༉‧₊˚.HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE ?⭑.
offthewall!michael jackson x blind!reader
(pictures are purely for aesthetic !! zero racial descriptors. ALSO ARTWORKS ARE NOT MINE!!)
⋆ summary : a blind girl and a boy who spent his life being looked at, but never truly seen, meet through a wrong number. forming a bond that neither friendship nor romance could ever fully define.
⋆ tags : one-shot, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, comedy romance, close proximity, angst, fluff, idiots in love
⋆ a/n : heavily inspired by the manga 'veil' and many more !! ALSO sorry for not posting for a while (i just graduated YEY !!) i've been drafting ideas left and right and this story stuck with me, and i wanted to write it and share it w y'all. hoping you guys will love this story as much as i do^-^ !!! enjoy reading (tag list at the very end!!)
it started with a wrong number.
michael had been trying to call someone else.
he glanced at the number, then frowned.
“…sorry. i think i have the wrong number.”
“you successfully identified the problem.”
for a moment, he just stared at the receiver.
then his laugh slipped out. the kind of laugh that caught him by surprise. because what kind of response was that?
he shook his head and set the phone down. and that should’ve been the end of it.
the next evening, he found himself thinking about it again.
and because he was bored. he dialed the number again.
the phone rang twice before you answered.
michael grinned deviously.
“…you called me on purpose.”
a pause. then you laughed.
and somehow, the conversation lasted twenty minutes.
you both talked everyday for a week.
neither of you intended for it to happen, it just did. like a habit forming before either of you noticed.
and neither of you knew much about each other—
not names, jobs, or ages— not even where the other lived.
the conversations simply happened so comfortably and effortlessly. it’s like you both were picking up in the middle of something that had started years ago.
michael was usually the one calling.
it’s not because you didn’t enjoy talking to him. you clearly did. you just never called first.
at first, michael just assumed you weren’t interested.
then he noticed something else.
you never asked for his number, never wrote anything down, and never mentioned calling anybody.
but not odd enough to question. besides— every evening, after a ring or two. you answered, and that was enough for him.
“you’ve been clicking your tongue for ten seconds.”
“yes you did. you yawned in the middle of a sentence.”
“what does happy sound like?”
“you talk faster than usual.”
“i didn’t know i did that.”
the strange thing michael seemed to notice was how observant you seemed.
it’s impressive to think you knew when he was smiling, nervous, pacing, or lying during calls.
it was actually a bit terrifying how accurate you were.
“and you keep answering.”
“…i’m gonna hang up on you now.”
and then there were the comments. the ones michael never thought much about— at least not at the time.
“…i didn’t see that coming.”
“yeah. nobody saw that coming.”
“actually, i never see anything coming.”
“you’ll have to paint me a picture.”
“just so we’re clear, not a real picture— unless you paint.”
“you should watch it sometime. it’s a great film.”
“i have a long history of not seeing movies.”
sometimes, you would make jokes that left michael completely lost and confuse.
“y’know what my biggest weakness is?”
and michael tilted his head, confused.
“what are you talking about?”
“they’re always plotting.”
the laugh escaped him was loud enough to make you grin.
“you make absolutely no sense sometimes.”
“neither do stairs, pal.”
“do you know how many things i’ve walked into this week?”
you said, out of the blue.
“six if we’re counting my dignity.”
the thing is, michael assumed you were joking.
you joked about everything. nothing ever sounded serious or ever sounded like something worth asking about.
the record store was nearly empty.
it was a blessing, really. especially for a young star like michael.
he discovered that if he picked the right places at right times, he could occasionally exist like a normal person.
not often. but occasionally.
and today was one of those days.
michael was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a hat pulled down low, covering half his face.
he wandered through the aisles, flipping through records, enjoying the rare luxury of not being surrounded by screaming crowds.
the store speakers hummed softly overhead. a record crackled through the listening stations.
it feels normal for once.
michael looked up at the sound.
it was a girl. who had just walked directly into a display stand. not hard or enough to hurt.. enough to make a noise.
you muttered, before continuing to walk as if absolutely nothing happened.
he blinked. the display stand remained innocent.
he continued to look around, not even for a few minutes before another—
this time, you bumped into a shelf.
“okay. it’s doing it on purpose now.”
you muttered to yourself again, and continued to walk.
while michael was biting his cheek to contain his laugh. the shelf was also innocent.
the strangest part that michael thought was that you don’t seem embarrassed— because most people would. but instead, you looked completely unbothered like this happens every day.
which judging by your attitude, it probably did.
a few moments later, you appeared beside him.
you were close enough that he could see your mismatched socks peeking out beneath your jeans.
one striped and one plain.
he stared. then glanced down at his own shoes just to make sure he wasn’t somehow wearing two different ones.
michael looked down at you.
‘oh. she was talking to me.’
you tilted your head slightly.
“you sound like you work here.”
“i don’t know. you just do.”
michael laughed, and you immediately pointed.
he stared. he’d never met someone determined a person trustworthy based solely on a laugh before.
“that’s a very strange thing to say.”
“i’ve been told that before.”
you turned towards the shelves.
“since you don’t work here, can i still ask a question?”
“i’m looking for something new.”
“okay, what kind of music?”
“well, that’s not very helpful.”
you smiled. not at him, toward the sound.
“so? can you recommend me something?”
he looked down at the records, then a terrible idea entered his head.
michael pulled his own album from the shelf.
you took it from him, and holding it carefully. running your fingers over the edges.
he noticed how you’d never looked at the cover. you just… held it.
michael pressed his lips together.
“you seem confident about that.”
“i’ve heard good things.”
“no offense to your source, but i’m gonna listen to it first.”
you handed the album back.
you both walked toward one of the listening stations.. or rather—
you on the other hand somehow drifted through the store with complete confidence before lightly smacking her shoulder against another display.
he couldn’t help but laugh.
you slid into one of the chairs and settled the headphones over your ears.
you listened quietly, head tilted slightly. your fingers tapping against the armrest. occasionally humming along to the melody.
and by the end of the song, you were smiling. a genuine one.
you liked it. very much so.
and michael found himself smiling too looking at you.
a few minutes later, you removed the headphones.
he asked. and you nodded approvingly.
then a voice called from the front of the store.
bill immediately stopped and realized his mistake.
michael’s eyes widen, and turned to look at you.
bill recovered instantly.
“thanks for the recommendation, mike.”
you said, still smiling. then started to walk away—
michael watched you disappear into the next aisle. shaking his head and laughing to himself. completely unaware that there was now bothering you.
not the name or the album.
because you swore you heard it somewhere before.
for the first time in all week— you couldn’t stop thinking about where.
the phone rang at exactly the same time it always did.
the familiar sound of him settling somewhere came through the line.
a chair creaking. a fabric rustling. a quiet sigh.
you’d become strangely good at picturing his habits.
not what he looked like. but the little things— the way he paced when he’s restless, or the way he hummed whenever he was thinking, or the way he always seemed to smile before saying hello.
“that’s never a good start.”
“y-you what? a fight? with who?”
“i thought you were being serious for a sec.”
the conversation drifted naturally after that like it always did.
“i bought a record today.”
“yeah? what album is it?”
for a moment, you paused.
“…you bought an album and you don’t know what it is?”
“it happens very easily, actually.”
“he told me the name but i forgot.”
“so you just trusted some random guy then.”
“his laugh was trustworthy.”
“what does that even mean?”
“you sound trustworthy, too.”
“that’s not… how it works.”
“you’re unbelievable sometimes.”
“so what songs are on it?”
you thought for a moment again.
“you don’t know the album.”
“you don’t know the songs.”
“you bought this thing completely blind.”
then you snorted. your laugh uncontrollable.
“that’s usually how i buy things.”
michael immediately laughed too. a loud one. the kind that escaped before he could help it.
you smiled automatically—
something tugged at the back of your mind.
the guy who recommended you the record.
the guy with a trustworthy laugh.
nothing. you were listening— the way he caught his breath afterward. the slight hitch at the end. the exact rhythm. the exact sound.
you leaned back in your chair. trying not to smile and not to laugh at yourself.
“seems like there’s something on your mind.”
“you ever hear someone’s voice somewhere you’ve heard before?”
the line went quiet, but it was only for a second.
“you sure do ask a lot of questions.”
“that’s because you’re weird.”
“you’re the one who keeps calling me.”
the two of you laugh. but this time, as his laughter echoed through the phone again—
you listened very carefully.
because now you were certain.
you’ve heard that laugh before. and unlike him— you were starting to put the pieces together.
a few days later, michael found himself back at the record store again.
there was something about the place that he found comforting. maybe because of how quiet it was or how calm it gets inside, while outside the record store, he found it very noisy and overwhelming.
and also, he wasn't back here again because he'd been thinking about a certain girl who had purchased his album without knowing who he really was.
definitely not. that would be ridiculous!
after spending nearly half an hour browsing, he left with a paper bag tucked beneath his arm.
he left without seeing the very clumsy, strange girl.
there was a pang of disappointment he felt. then he shook his head.
across the street sat a small cafe.
one he'd passed before but never entered.
the bell above the door chimed. and the smell of coffee immediately drifted through the air.
a few people sat scattered around the room. a couple was sitting by the window, and an older man was quietly reading a newspaper. the sound of someone quietly turning pages in the corner.
it was normal and peaceful. the same comforting feeling he had with the record store across the street.
michael liked it immediately.
he stepped up to the counter and ordered a coffee.
the cashier apologized that they had just run out of one of the cafe's best-selling pastries, joking that michael had somehow managed to arrive at the exact wrong time.
michael played along and let out an exaggerated sigh before laughing, the bright, effortless sound filling the otherwise quiet cafe.
across a few tables away.
a girl's head lifted from the sound.
the conversations around you faded in the background. and for a brief moment, you simply listened. a small smile forming across your face.
his first thought was immediate, 'oh no, a fan.'
he slowly turned toward the voice and saw—
one striped sock. one plain sock.
the girl from the record store. what are the chances?
the familiarity of the response hit him instantly. and suddenly, he remembered the phone calls, the record store, and the album.
everything slammed together at once.
his mouth opened. then closed. and opened again.
"you were the girl from the record store."
"you were the wrong number."
michael laughed immediately. because what was he supposed to do? the whole thing was completely absurd.
"...maybe a few days. i wasn't so sure."
"you have a very recognizable laugh."
michael dropped into the chair across from her, still laughing and trying to process the fact that somehow the girl he talked through on the phone and the girl from the record store had been the same person all along.
"what are the chances?" he said.
"maybe you're following me and i didn't know."
"oh please! you're the idiot who called me by accident."
"okay you're never letting me forget that."
his drink arrived, and michael thanked the waitress kindly. and the conversation somehow picked up instantly where it had left off.
surprisingly, there were no introductions, awkwardness— just natural conversations between the both of you.
eventually he noticed a small bookshelf tucked into a corner. it was a community shelf, leave a book and take a book. it was a sort of thing that he'd always liked.
"you ever read one of those?"
you answered rather quickly.
"not much of a reader, i assume?"
"then how do y'know they're any good?"
"you don't seem worried."
he laughed again. he picked up a nearby book and flipped through a few pages.
"well, you should try reading sometime."
he snorted, thinking you were joking like you always do.
a pause. then you tilted your head slightly confused.
you were starting to laugh at how slow he was. it was getting kinda ridiculous that he still didn't get the hint.
you said, rather a bit casually, like saying the grass was green.
the cafe suddenly felt very quiet, and michael just stared. his smile fell from his face.
you lifted a hand and waved it in front of your eyes and showed him you were really serious.
and suddenly, every conversation replayed inside his head.
"you'll have to paint me a picture."
"i have a long history of not seeing movies."
"actually, i never see anything coming."
"you bought this thing completely blind."
"that's how i usually buy things."
the record store. the mismatched socks. the way you were strangely observant of sounds. the way you'd confidently walked straight into a shelf and simply cussing at it, before moving on.
his hand flew to his forehead. the realization hit all at once like he was struck by lightning.
in fact, you were amused by the whole thing.
"you... really didn't know?
his answer came out louder than he intended, and he covered his mouth with his hand quickly after when he noticed several people glanced over his table.
he said, his voice now lowered.
"i thought you were joking!"
"jokes are half-meant. it's not my fault you're an idiot with a nice laugh."
you choked a laugh, didn't expect him to cuss at all.
"you gotta admit, this is kinda funny."
you said, still laughing.
michael dropped his head into his hands. because somehow you were right.
"you dropped so many clues... and i still didn't realize."
"it was twenty-three clues."
"i was curious how long it would take for you to realize."
michael stared, then bursted out laughing.
his laughter faded slowly, and left something quieter behind— something thoughtful.
because for the first time since meeting you, things suddenly made more sense.
not your jokes or comments.
the way you always knew when he's smiling, pacing, or how you could tell he was upset before he'd even say a word.
and most of all, how you'd recognize him from a laugh.
nobody else would've noticed a laugh. nobody else would've listened that carefully.
because listening wasn't just something you did. it was how you moved through the world. it's how you understood people— how you understood him.
suddenly, michael found himself looking at you differently. not because you were blind, because you weren't.
not in the way he first imagined. if anything, you'd notice more about him than most people with perfect eyesight ever had.
and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, that realization stayed with him long after the conversations moved on.
eventually the afternoon faded into evening.
the cafe began emptying. chairs scraped softly against the floor, and the waitress started collecting cups from the tables.
michael glanced out the window, then glanced back at you.
"eventually. i'll get there."
your answer somehow raised more questions than it answered.
michael stood as you did, and the two of you stepped outside together.
the record store across the street was already preparing to close. the familiar neighborhood buzzed around them. and for a moment, they stood in comfortable silence.
then michael remembered something—
he turned around and looked at you.
"how are you getting home?"
the question seemed perfectly reasonable to him. but the look you gave him suggested otherwise.
"the same way i got here?"
"you live nearby?" he asked.
"about fifteen minutes. give or take."
he frowned because you looked entirely unconcerned. which somehow concerned him more.
"i mean, what else would i do?"
michael opened his mouth. then closed it. then opened it again.
"you called me by accident and somehow survived."
"well that's because this is different."
"tell me how it is different."
michael pointed at the road.
"there have always been cars, mike."
"that doesn't make me feel any better."
you started walking suddenly, which michael immediately followed.
you stopped walking and turned slightly toward his voice.
"i've been walking myself for years."
"then why do you sound panicked?"
you bursted out laughing,
"i liked it better when you didn't know."
the worst part was that he heard how ridiculous he sounded now that he had realized.
but he couldn't help but worry for you.
the image of you casually walking into shelves all afternoon wasn't helping.
"stop playin'! you clearly don't."
michael crossed his arms.
"genuinely. i mostly just hope for the best."
you started laughing at his reaction.
"you can't just say things like that and expect me to let you go home by yourself."
"i know every crossing is. i know which bakery means i've gone too far."
"the smell. i use the bakery and among other things."
you said, then pointed vaguely.
"there's a florist, a bus stop, then a church."
he found himself listening really carefully to the way you described it. not as directions— but as sounds and smells, as familiar pieces of the world.
it was like you carried a map that nobody else could see.
for the first time since learning you were blind, he relaxed just a little.
because clearly, you've been doing this for years. you knew what you were doing and were clearly capable.
a car honked somewhere nearby.
michael nearly jumped out of his skin, and you— you didn't even flinch.
"i told you mike, i can walk on my own."
"i'm not asking. i'm telling you i'll come with you."
"fine. you can walk me home."
michael tried not to look pleased with himself. but failing completely because you clearly heard it in his voice.
"oh my God. are you smiling?"
michael said, trying to play it cool. still smiling.
the strange thing was that after all the revelations.
he was still the boy who called the wrong number.
you were still the girl who would answer his call after two rings.
the only difference now was that he knew you were blind. and you now knew that he was michael jackson.
neither fact seemed to matter very much.
the first time he told you, michael had been visibly nervous.
you both were sitting in your apartment, while jazz music was playing softly in the background.
and michael finally asked.
"so... y'know who i am now, right?"
"and what? is there more to it?"
michael stared. you just shrugged.
"you were mike to me yesterday."
he let out a loud laugh he nearly fell of the couch.
your apartment quickly became one of his favorite places.
there were no screaming crowds, no flashy cameras pointing at him, and no pressure and expectations around him here.
he'd sometimes stop by after recording sessions, or after surviving rude interviews he didn't want to do in the first place.
and whenever touring pulled him away...
he'd always find time to call you every night like clockwork.
the same routine everytime.
unfortunately for you, michael had been alarmingly protective of you.
especially when walking outside together.
michael grabbed your shoulders and physically rotated you.
"a mailbox. you were about to walk into it."
"the mailbox and i have history."
he buried his face in his hands.
michael immediately hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you towards him.
"oh. i didn't hear that one."
"it can't be helped. it happens"
he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. you patted his arm gently.
"don't 'there, there' me."
one afternoon you nearly walked directly into a street sign.
michael grabbed your elbow before you walked into it.
redirecting you, then kept walking.
"y'know, most people ask before manhandling me."
"you lost that privilege after walking into a fire hydrant."
but for someone so protective—
michael also forgot you were blind constantly.
michael froze, realizing what he just said.
"woah! did you see that?"
one evening, he excitedly showed up to you holding a magazine featuring his album.
a pause. then immediate regret.
michael groaned and you laughed.
"can you tell me what it is?"
the blind jokes never stopped once, and michael never knew whether he should laugh.
"well, i didn't see that coming."
"yes. i'm giving you permission."
"yeah. thought you might be hungry."
"m'kay, don't burn my kitchen okay? i've got my eye on you."
you pointed at him— or rather, pointing in the wrong direction where he definitely isn't there.
and the worst part was that eventually he started laughing at your jokes.
the jokes were objectively terrible, but your commitment made them funny to him.
there was one time, you were sitting together on the couch.
when suddenly, you leaned close.
until both of your faces were only inches apart.
and michael forgot how to breathe.
"i'm trying to get a better look at you."
he looked at you for a moment, then laughed before he could stop himself.
he immediately covered his mouth.
you smiled, tilted your head. your faces still inches apart.
"your humor is getting to me. it's contagious."
you laughed against his chest while he felt bad for laughing, but laughed anyway with you.
by then, meeting up had become a routine.
sometimes it was the same cafe. sometimes it was the record store. or sometimes, a little family-owned restaurant tucked away in the city where michael could sit without being recognized every five minutes.
but today, it was the restaurant.
just the soft clinking of silverware and quiet conversations drifting through the restaurant.
michael had barely settled into his seat before his eyes wandered beneath the table.
michael looked from one foot to the other.
you glanced down at your own feet out of pure habit, even though you couldn't actually see.
"you say that like it's my fault."
you smiled, unbothered, and continued eating.
the conversation should've ended there—
a week later, michael arrived carrying a small box.
inside the box were neatly paired socks.
you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the box.
"i'm trying to help you."
and from there... things were escalated rapidly.
socks became shirts, skirts, dresses, jewelry, then shoes.
then somehow, michael had accidentally become your personal stylist.
one afternoon, he arrived at your apartment carrying multiple shopping bags.
and you heard them immediately before he even spoke.
"oh no. that sounds like it costs money."
michael laughed, and you smiled at the sound.
"you need better clothes."
"you have fabric. this is different."
the funny thing is that you genuinely don't care. it's not because you disliked fashion, because you literally couldn't see it, so you don't really see the use of it.
meanwhile, michael treated every outfit of yours like he was preparing someone for the red carpet.
"can you stand up for me?"
you shrugged and stood up.
then you hear michael circling around you. quietly thinking, analyzing, and judging.
"the earrings have to go."
you snorted at how committed he was to your outfits, even if it's just a trip to the record store. people would think you were preparing to go to an event.
eventually, michael started doing your hair too.
at first, he was just fixing little things like a loose strand or putting on a ribbon to your hair.
the suddenly he was fully invested into it.
"what are you doing, mike?"
you scoffed dramatically, offended.
sometimes, he would recreate hairstyles inspired by women he'd admired growing up.
elegant curls. soft waves. vintage silhouettes. classic glamour.
the kind of beauty that michael loved seeing in old films.
and when he was finished, he would step back. admiring his work and felt completely satisfied.
meanwhile, you were restlessly sitting down. bored.
there was one day where michael convinced you to let him do a little makeup.
it wasn't anything dramatic. it's the kind that enhanced rather than transformed.
you sat the entire time patiently and trusting him completely— which somehow made him more nervous.
"do i look somewhat nice?"
michael looked at you, and for a moment he didn't answer.
the dresses, the hair, the makeup...
they weren't what made you beautiful.
he simply loved seeing the person he already thought was beautiful dressed the way he imagined movie stars looked beneath golden lights.
sometimes he would smooth out a wrinkle from your sleeve, adjust a necklace, or brush a loose strand behind your ear.
he would quietly think...
'i wish you could see yourself the way i do.'
not because he wanted credit, and not because he wanted you to admire the outfit he'd bought for you—
just because he wished, even once, you could see what he saw every time he looked at you.
"why are you so quiet? do i look ugly?"
you said, snapping out of his thoughts.
"good. don't tell me if i ever do."
looking back, the clothes had never really been about clothes.
they were simply one of the many ways michael learned to care for you, and the more time he spent by your side... the more time those little acts of care quietly found their way into everything else.
because despite all his worrying, his redirecting, his hovering.
michael never treated you like you were fragile. not really.
because he learned that you hated it. that you didn't want the pity. you didn't want people acting like you weren't incapable.
you didn't want someone to live your life for you.
instead of doing things for you... he simply stood nearby you and was always ready when you needed him.
close enough to catch you if you fall— far enough to let you stumble if you insisted.
he'd quietly turn your shoulders before you walked into a street sign.
slide a chair beneath you before you sat down.
wordlessly move something out of your path.
it was small things nobody else would've noticed.
and somehow that meant more.
those tiny acts of care became their own language. a language that didn't make you feel incapable. only loved.
so did describing the world for you.
just like your late-night phone calls, the mismatched socks he'd eventually given up trying to fix, or him spending an unreasonable amount of money filling your wardrobe because he refused to let you 'accidentally invent new fashion trends.'
just wandering into record stores, small coffee shops, bookstores—
anywhere the two of you could disappear for a few hours and simply exist.
when the city became too loud, the world felt unbearably heavy, and fame became too much for michael.
you both always ended up in the same place.
it wasn't anything particularly impressive. there was no skyline, no luxury furniture, no grandview.
just a few chairs, a small table, and an outdoor sofa facing the view.
strings of fairy lights draped overhead above both of you, and the soft glow turned everything warm, comfortable, and safe.
it had quietly became michael's favorite part of your apartment.
not because of who was waiting for him there, but because of who was waiting for him there.
the evening breeze drifted through the air. neither of you had spoken for several minutes... just listening to the city below.
"can i ask you something?"
michael looked over to you and nodded.
you hesitated. which was strange because you never did.
you searched for the words.
he blinked. because it wasn't a question he'd expected.
"do you want me to describe myself?"
"i don't think words would help."
michael looked down at his hands. and for some reason, he couldn't explain. his chest suddenly felt tight.
because he'd spend most of his life wishing people would stop looking at him.
the one person who never had.
michael's heart forget what it was doing.
he shifted a little closer, close enough that he could hear your breathing.
you slowly lifted your hand carefully.
as though asking one final time without using words, and michael answered by gently taking your wrist.
his hands were warm... and much larger than yours. he guided your fingertips to his cheek, and then he let go.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
your fingers barely brushed his skin softly and curiously, but never invasive.
you traced the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and his eyebrows. the gentle arch of them making you smile.
"i thought your nose would be bigger"
michael let out an offended laugh.
"you imagined a bigger nose?"
"i had to imagine something."
he laughed again, and the sound made you smile.
your fingers found the corners of his eyes. his eyelashes fluttered instinctively against your fingertips.
"because you're fingers are poking my eyes."
you laughed softly, muttering a 'sorry.'
then, you traced the outline of his lips carefully, almost reverently. as though committing every feature to memory.
michael had never felt more seen. not because you were looking at him— because you weren't. you couldn't.
but somehow... that made it mean more.
your hand slowly fell back into your lap.
you tilted your head. thinking.
"..you have a kind face."
and something in michael's chest ached.
nobody had ever described him that way before. not handsome, not famous, not beautiful...
"i wonder what i look like."
michael looked at you immediately.
"i don't know. i've never seen myself."
your smile remained, but it was smaller now.
"you don't have to say that."
"i'm not saying it because we're friends."
his voice came out softer than he'd intended.
he searched for the right words.
"i wish you could see yourself the way i do."
silence
it wasn't the kind of silence that was awkward, it was full.
you reached for him again, and michael thought you were going to touch his face once more.
but instead—
your hand rested lightly against his cheek, and you leaned forward, pressing the gentlest kiss against his closed eyelid.
it lasted barely a second, then pulled away.
you smiled.
"i liked doing that."
michael blinked. he still hadn't moved, still hadn't spoken.
his heart was pounding, he was convinced you could hear it.
"...why?"
"i don't know."
you shrugged, trying to find the right words.
"it feels... more personal."
"than kissing someone?"
"mhm."
you nodded.
"a kiss is just a kiss."
you paused.
"but someone trusting you enough to close their eyes? i think that's special."
you smiled at the thought.
and for once, michael didn't know what to say.
so he didn't. instead—
he quietly reached for your hand and held it for a long time. while you quietly rest your head against his shoulder.
neither of you called it love. but if anyone has asked what it was—
neither of you would've known what else to call it.
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