The next day, you tried to stay busy to keep yourself from staring at the phone. You walked around the block - five times to be exact – and cleaned out your refrigerator just to keep yourself from obsessing over a possible call from Richard. But no matter what you did, you couldn't stop fantasizing about your return to Neverland.

The phone rang. You dived for it.

"Richard?!"

"It's me!" Rich answered cheerfully. "Guess what. Michael called me. He told me he wants you to start his painting next week."

You raised your eyebrows in disbelief. "Michael called you himself?"

"Incredible, right? I half-believed I'd dreamed everything that happened yesterday, so when I heard his voice on the phone I almost choked on my Wheaties."

You laughed so hard you collapsed onto the couch. "It's a good thing you didn't die. I would have engraved on your headstone, 'Here lies Richard Hughes, great manager and beloved friend. Choked on Wheaties while fanboying over Michael Jackson.'"

Rich cracked up. "I would be proud to have that on my gravestone." His laugh turned mischievous, like a child with a secret. "But you're the one who might need a gravestone."

Your heart picked up its pace. "Why is that?"

"Michael wants you to do the painting at his house. He said he wants to watch your creative process."

The thought alone made your palms sweat. Would you even be able to paint with him hovering over you, like an archangel, watching your every move with those scrupulous eyes that ceaselessly searched for perfection? Those charming, affectionate, spirited eyes...

"You still there?" Rich asked, prying you from your thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm here. That'll be fine," you said in your serious-business voice.

Rich chuckled. "You sure?"

You grinned uneasily. "Positive," you said, feigning confidence when in reality your stomach was flipping over and twisting in knots. Though, deep down, you knew the nauseous feeling in your gut was only butterflies, fluttering their wings in excitement, whispering Michael's name.

Exactly a week later, you awakened three hours earlier than your alarm. You had tried to fall back asleep, but after several minutes of tossing and turning, you accepted that it would be impossible; exhilaration consumed you the moment you opened your eyes.

The butterflies danced wildly, chanting, "Today's the day! Today's the day!"

You thought you might throw up.

You pulled your favorite blue flannel shirt over your head with trembling hands. A silly part of you hoped you and Michael might match. Once you were dressed, you started for your bedroom door, but your small jewelry box caught your attention. You never wore jewelry – it was too girly for your tastes – but today pretty things beckoned you. Before you knew it, you were sliding bracelets onto your wrists and even applying a bit of lipstick. You argued with yourself as you tried to make sense of your actions.

Why are you putting on lipstick? You hate lipstick. And jewelry.

Well, you know, a little change is healthy now and then.

You're in love with Michael, aren't you?

Pfft! Me? In love with Michael? Don't be ridiculous.

You were in denial.

Hauling your easel, canvas, and paint supplies to your car would have been a hassle if it was for anyone else, but for Michael, nothing was too bothersome. You knew if he had asked you to drag your stuff onto a plane to Timbuktu, you would have been on the next flight. You packed your things into your trunk, all the while wondering if you'd ever be able to say no to him. Probably not, you admitted. You hopped into the driver's seat and headed for Richard's place.

You parked outside his small, beige house and sent him a text: "I'm here!" You let the car idle while you watched the front door and windows of the house, ready to detect any sign of movement. Come on, Rich. Still, there was no sign of him. You sent him another text: "Hurry up!" No reply. So you did the only thing you could do . . .

You laid your head on the horn and screamed. "For God's sake, Hughes, hurry up! We're going to be late and Michael's going to fire us and you'll never get to see him again and -"

Richard finally came scrambling out his front door, shrieking, "I'm here! I'm hurrying!"

"Hurry faster!" You lifted your head and opened the passenger door for him.

He clambered into the car, breathing like he just ran twenty miles. "Give me a break, will ya? I'm chubby."

You rolled your eyes and smiled. "Really, Richard? Another suit?"

He stroked the lapel of his fancy, black jacket. "What? I like to look good when I visit literally the most famous man on the planet. Is that such a crime?" He nodded toward your bracelets. "And I'm not the only one who got gussied up for the occasion. You never wear jewelry."

You fiddled with your seatbelt and avoided his gaze. "I sometimes do."

Rich's jaw dropped. "Are you wearing lipstick?"

You blushed and lifted your chin. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He smirked and pointed a pudgy finger at your face. "I'm talking about that red lipstick. Right there."

"Okay! Here we go!" You started the car and flew down the road. "Off to Neverland!"

"I can't believe you're wearing lipstick!"

"Shut up, Richard!"

When you arrived at the gates, the security process took longer than it had last time, or maybe it only felt that way. You couldn't wait to see Michael again. On the drive to the main house, you noticed the ranch looked even more beautiful than it had that first day. You didn't think that was possible, but you knew Michael's musical motto was "sky's the limit," and apparently the same was true for his landscaping. The gardens, the fountains, and the grasses of the property glistened with a magic that only existed behind his iron gates. But just as Neverland winters melted to spring with the arrival of Peter Pan, you knew it was Michael's presence that gave everything an otherworldly glow.

You finally stopped your car in front of Michael's house. Your hand trembled as you pulled your key out of the ignition, but you were biting your lip to hide your smile. A guard escorted the two of you into the living room and instructed you to wait there for "Mr. Jackson," who would be coming down soon.

So, the two of you stood there awkwardly, looking around as if you were in a museum, as if you had never been there before. Richard bounced on his toes and wrung his hands behind his back. "It never gets less exciting. Being here." He pinched himself in the arm. "It still feels like a dream."

You played with your bracelets. "I think it feels like home."

Richard winked. "You know, if you keep wearing lipstick and jewelry for him, it might actually be your home someday."

You frowned and patted his shoulder. "I know you ship Michael and me, but you'll have to let that ship sink because I'm not in love with-"

Michael came down the stairs.

You forgot what you were going to say. Time stopped, and for a moment you thought your heart might too. All you could do was stare in wordless wonder, stunned speechless – not by celebrity, but by what could only be described as royalty.

Michael shined. As he descended the dimly lit stairwell, his white-beaded military jacket, adorned with softly glowing, gracefully patterned pearls, appeared to illuminate the space around him. His black armband, dark satin gloves, slim black pants, and black heeled boots only served to embellish the jacket's diamond radiance. Long wavy curls framed his face and fell over his forehead. A musky, vanilla aroma filled the air and reached your nose. His cologne.

Michael saw the look on your face and smiled down at you, and, by some work of magic, his smile outshined his jacket.

I'm in love with Michael Jackson. The words resonated in your mind.

"It's so good to see you two again," Michael said, extending a gloved hand to you.

You shook it eagerly. "It's . . . really good to see you too," you stammered, avoiding his direct gaze. You hoped he didn't notice your red face. You passed a glance at Richard. He was standing there with his mouth agape, his eyes wide as he stared at Michael.

Michael snickered as he held his hand out to him. "It's good to see you again, Rich."

"Michael, you look phenomenal," Rich blurted unabashedly. "Like I mean phenomenal."

Well, at least one of you had the courage to say it.

Michael looked down at himself, surprised as if it never occurred to him that he looked like a young god. "Really? Thank you, that's sweet. This is my favorite jacket."

Rich stared at the magnificent coat and nodded. "Annnd now it's my favorite." Michael chuckled and bit his lip timidly.

"I guess it was your turn to dress up," you said, unable to form a more sophisticated sentence.

"We just finished taking the reference photo for the painting. The camera guys should be printing it, but they're taking an awfully long time. I'm going to change into something more comfortable, but first I have to see what's taking them so long. Do you mind waiting here just a minute longer? Feel free to have a seat." Michael turned to leave.

"Wait!" Richard called. Michael stopped and turned, his eyes wide. Richard pulled out his phone. "This is weird, but can I take a picture of us together before you change? I told my niece about how I met you, and I would love to have a picture to show her."

Michael's eyes brightened. "Sure!" He stood next to Richard, and Richard stood on his tip toes and held out his phone for a selfie. You never took your eyes off Michael as he smiled big and bright. Click!

"You're the best," Rich said.

"It's no problem, really," Michael said. "Alright, you two, wait here. I'll be right back." He disappeared around the corner.

As soon as Michael was out of earshot, you turned to Richard. "What was that about? You don't have a niece."

Rich shot you with two finger guns. Your phone vibrated in your pocket. You retrieved it and looked at the screen. Michael's smiling face looked back at you.

"I cropped myself out of it," Rich said. "I thought you might want to have a picture of him all dressed up."

You cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Oh, so you took it for me and no one else?"

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, I took it for me too, but I did it mostly for you."

"And why would you do that?"

Richard groaned. "When are you going to stop playing dumb, (Y/n)? Don't think I didn't see your face earlier. When Michael came down those stairs, I thought your heart was going to stop."

"Shut up, Richard," you said in a sing-song voice.

"I would have put on your gravestone, 'Here lies (Y/n), great painter and friend. Died of shock when Michael Jackson looked too damn handsome - '"

Michael came around the corner.

You stomped hard on Rich's foot. He yelped and began hopping, clutching his soon-to-be-bruised toes.

"What happened?" said Michael in genuine alarm. He still wore his royal garb.

"I . . . uhh," Richard stuttered. You shot him a glare that meant Say a single word and I'll kill you. He swallowed hard and gave Michael an embarrassed smile. "Oh, don't worry about me. I just stubbed my toe."

Michael searched the floor for the culprit. "On what?"

"Anyway!" you interrupted. "Is the photo ready?"

"Oh! Yeah, I told them to hurry up. Everything's all set for you in the studio. I'll have some of my staff unload your car for you."

"You don't have to do that. We can get it, don't worry," you assured him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal."

"Besides, I'm really strong," Richard added, flexing his muscles.

Michael laughed. "Alright, if you insist. I'll help you out."

The three of you unloaded your car. By the time you had gathered your apron, paints, paintbrushes, and easel, Michael and Richard had started carrying the large canvas up to the front steps. Richard tripped on the last stair, and an image of the destroyed canvas flashed across your mind, but thankfully Michael caught it in time.

"Woah!" Michael said, laughing. "Careful, Rich. Wouldn't want to stub your toe again."

Richard glared at you. "No, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

You almost died laughing. "Yeah, Rich, be careful," you teased.

You held the door open for them and followed Michael's directions to the studio room he had prepared for you. The moment you opened the doors, you fell in love. The room was filled with art. Paintings, pencil drawings, sculptures. Famous pieces, pieces you'd never seen before that were equally beautiful. The windows were large, and the room was drenched in the pale light of mid-morning. Michael and Rich propped the canvas against the wall, and the three of you stood there as you and Richard took it all in.

"This place is amazing," you said.

Michael smiled proudly. He slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his toes. "You like it? I'm so glad."

You approached a large sketch of Martin Luther King Jr. "Who did this?"

"Oh, that?" Michael grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. "That's just something I did. I was just fooling around."

You turned to him and pointed at the sketch. "You did this? Michael, it's excellent."

"You're too kind," he replied quietly, shuffling his feet. He wouldn't even meet your eyes; he just grinned down at the floor. You felt guilty for embarrassing him. How could a star like him be so shy? Michael quickly changed the subject. "So, feel free to set up anywhere you like. I'm going to go change out of these clothes, and I'll be back in a minute." He hurried off.

"He likes you," Richard said as he helped you lift the canvas onto the easel.

"You're just seeing what you want to see because you ship us," you said, although you couldn't stop thinking about the way Michael had blushed.

"If you ask me, I'd say my ship's about to sail," Rich replied.

"Yeah, okay." You arranged your paints and brushes the way you liked them and ran through a mental checklist. "I think we're all set."

"Good, 'cause here he comes," Rich said as the studio doors swung open. Michael entered, holding the large reference photograph. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt and black pants. The butterflies fluttered wildly in your stomach.

"I thought it would be nice if we matched!" Michael said.

"I had hoped we might," you admitted.

Michael looked genuinely surprised. There was a sparkle in his eyes as he said, "Really?"

You chuckled and nodded. The two of you stood looking at each other for a moment, smiling and avoiding eye contact. Richard looked on with delight as if everything was going just as he wanted it to.

You cleared your throat and gestured toward the photo in Michael's hand, a photo of him looking out across Neverland through his large picture window, drenched in the golden glow of the setting sun, which made the pearls on his jacket glint and glow. "It's a stunning photograph," you said.

"I like it," Michael said, looking it over. "I'll set it up for you." He looked around the room, found another small easel and set the photograph on it. He searched the room again and retrieved two chairs.

As you stood before the canvas, readying your paints and brushes, the two men pulled their chairs next to you. Richard kept a respectful distance, but Michael sat as close as he could to you and the painting. It reminded you of the way your young students used to watch you paint. You smiled.

You were nervous, though. It had been years since you had had an audience, and even then they were just small children. This was the greatest entertainer in the world, an entertainer who was, as you just learned, no amateur artist himself. Your hands shook as you slipped your black, paint-splattered apron over your head. You struggled to tie its straps behind your back.

You felt someone else's hands tangle with yours. You looked over your shoulder. Michael was there, gently taking the straps from you. He tied them in a pretty bow and smiled.

"Oh, thank you," you said bashfully. You tried to permanently etch the way his hands felt on yours into your memory.

"No problem," Michael said before taking his seat again.

Rich rocked his chair back and forth, balancing it on its back legs. He looked as though he were watching his favorite TV show, specifically an episode filled with fan service. He gave you a discreet thumbs-up.

You pretended you hadn't seen. "Alright, let's get started."

Michael clapped his hands together. "I can't wait!" His enthusiasm rubbed off on you, and for the first time in years, as you squirted your paints onto your palette, you felt like you were starting an adventure, not another mundane task.

"Why are you doing it like that?" Michael asked, pointing at the palette.

"Oh, this? I put the darker colors on one side of the palette, then I put the lighter colors on the other. I leave a space in between for mixing."

"Ah, okay," he said, studying your every move. "And what's that for?" He pointed to a colorful, laminated chart.

"It's a color chart." You handed it to him so he could see. "It tells you what colors to mix in order to get specific light or dark hues." While he examined it, you opened a can of white liquid and coated the entire canvas with it.

It grabbed Michael's attention. "What's that?"

"I'm preparing the canvas with something called gesso. It's designed to make the canvas wet and slick, and it allows me to blend color right on the canvas."

"That's really interesting," he said. The look on his face suggested he was taking detailed mental notes. He was an excellent student.

I'm teaching again, you thought.

Your heart flooded with warmth and contentment. This is what had been missing all these years. The joy of passing on knowledge. The passion you saw written in Michael's every movement, every expression. His closeness. He infused energy into your spirit, and that energy traveled through your hand and into your brushstrokes. For the first time in years, your painting had a heartbeat.

Though you never knew him, it was Michael you had been missing all this time.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Michael's gaze shift from the painting to your rosy face. His eyes glistened, and the corner of his lips quirked upward. "Your lipstick is beautiful," he said. "It's a perfect shade for you."

Your heart exploded then reassembled. "Th-thank you."

Richard was covering his ecstatic smile with his fist, rocking back and forth, unable to sit still as his glorious ship was sailing.

Michael's eyes lingered on your lips a moment longer before he returned his attention to your brushstrokes. You dabbed specks of bright yellow into a plot of green, forming vibrant marigolds in the garden outside the picture window. Michael stared in wonder.

"You're amazing," he said.

"You're too kind," you replied.

Michael's face was bright and hopeful. "Do you give lessons?"

You froze. You hadn't given lessons in years, and even then, you had only taught elementary school students. And now, you didn't have time to give lessons to anyone. Commissions consumed your life. Tell him no, you ordered yourself. Tell him you're too busy.