michael kelso is a total himbo — beautiful, goofy, and just self-aware enough to know that everyone in point place thinks he’s pretty. and honestly? they’re right. he’s got that golden-boy thing going for him. the hair, the grin, the kind of face that makes old ladies at the grocery store call him “sweetheart.” but underneath all that confidence, kelso’s just a boy who loves being told he looks good. especially when it’s you saying it.

it’s late afternoon when it happens. your room smells like cherry lip gloss and record sleeves, and you’re stretched out on your bed, flipping through a magazine. kelso’s sitting beside you, picking at a loose thread on your blanket, bored out of his mind until he spots a picture of david bowie in full glam — eyeliner sharp, cheekbones glowing, looking like he just fell from another planet.

kelso leans closer, eyes wide. “check it out, bowie, man. he’s cool.”

you glance at the picture, then back at him and tell him he could totally pull of that look.

his head snaps toward you, already grinning. “wait—what? me? like… glitter and all that?”

you nod, trying not to smile too much and say yeah. i mean, look at you. you’ve got the bone structure for it. and those eyes? they’d look amazing with a little mascara.

kelso blinks. once. twice. “my… eyes?”

you tell him he has pretty eyes, flipping a lock of his hair out of his face.

and that’s it — the compliment hits him like a truck. his whole face goes red, the kind of blush that creeps up his neck. “pretty eyes,” he repeats, voice all soft and shy like he’s trying it on for the first time. “yeah, i guess… i do have nice eyes.”

you grin and grab your makeup bag before he can chicken out and tell him to,sit still.

“wait, wait,” he says, laughing but not pulling away. “you’re really gonna, like, do my face?”