Off Script

Daddy Michael?(MBJ POV)

Not the hype stuff I usually pack to, but it felt right.

I tossed in hoodies, sweats, a couple clean tees — but I was careful with the small stuff. The cologne she always lingered against after hugging me. The gray beanie she stole off my head in London and said made me "look like trouble." The one I knew she'd smile at the second she saw it.

The song played on, the soft guitar sliding into her voice in my head — her laugh, her eyes when she looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.

I caught myself just standing there, one hand on the dresser, letting the weight of it hit me — the fact that twenty-four hours from now, I'd be with her. With J.C.

And with whatever came next for us.

I zipped the bag, grabbed my passport, and sat on the edge of the bed for a second, letting the song finish before killing the lights.

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

The jet was already fueled and waiting by the time I hit the tarmac.

No boarding lines. No cameras. Just me, my bag, and the hum of the engines.

I climbed the steps slow, breathing in that cold bite of night air before stepping inside. The cabin was warm, all soft lighting and leather seats, quiet except for the low whir of the ventilation. I dropped my bag, slid into the corner seat, and stretched my legs out.

Once we were in the air, the world below faded into nothing but clusters of city lights. I leaned my head back, staring out the oval window as the darkness swallowed everything except my thoughts.

Halfway through, the flight attendant came by with coffee, but I barely touched it. My phone sat in my hand, screen lighting up every so often with a text from Mina — just little things.

J.C. just knocked over his juice.
I miss you already.
Did you eat yet?

I didn't answer right away, just stared at the words.
She didn't even know I was already on my way to her.

Outside the window, the clouds were like a slow-moving ocean, moonlight spilling across them. Somewhere down there was the Atlantic, stretching between us. And every mile we crossed felt like I was getting closer to breathing again.

I put my headphones in and hit play on Nothing Even Matters by Lauryn Hill and D'Angelo — that slow, unshakable kind of love in a song. The kind that made you think about forever, about building something nobody could touch.

The lyrics hit different now.

Six months ago, I didn't know she'd take over my mornings, my nights, my plans — my whole damn life. And now... she was carrying something that was ours.

I closed my eyes, letting the hum of the jet and the song blend together. In my head, I kept seeing her face when she flipped that test over. The way her voice shook. The way my chest felt like it had cracked open and filled up all at once.

By the time we started descending, my leg was bouncing. Not from nerves — from not being able to get there fast enough.

Because in just a couple hours, she'd open the door and realize I hadn't let a single day pass before getting back to her.

The wheels touched down smooth. I didn't even wait for the full stop before my hand was on my carry-on. The second the door opened, I was out, stepping into the warm California air that felt heavier, thicker than London — or maybe that was just my chest.

The driver Tasha had lined up was already waiting by the curb. I slid in the back, tossing my bag to the seat beside me.

"Straight to her place," I said.