𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

SECRET

Michael makes a mistake.

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Everything about it, from their caressing, to their staring, to their bated breath, had been accidental.

They'd been lounging on the floor of her New York apartment, relaxing after a long, grueling week on set. Diana's apartment was high up, distant from others, so she'd opened the sliding glass door leading out to the balcony. As a breeze had streamed through the living room, wafting the white, linen curtains at both sides of the sliding doors, soulful music had crooned from her sound system, flowing out into the crisp New York autumn air.

Lying on the couch had been boring, too normal, so they'd traded in the comfortable cushions for the softness of her white, plush rug.

Together, they'd lied on the floor, reminiscing about Richard and his drunken antics on set; Quincy and Sidney's heated, but hilarious arguments about sound arrangements (and just about everything else), and Lena and Mabel's doting, motherly ways.

Between their crazy work hours and rehearsals, they'd been given the opportunity to get reacquainted with one another again. And things were different, far different. So different that the times they'd spent at museums when Michael had just been a boy seemed like distant memories.

In reality, they'd been getting to know each other for a while, and hadn't realized it until they were lying on the floor together, arm's length apart listening to the music. Staring deeply, soundlessly into one another's eyes.

He was young, only 19 and still every bit the awkward, confused over-thinker, but as he had peered into her brown eyes, lost in their beauty, he'd known exactly what he wanted.

Michael had reached out, hesitant at first, and tracing her jawline, moving his hand downward until his fingertip had rested against her chin, right in the gentle groove below her lower lip. He'd let it linger there so he could listen to her gentle breathing. It was barely audible, but somehow he'd heard it clear as day over the music, over his own breathing.

He hadn't asked. He'd leaned forward, pressed his lips to hers, his finger still resting on her chin. Diana's lips had been soft, plump. Their mouths had fit perfectly together, just as he had always secretly imagined.

All the feelings they'd held in over the past year crescendoed, spiraling them downward, sending them into a web of passion.

Somehow, someway, he'd wound up hovering above her, his hand gripping her waist, grabbing a fistful of her dress. Her hand was cupped around the base of his neck and her head, tilted upward, had been buried deep within the rug's lush fibers.

The kiss had been patient, but filled with desire. Michael had felt himself drowning in her lips, the feel of her breath and tongue against his. The music was low, but somehow blaring in his ears, urging him to move his lips faster, harder—

Then, just as suddenly, everything had stopped. Diana had pushed him away. She had looked at him breathlessly, her lips parted and moist from their kiss. Her chest had heaved as she breathed heavily, one hand still at the nape of his neck and the other still at his chest.

But what he had noticed most were her eyes, how lust, surprise, and uncertainty had mingled in them all at once.

It had brought him back to his senses. Instantly, he'd become aware of the world around him. His free hand had been against the floor, angled right beside her head. During their tussle, he had pressed his hips against her leg, thankfully in a way that didn't make the hard mound in his pants obvious.

He had licked his lips, tasting the remnants of their kiss on his tongue. Suddenly, he'd heard the music again. He realized he'd begun to sweat and that his stomach was doing somersaults.

She had increased the pressure on his chest. Complying, he'd backed away until he sat up on his knees, placing his hands in his lap. As she sat up, he had swiped his sweating palms along his pants.

"That shouldn't have happened." Diana had looked breathless when she said it.

When he'd seen the panic in her eyes, he'd swallowed. Hard.

"I'm sorry," he'd croaked, shifting to the side, allowing her to free her leg. "I don't know what I..."

The words stagnated in his throat. To say I don't know what I was thinking would have been a lie. He'd known exactly what he was thinking. That those past few weeks of fleeting glances, gentle touches, and playful words had been driving him crazy. Had made him do stupid things in the darkness of his room, that according to Jehovah, were "unclean" and "greedy". Had made him wonder if she felt the same about him, if what was happening wasn't just meaningless flirting like Latoya had said it was.

Diana had begun to talk again. He'd furrowed his brow, turned his head to the side, listening despite the thumping in his head.

"This is my fault," she'd sighed, looking away. "All that playin' around I was doing."

The thump resounded in his head all over again.

She'd laughed. A nervous laugh. "I knew what I was doing wasn't right. That I'd known you since you were a little boy. But I—"

"I wanted it." He'd blurted out.

Finally, after several seconds of avoiding his eyes, she'd look at him.

He'd been terrified, but he'd continued. "I wanted it. Diana, you don't understand how much I..." He'd swallowed another lump in his throat, gripping his pants. "I've felt it. For months. I wanted you, just as much as you wanted me."

Her eyes had went wide. "Michael—"

There was another thump in his head. He'd put his hand to his temple, trying to keep it under control. "I thought you wanted me."

The tension had been heavy, thick. He'd waited for her to say something. Anything. No, not just anything. He'd wanted her to say that yes, she wanted him, too. That everything she'd done over the past few weeks hadn't just been a game. It had been real.

Then, more than ever, he'd wanted to be Michael, the man, not Michael, the boy. He'd wanted her to see him that way, too. Desperately. But when he had looked at her, he'd realized she wasn't going to say or think any of that. No, instead, she was going to sit there and rip his heart right out of his chest.

And there was no way in the hell he'd allow that to happen.

So, before she could say anything, he'd stumbled to his feet and walked over to the phone. He hadn't been sure when she'd began to follow him, but after getting off the phone with Bill, he'd found himself walking toward the door, closing his senses to everything around him.

Somehow, in the haze of his distress, he'd heard her call his name. And he'd answered.

"Diana, I'm sorry. I'm going home. Don't follow me."

He'd walked out of the apartment. Despite Bill's warnings, he'd stood and waited out in the open, standing in the middle of the empty lobby of the building.

Just as he'd demanded, she didn't follow him. It was what he'd wanted, but yet, he'd felt himself going numb. Felt his heart slowly, surely burrowing a hole right through his chest.