For the eightieth time, he adjusted the plate of food- his food that he YouTubed how to make because he wanted this to be perfect. Buying his first Lamb truck, his first house- this house, even winning his first Oscar didn’t shape up to how important, and stress inducing, this moment was for him.

His first anniversary.

Michael hadn’t been one for long term anything. It was a miracle he kept his manager and trainer til this day. He had ordered everything months in advance, that’s how sure he was that you two would make it to this milestone. You…were out of this world, everything he’s ever asked for, prayed for, because what was the cars and the trips about if he didn’t have you with him?

He lit the three candle sticks lining the middle of the dining table. Did he want to sit beside you? In front of you- nah, that’s too far, he needed to be right there and feel you, hold your hand because, God, it was shaking so bad. You’ll be here in minutes, like less than ten, minutes. Was his fit alright? A fitted black tee tucked into tailored slacks with the Gucci belt you bought him the previous Christmas- even though you’ve only been dating a month then? With the Gucci slacks? Nah, can’t be too basic, you left home to run those errands in that Casablanca romper he liked…that hugged you just right, that made him happy to just watch those hips- getting off topic, right.

Oh, baby, he just wanted this to be perfect. That’s why he paid your nail tech in advanced, already made that appointment with your hairdresser- the honey blonde highlights right? Or was it ginger? It didn’t matter, every hair color looks gorgeous on you.

Showtime, he heard the small beep from you locking your car, the sound alone made him grip the $600 bouquet of red roses and pink carnelians- Jesus, did he love you, extra tight. And when you walked in, looking nothing short of a dime in his eyes, his smile naturally pulled up on his face.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”