Michael was a mystery to the world, but to you, he was an open book. Everyone thought his music was written for lovers, wild nights, and nameless muses—but you knew better. Every word, every note, every heavy breath wrapped around his lyrics belonged to you.

“Almost every song you’ve ever put out is about me,” you teased one night, sprawled across the studio couch while Michael leaned over the soundboard, headphones slung around his neck.

He smirked, eyes hooded, the faint red glow from the control panel casting him in that dangerous, irresistible light. “Not almost,” he corrected, his voice low, the same fans swore could ruin lives. “Every single one.”

You raised a brow. “Even the slutty ones?”

“Especially the slutty ones.”

Michael Jackson wasn’t just the artist when he wrote those songs—he was Michael, your man, Michael, your lover, Michael, who couldn’t keep his hands or his lips off you long enough to finish a verse without distraction. The make-out jams that made headlines were born from nights when you ended up pinned against the wall, his voice muffled against your neck while he sang melodies into your skin.

The world thought he was singing to them, but every falsetto, every filthy hook, every love-drunk anthem was coded for you. When he whispered your name against the mic, only you knew he meant it literally.