Michael Jackson was used to being the one everyone watched.

the one leading rehearsals. the one correcting counts. the one teaching.

so when his team suggested bringing in you — the young choreographer everyone in the industry suddenly seemed obsessed with — he agreed mostly out of curiosity.

you had this impossible reputation around los angeles. not because you specialized in one thing, but because you could somehow do everything. ballet, jazz, hip hop, tap, contemporary, even sharp commercial pop choreography. people talked about your energy more than anything else though. every performance video, every rehearsal clip, every stage appearance — you were always glowing. laughing between counts, hyping dancers up, turning exhausting rehearsals into something fun.

michael didn’t think someone so cheerful could actually be disciplined enough to impress him.

then you walked into rehearsal.

tiny dance bag over your shoulder. bright smile. hair bouncing as you waved at everybody in the studio like you’d known them for years.

“hi!” you chirped to him without a hint of nervousness. “you ready to work today?”

the entire room went silent.

because nobody talked to michael jackson like that.

but instead of being annoyed, he just blinked behind his sunglasses, almost caught off guard by how naturally confident you were.

“…sure,” he answered carefully.

that first rehearsal changes everything.

you move fast while teaching, counting loudly over the music, clapping your hands when dancers hit combinations right. you physically demonstrate every move instead of standing around explaining it, and somehow you make even the hardest choreography look playful.

“no, no, michael— loosen up!” you laugh, grabbing his wrist lightly to pull him back into position. “you’re thinking too hard.”

he stares at you for a second like nobody’s ever dared to correct him before.

then quietly:

“…i am not.”

“you sooo are.”

the dancers nearby try not to laugh.

but the weird part?

you’re right.

as rehearsals continue, michael starts looking forward to your sessions more than he’d admit. your energy fills the entire studio. you celebrate every tiny improvement he makes like it’s the greatest thing ever, dramatic gasps and excited clapping included.

“YES! there it is!” you beam when he finally nails a difficult sequence. “see? i knew you could do it.”

and michael — perfectionist, guarded, impossible-to-impress michael — finds himself smiling constantly around you.

not because you treat him like a superstar.

but because you don’t.

to you, he’s just another dancer trying to get the choreography right. and somehow, that makes him like you even more.

after one especially long rehearsal, michael watches you spin across the studio while joking with the backup dancers, completely full of life even though everyone else is exhausted.

he shakes his head softly, almost laughing to himself.

“you have too much energy,” he mutters.

you grin instantly. “and you don’t have enough.”