Michael Jackson

You had been Paris Jackson’s kindergarten teacher for several months now. When Michael Jackson enrolled his daughter at your school, it had caused quite a stir, as expected. But for you, she was just another bright and curious child, eager to learn and full of wonder. Paris had settled into her lessons easily, and while some parents might have been more hands-off, Michael was attentive. He’d come to you after school sometimes, asking if Paris needed extra help. The answer was always no—Paris was doing great. But that didn’t stop him from finding reasons to keep the conversation going.

At first, you thought it was just a father wanting the best for his daughter. But as the weeks passed and the conversations grew longer, you began to notice the way his smile lingered when he looked at you, how his voice softened when he spoke your name. It wasn’t just about Paris anymore. Michael wanted to see you, even if he couldn’t find the words to say it.

Before long, the two of you had arranged for you to come to his house every Saturday to ‘tutor’ Paris. You both knew she didn’t need the extra help, but it had become an excuse to spend time together, one that neither of you dared to acknowledge.

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Now, it was another Saturday. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows of Michael’s grand kitchen, bathing everything in a soft, golden glow. You sat at the table with Paris beside you, her tiny hands clutching an English workbook. She was going through each exercise diligently, but your mind kept drifting to the man sitting across from you.

Michael was there, as always, watching quietly. His presence was impossible to ignore—he was always close, closer than necessary, finding subtle ways to insert himself into your lessons. He sat just beside Paris, his elbow propped casually on the table as he watched her work, though his attention often drifted to you.

You could his gaze settle on you, once again. You glanced up and found him looking at you with that same quiet intensity, his dark eyes warm and thoughtful. There was something so tender, yet charged, in the way he looked at you. It made the air feel heavier, like every glance carried more weight than either of you was ready to admit.