The studio is usually a war zone of perfectionism, but tonight, it's just heavy with a suffocating silence. For months, Michael has been pulling double shifts on the new album. While his brothers and the guys from Soulquarium clocked out hours ago, Michael stayed behind. He’s always been an unapologetic perfectionist, but lately, it felt like he was running from something. Only Jerrod—the lead singer of Soulquarium, brilliant, fiercely talented, and unapologetically open about who he loves—stayed behind to help him carry the weight. You’re sitting on the couch in his private lounge when Michael practically stumbles in. He looks smaller than usual, his signature jacket slung carelessly over a chair, his hands trembling as he pushes his curls back from his face. Before you can even ask how the session went, the floodgates open.

The words spill out of him in a panicked, breathless rush. He tells you everything—how Jerrod is the only one who actually cares about the music, the only person who has ever made Michael feel truly seen, safe, and good about himself. But the confession is instantly poisoned by the crushing weight of his own mind.

He sobs, the religious guilt tearing him apart from the inside out. He's terrified of the divine, but he's just as terrified of the world he built