” he said first, offering a small nervous smile. “I’m Michael.”
Bill visibly fought the urge to laugh beside him.
You blinked once before standing carefully from the chair, the ice pack still loosely held in one hand.
“I know.”
Something about the answer made Michael smile a little wider despite himself.
One of the people standing further back in the room looked genuinely stunned.
“You’re a fan?” another trainer asked incredulously, clearly directed toward Michael rather than you.
Michael glanced toward you immediately.
“Yeah,” he answered simply. “Big fan.”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, your composure cracked just slightly into visible surprise.
Not dramatic surprise.
Just enough that he could tell you genuinely hadn’t expected that answer.
“That’s…” You hesitated briefly, clearly trying to process it. “I didn’t think somebody like you would even know who I was.”
Michael shrugged lightly. “I saw one of your fights on TV a few weeks ago.”
“And now he got a whole tape collection,” Bill added helpfully from beside him.
Michael shot him a look.
You actually laughed softly at that. Not loudly, not enough to fully lose your composure, but enough for something warmer to briefly surface beneath your usual guardedness.
“I’m honored,” you said.
And somehow the fact that you said it so calmly felt stranger to Michael than if you’d reacted the way most people usually did around him.
You weren’t nervous.
At least not visibly.
You looked at him the same way you seemed to look at most things: steady, observant, difficult to read.
“I’m a fan too, actually,” you admitted after a moment.
Michael’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Yeah?”
You nodded once.
“My brothers used to play Off the Wall constantly when it first came out.” A faint smile touched the corner of your mouth again. “Especially Rock with You. My mom loved that one.”
Michael smiled immediately at that.
“She did?”
“Used to dance around the kitchen to it while cooking.” You glanced downward briefly, almost amused by the memory. “Drove all of us crazy because she’d sing it completely off-key.”
The room laughed softly.
You seemed to realize a second later you’d revealed slightly more personal information than intended because your expression settled back into composure almost immediately afterward.
Still, Michael noticed.
And for some reason, he liked knowing that tiny detail more than he probably should have.
“You mind signing somethin’ for me?” he asked suddenly.
That earned you a visibly surprised look.
“For you?”
Michael nodded seriously.
“You’re really good.”
Before you could answer, Bill was already reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket with the efficiency of somebody who had clearly done this hundreds of times before.
You watched in mild disbelief as he produced a marker almost instantly.
“…Does he always carry those around?”
“Pretty much,” Bill answered dryly.
A quiet laugh escaped you at that while you reached down beside your chair, picking up one of your boxing gloves from the bench nearby. The leather was still warm from the fight, the wrist wraps partially hanging loose from where you’d undone them earlier.
“You sure you want this?” you asked while uncapping the marker.
Michael looked at the glove like it was something considerably more valuable than it probably should have been.
“Yeah.”
You signed carefully across the white leather near the wrist before handing it back to him, watching him inspect the signature with an oddly sincere amount of appreciation.
Then you tilted your head slightly.
“Can I get one too?”
Michael blinked. “You want my autograph?”
“You’re Michael Jackson,” you replied matter-of-factly. “It’d be weird if I didn’t.”
Bill instinctively reached into his jacket again before pausing.
“…I don’t actually have an album on me.”
Michael glanced around briefly before his eyes landed on the second glove still resting beside you.
Without missing a beat, he reached for it.
“This okay?”
You looked genuinely amused now. “Sure.”
Bill handed him the marker while several people in the room watched the entire exchange with expressions ranging from entertained to completely bewildered by the surrealness of what they were witnessing.
Michael rested the glove carefully against his knee before signing his name across the leather in smooth black ink, concentrating far more than necessary while doing it.
When he handed it back, your fingers brushed briefly against his.
“Thank you,” you said.
Michael smiled lightly. “Thank you.”
By the time both autographs were exchanged, the atmosphere in the room had relaxed noticeably.
Michael found himself asking questions almost without thinking.
Not celebrity questions. Not interview questions. Actual questions.
“How long do you train before fights?”
You leaned lightly back against the table behind you. “Depends who I’m fighting.”
“But like… every day?”
“Mostly.”
“How long?”
“A few hours minimum.”
Michael frowned slightly, genuinely trying to picture it.
“And your footwork,” he continued. “How long does it take to get that fast?”
You blinked at him.
Not because of the question itself, but because he sounded sincerely invested in the answer.
“A long time,” you admitted. “Years.”
“You practice the same movements over and over?”
“Basically.”
Michael nodded slowly, clearly understanding that concept immediately.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I figured.”
While he spoke, you noticed his hands again.
He kept fidgeting absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers, sleeves shifting just enough every now and then for pale patches of skin near his wrists to briefly show beneath the fabric.
Vitiligo.
You recognized it immediately, though you pretended not to notice.
Something about the constant movement of his hands contrasted strangely with the calmness in his voice, as though nervous energy sat permanently beneath his skin no matter how softly he spoke.
Which surprised you more than anything else that night.
Because this was Michael Jackson.
And yet standing here talking to you, he somehow seemed more nervous than you were.
Eventually, someone from your team quietly reminded you about an upcoming flight, and the conversation finally began slowing naturally.
Michael seemed reluctant to leave despite himself.
“So…” He hesitated slightly before glancing toward you again. “Could I maybe get a number to call you sometime?”
Bill looked upward briefly like he was trying not to smile too obviously.
You studied Michael for another second, perhaps weighing the request more carefully than most people would have expected. It was nothing out of the ordinary to have celebrities have your number to connect.
Then, surprisingly:
“Sure.”
Bill already had something to write with ready before either of you could ask.
You took the paper, scribbling the number down quickly before handing it back toward Michael.
Your fingers brushed briefly during the exchange.
And for some deeply irritating reason, Michael felt the contact all the way up his arm.
You extended your hand again properly afterward.
“It was nice meeting you, Michael.”
He looked down at your hand for half a second before taking it.
Your grip was firm from years of training, the rough callouses along your palm catching slightly against his skin in a way that made it immediately obvious how much time you spent fighting, wrapping your hands, hitting bags, living inside gyms. Your hand was warmer than he expected too, despite the lingering coldness from the ice pack you’d been holding earlier.
And somehow the simple handshake sent a strange nervous warmth through him that he couldn’t explain even to himself.
“You too,” he answered quietly.
Then, after the briefest hesitation:
“I’ll call you soon.”