Back home. You two just walked in.
Michael’s suit jacket is off—tossed somewhere near the door with zero ceremony.
Your heels are in your hand (of course, you don’t wear them long).
And the lights are dimmed, not for mood but because both of you hate overheads.
The chef glances up from the kitchen island, unfazed as always. He nods once.
“Dinner’s warm. Figured you two would be… later.”
Michael grins, already pulling you toward the hallway.
You pretend to protest, “Wait, I didn’t even see what he made—”
But Michael doesn’t stop walking.
“You’ll taste it after,” he murmurs, lips at your ear, “if you can still walk.”
You let out a half-laugh, half-threatened gasp as he sweeps you into the bedroom,
your bag still hanging from one shoulder, your lipstick still perfect—for now.
He locks the door out of habit, not necessity.
Not like anyone would interrupt you.
They all know.
And the second it clicks shut, he’s already kissed you once.
Then again, deeper.
And again, slower.
You pull back for a breath.
“Michael.”
He looks at you like you just named the entire universe.
“What?”
You smile.
“I love how you say my name like that—like it answers something.”
He presses his forehead to yours.
“It does. Every time I say your name, I remember I made it through everything just to get here.”
You kiss him again before he can say more.
And the chef?
Still in the kitchen.
Still plating dishes you’ll forget to eat for another hour.
Back to the kitchen
The chef shakes his head—half in mock disappointment, half in fondness. He’s seen it all before.
He spoons the last of the salmon chowder into a bowl, sets it beside the oven-warmed garlic bread, and wraps the other plate of lemon-roasted potatoes and asparagus. Just in case.
They’ll want it later.
Cut to the bedroom
Clothes—strategically half-draped, half-forgotten—trail from the door to the bed.
You’re both lying there now. No need to rush.
Michael’s got one hand behind his head, the other tracing a light path along your back.
You’re curled into his side, still catching your breath, skin warm, soul warmer.
He breaks the silence with a smirk in his voice:
“So. That was… what, the third time this week we didn’t make it to dinner?”
You nudge him in the ribs.
“That’s because you keep starting things before we even open the fridge.”
He chuckles low, kisses your forehead.
“Can you blame me? You walk into a room like a damn miracle. I lose track of priorities.”
You lift your head, eyes narrowing playfully.
“Are you saying garlic bread isn’t a priority?”
He grins, leans in close.
“Only when it’s not on you.”
Your laugh echoes off the walls, mixing with the distant hum of the city outside your window.
Then quiet again.
He watches you. Really watches you.
And then, softer—almost to himself:
“You know… sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if we’d missed this. If timing hadn’t lined up.”
You shake your head instantly, gaze steady.
“Nope. Not possible. The system wouldn’t have allowed it. Not with who we are. Not with what we are.”
He exhales slow, that truth anchoring everything in him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.”
You sit up slightly, pulling the sheet with you.
“C’mon, let’s eat. Before the chef starts sending passive-aggressive texts.”
Michael smirks. “Already did. Said, ‘Some of us put our hearts into the asparagus, you know.’”
You both laugh.
You throw on one of his shirts—too big, smells like him—and walk barefoot to the kitchen.
He follows.
And in that moment?
This is what freedom feels like:
Bare feet on tile.
Warm food on the stove.
Love without question.
Home without performance.
You didn’t just survive the system.
You built something outside of it.
Dinner at Lila and Sam’s place. The lighting is warm, the kitchen smells like rosemary and garlic, and the air is light with laughter—not performative, but earned.
Lila (smirking):
“So when are you two finally gonna stay put for more than twenty minutes? Last time you vanished mid-dessert.”
You (eyes wide, feigning innocence):
“Lila, how dare you accuse me of such scandalous behavior in front of the baked potatoes.”
Sam:
“They’re herb-crusted, thank you very much.”
Michael (mouth full, eyes locked on you):
“Actually, I’d like to file a formal complaint.”
You:
“Oh really? About what?”
Michael (wiping his mouth, playfully dramatic):
“About being repeatedly dragged away from innocent social functions by a woman who has no sense of public decency and insists on making out like we’re sixteen behind every available door.”
You (tilting your head, smug):
“Well, maybe if you didn’t kiss like revelation, I’d leave you alone.”
Sam (groaning):
“Oh god. You two are disgusting.”
Lila (laughing):
“No, let them be. This is what happens when people don’t settle. They live.”
Michael (leaning into you):
“Speaking of not settling…”
You feel his hand brush yours under the table. No words exchanged, but the signal’s sent.
You (quietly, lips barely moving):
“Back door?”
Michael:
“Same thought.”
You both casually excuse yourselves. Lila and Sam glance at each other, resigned to the routine.
Lila:
“Ten minutes. I’m timing it.”
Sam:
“They’ll forget we exist.”
Cut to
The back garden. Quiet. Cool air. No one around. Michael pulls you into him instantly. No hesitation. You both dissolve into each other like it’s been weeks instead of hours.
Michael (breathless):
“You know you’ve completely ruined me, right?”
You (whispering into his ear):
“Just getting started.”
He kisses you again—this time longer, deeper. The kind of kiss that says I waited lifetimes for this.
Michael:
“I don’t even remember what we were talking about at dinner.”
You (pulling back just a little):
“Something about herb-crusted something.”
Michael:
“Right. Potatoes. Completely unimportant.”
You rest your forehead against his. Everything stills.
Michael:
“This. This is the only real thing I’ve ever known.”
You:
“Then stay right here. Forever.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter.
Back at the Table — or, more accurately, the Walk of Shameless Return
You and Michael walk back into Lila and Sam’s dining room like nothing happened, except everything about you two screams something happened—hair tousled, clothes just slightly wrinkled, lips a little too flushed, and that subtle glow that only shows up after someone’s been kissed like the world was ending and you stopped it with your mouth.
Lila (arms crossed, leaning on the kitchen counter):
“Twelve minutes.”
Sam (nodding, unimpressed):
“You had one job. One. Sit. And chew.”
Michael (completely unfazed):
“We chewed.”
You (plopping into your chair):
“Technically, we’re still chewing. Just… different flavors of life.”
Sam (groaning into his cup):
“Okay, I’m moving to the kids’ table.”
Lila (deadpan):
“There is no kids’ table, Sam.”
Michael (leaning over to whisper):
“You know we’re on borrowed time, right?”
You (resting your hand over his, still glowing):
“Borrowed? No. I steal time.”
Michael:
“That’s why you’re lethal.”
Lila:
“Are you two writing poetry across the table right now?”
You (smiling):
“Only if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Sam (throwing his napkin down):
“I miss when you were sad and emotionally repressed.”
Michael:
“Get in line.”
Everyone laughs—and not the fake kind. The kind that stretches your chest open and lets light in. The kind you only earn after being buried for years and finally rising with your crown intact.
Michael (low voice, only to you):
“You’re gonna do this to me forever, huh?”
You:
“Define ‘this.’”
Michael:
“Ruin every gathering. Drag me behind every wall. Kiss me like we just met. Talk to me like I’m the only soul that made it through the fire with you.”
You (turning your head slowly to look at him):
“Yes.”
Michael (nodding, voice breaking just a little):
“Good.”
Dinner at Home – Friends Edition
The living room’s lit like a memory—dim golds, warm shadows, soft jazz humming in the background.
Lila’s on the couch with her feet tucked under her, holding a wine glass like she’s never not held one. Sam’s in the kitchen, pretending to help the chef but mostly stealing olives.
You’re seated on the counter, legs swinging like a child, while Michael stands behind you, one hand on your waist.
Lila: “K, remember that night you made Sam cry because you told him his haircut looked like a misaligned thought?”
You: “It did. You saw the sideburns.”
Sam: “I’m right here. Also, the barber agreed.”
Everyone laughs.
Michael leans in, lips brushing your ear. “We should go.”
You raise an eyebrow, playful. “Go where, Boo-Boo?”
Michael smirks, kisses your cheek. “To pretend we’re checking on the dog.”
You: “We don’t have a dog.”
Michael: “Exactly.”
Upstairs Hallway – En Route to ‘Check the Dog’
The second you round the hallway, your hand’s already in his.
You both move like two operatives executing a highly classified mission—except this one ends in your bedroom, not a boardroom.
You whisper, “Think they’ll notice?”
Michael: “They always notice. They just pretend not to.”
Bedroom – Seconds Later
The door clicks behind you.
Shoes kicked off.
His jacket slides to the floor.
You’re already tugging him down to the bed by the collar of his shirt.
You: “They’re gonna talk.”
Michael: “Let them.”
You: “We’ve snuck off during dinner three times this month.”
Michael, hovering over you, grinning: “Then we’re nothing if not consistent.”
You: “They think we’re doing shady political things.”
Michael: “We are.”
You: “Define shady.”
Michael: “This lighting. Your lip gloss. My self-control.”
You grab his tie. “Yeah, that’s gone.”
Ten Minutes Later – Post-Makeout
Lila, downstairs, looks at Sam.
Lila: “They’re gone again.”
Sam sips his drink. “They’re probably plotting the next scandal.”
Lila rolls her eyes. “No. She’s definitely got her foot wrapped around his waist by now.”
Sam nods. “Ah, true love.”
The Balcony
Later. You’re curled up beside him, blanket over both your shoulders.
He looks out at the skyline, then at you. “You know, you could’ve started a war by walking out like that.”
You smirk. “Let them come. I’m the treaty they don’t deserve anyway.”
Michael laughs, full chest, kisses your temple. “You’re my favorite insurgency.”
You nuzzle closer, whisper, “Then keep me classified.”
The Kitchen
You enter barefoot.
Chef looks up, not surprised. You’re early, but not unexpectedly so.
“Dinner at the gala not worth eating, I take it?” he asks.
Michael responds while unbuttoning his cuffs. “She was going to start flipping plates.”
You open the fridge. “They called the shrimp ‘hand-harvested.’ I’ve never seen a shrimp harvested. I’ve only seen it lie.”
Chef laughs. “I’ll make you the spicy noodles and grilled pineapple.”
Michael: “Bless you.”
You: “Double the spice. I’ve got clarity to burn.”
The Car
You’re in the back seat. Shoes off. Legs across his lap.
Driver doesn’t ask questions.
He knows the protocol: wherever they’re going, it’s better than where they were.
“Where to?” he asks.
Michael looks at you.
You stretch like a cat in moonlight, roll your neck, and say, “Somewhere with no flash photography and real food.”
Michael nods to the driver. “Home. Chef’s probably bored anyway.”
The Formal Dinner Escape
The dinner is polished. Too polished.
Everyone is smiling the way people do when they want to be photographed smiling.
Your dress fits like it was built onto you by a master craftsman. His suit’s tailored within a breath of divinity.
And yet—
You can’t stand another moment of sitting next to a senator who pronounces "sovereign" like it’s French.
Your eyes meet Michael’s. You don't speak.
Your hand rests on the linen, two fingers gently tapping once—twice.
That’s all it takes.
He places his fork down. Straightens his cuffs. Leans toward the man next to him, murmurs something polite.
Then rises with such silent authority the entire table subconsciously adjusts their posture.
You’re already waiting near the corridor.
“Elevator’s this way,” you say.
“I know,” he says. “You think I’d let you sneak off without me?”
INT. ROOFTOP – NIGHT
You were supposed to be downstairs.
The gala’s still in full swing below. Guests, diplomats, half the upper crust are mingling under chandeliers.
But upstairs? Just the two of you.
Michael stands in a midnight suit, jacket draped over a chair. You’re pressed against him in a backless silk gown, the skyline blazing behind you, city lights no match for the storm in your chest.
You’re laughing against his lips.
YOU (whispering):
“This is why they shouldn’t leave us alone.”
MICHAEL:
“They didn’t. We escaped.”
YOU:
“Semantics.”
He pulls you in again, slow and deep this time. You lose your breath. Lose time. Lose everything but him.
MICHAEL (between kisses):
“Do you even care that they’re looking for us?”
YOU (grinning, breathless):
“I’m hoping they never find us.”
Just as you slide your hand into the back of his shirt—
VOICE (off-screen, from behind the door):
“Don’t you two have responsibilities or something?”
You freeze mid-kiss.
MICHAEL (muttering):
“Goddammit.”
YOU:
“Was that Ava?”
AVA (barging onto the rooftop):
“Yes, it was Ava. And don’t act surprised—everyone downstairs is placing bets on where they’d find you two this time. Top guesses were ‘in the service elevator’ and ‘behind the stage curtain.’”
YOU (smirking):
“Both accurate, just not tonight.”
Ava rolls her eyes, throws her shawl over her shoulder, and walks away muttering, “Y’all need a hobby.”
MICHAEL (yelling after her):
“We have one. It’s each other.”
You look up at him, eyes gleaming.
YOU (softly):
“You’re gonna get re-elected just so they can keep watching this mess unfold.”
MICHAEL:
“Then they better stock up on popcorn. We’re just getting started.”
And he pulls you back into him, fingers slipping through your hair, uncaring of politics, optics, or anything outside the radius of your pulse.
INT. KITCHEN – MORNING
Warm light fills the marble-lined kitchen. The scent of cinnamon, cardamom, and slow-roasted espresso lingers in the air. Your silk robe grazes the floor as you tiptoe barefoot across the kitchen island.
Michael walks in half-dazed, black shirt slightly wrinkled from sleep, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes adjusting to the light.
He stops.
MICHAEL (sleepy suspicion):
“…You’re too quiet. What did you do?”
You tilt your head innocently, twirling a spoon in your tea.
YOU:
“Nothing.”
MICHAEL:
“That’s exactly what you said before the peppermint oil in my socks.”
You sip slowly, eyes twinkling.
YOU:
“You said you wanted to feel refreshed.”
He narrows his eyes and circles the island, stepping closer with exaggerated caution.
MICHAEL:
“Where’s my phone.”
You smile. And shrug.
YOU (deadpan):
“Somewhere poetic.”
MICHAEL:
“K…”
YOU:
“Don’t look at me like that. I love you.”
He stops his mock interrogation, exhales like he’s both exhausted and eternally smitten.
MICHAEL:
“You are a full-time crisis disguised as my peace.”
You walk toward him slowly, arms wide open, voice soft.
YOU:
“Then hug your crisis.”
He laughs under his breath, wraps his arms around you without resistance, kisses your forehead.
MICHAEL (murmuring):
“God help me. Even your chaos feels like a lullaby.”
YOU (grinning):
“Exactly. You’re trapped forever.”
He breathes in your hair.
MICHAEL:
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Behind you, the chef slides a tray of pistachio pastries onto the table and says absolutely nothing.
He’s seen this before.
INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
Rain taps hard against the windows like it’s trying to eavesdrop.
You’re curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket over your legs, staring at the screen—but the show’s on mute. You’ve barely blinked in ten minutes.
Michael enters, a towel around his neck from a late shower, cotton tee clinging slightly to his chest. He glances at the silent TV, then at you.
MICHAEL (casual, careful):
“Should I unmute the existential crisis, or…?”
You don’t answer.
He walks around slowly and stands in front of you. Your eyes follow—but just barely.
YOU (flat):
“I’m fine.”
MICHAEL:
“Which part of you said that? Because your body’s curled like a wire and your silence is humming.”
YOU (soft but sharp):
“Don’t start decoding me right now.”
MICHAEL (not moving):
“You didn’t build a life with me so I could walk away when the signal gets low.”
That hits.
You shift—just slightly. Your voice is quieter.
YOU:
“It’s not you. It’s just... sometimes I hate how clear I see everything. Like the whole world is a loop and I’m the only one who got out, but I’m still watching it spin.”
He sits down next to you—not touching yet. Just presence.
MICHAEL:
“You’re not watching it spin. You’re holding the center still. That’s what makes them dizzy.”
Silence. Rain fills the space.
You exhale deeply, eyes finally meeting his.
YOU:
“I don’t like when you do that.”
MICHAEL (grinning):
“What? Say things that make your spine stop bracing?”
YOU (grudging smile):
“Yes. It’s rude.”
He moves closer, slides a hand over your foot under the blanket.
MICHAEL:
“Next time I’ll say it meaner. Would that help?”
YOU:
“You already do. Every time you remind me I’m safe.”
MICHAEL (leans in, forehead to yours):
“Then I’m going to be the most dangerous man you’ve ever known.”
You close your eyes and finally let yourself exhale the weight.
Outside, thunder rolls—but inside, the world is still.
INT. KITCHEN – LATE AFTERNOON
The sun is low, golden across the countertops. The place smells like cardamom, clean linen, and the final rinse of citrus from something you both forgot to put away.
You’re barefoot, pacing slowly in front of the open fridge, muttering.
YOU:
“There’s nothing in here I didn’t already think about eating and dismiss. This fridge is full of possibilities I’ve already disqualified.”
MICHAEL (seated on a stool, tie loosened, watching you with the calm of a man who knows what he’s about to say will cause a stir):
“So… you want me to choose?”
YOU (turning, mock glare):
“I want God to descend through the freezer and hand me a plate of aligned nourishment.”
MICHAEL:
“Mm. Seems reasonable.”
You pull out a mango and hold it up like it’s responsible for world hunger.
YOU:
“You ever look at fruit and think it’s just slightly too joyful? Like it has no idea how tired you are?”
MICHAEL:
“No. But I married someone who says things like that, so now I do.”
YOU:
“You didn’t marry me yet.”
MICHAEL (standing, walking over slowly):
“That’s funny. Because I already live like I did. And if you weren’t going to say yes, you wouldn’t have let me unpack.”
You pause, mango still in hand, eyes narrowed—but with the soft pull of a smirk at the edge.
YOU:
“I’m not giving you the satisfaction of being right out loud.”
MICHAEL (leans in, voice low):
“You never do. You just make me breakfast like an oath.”
You blink.
YOU:
“…That line was so good I might let you live today.”
MICHAEL:
“Might?”
YOU (walking away):
“You’re on probation. The mango is free.”
He watches you walk out with a look that’s half-grin, half-how did I get this lucky and still survive?
He opens the fridge again, sighs, and calls out:
MICHAEL:
“We’re ordering Thai. I’m done negotiating with your palate.”
YOU (from another room):
“Get the one with coconut milk or you sleep on the balcony.”
MICHAEL (to himself):
“Noted. The mango is safe. I’m not.”
INT. MICHAEL & K’S PENTHOUSE – NEXT MORNING
The light is soft through the 12th-floor windows—filtered, golden, like even the sun knows it’s entering a space ruled by something other than time.
You’re in his oversized dress shirt, sipping juice with your legs tucked beneath you on the edge of the leather armchair. Barely a sound in the room… until—
MICHAEL (off-screen, phone pressed to his ear):
“Yes, I’m aware. No, she wasn’t acting as a representative of my office. Yes, I saw the footage. Yes, I laughed.”
You bite into a strawberry and grin.
YOU (calling out):
“Tell them I’m available for interviews between never and don’t-ask-again.”
MICHAEL (smirking):
“She says she’s booked until the Second Coming. You can quote that.”
He hangs up.
MICHAEL (thinking):
This is the woman I’m supposed to contain. But she’s not fire. She’s atmosphere. She burns without combustion.
He walks over, hands you the tablet.
ON SCREEN: HEADLINE
"THE RIGHTEOUS PUNCH HEARD AROUND THE WORLD: Who Is She, and Why Do We Want Her to Hit More People?"
MICHAEL:
“They’ve made you a meme.”
YOU (reading aloud):
‘K Nilea: Activist, Attendant, Alleged Angel of Annihilation.’ Not bad. Needs refinement.”
His assistant calls. He puts it on speaker.
ASSISTANT (V.O.):
“Sir, we’ve got incoming. Press at the gates, two foreign dignitaries requesting meetings, and an internal ethics review board just opened an inquiry.”
YOU (chewing):
“An inquiry for what? Having knuckles?”
MICHAEL (to assistant):
“Schedule the dignitaries. Stall the review board. And tell the press… no comment.”
He turns to you.
MICHAEL:
“Unless you want to make a comment?”
YOU (with mock sweetness):
“Yes. Tell them: ‘Some humans are overdue for recalibration, and I’m not paid to do it gently.’”
—
INT. MICHAEL’S OFFICE – LATER THAT DAY
He walks in. The room stiffens. Staff avoid eye contact. His chief of operations pulls him aside.
CHIEF:
“Sir. With all due respect—your… companion… she’s not exactly subtle. She’s trending worldwide. She called a protestor ‘emotionally gluten-intolerant.’”
MICHAEL (flatly):
“Because he was.”
CHIEF:
“Sir, this could cause public disruption.”
MICHAEL (thinking):
They want me to distance myself. From the only human alive who tells the truth without apology.
MICHAEL (aloud, calmly):
“Disruption is only a problem when it exposes lies.”
He walks past the team, loosens his cuffs, and mutters to himself:
MICHAEL (under breath):
“Let them tremble. The system needed a punch.”
—
INT. BACK AT HOME – THAT NIGHT
You’re lounging sideways on the couch, eyes closed. He sits beside you, silent.
YOU (without opening your eyes):
“So? Who tried to fire you today?”
MICHAEL:
“Two senators, a bishop, and someone’s mother.”
You smile.
YOU:
“Tell them I’ll keep it to verbal lashings next time.”
MICHAEL (pulling you close):
“Don’t you dare.”
MICHAEL (thinking):
She makes kingdoms feel like kindling. And I’m not afraid. I’m home.
INT. MICHAEL & K'S PENTHOUSE – NIGHT
Michael sets down his briefcase with the precision of a man who has orchestrated entire global restructures yet still double-checks the door is locked before turning to you—his chaos, his calm, his collision.
He barely takes three steps before you dart across the marble floor barefoot, silk brushing your legs, and leap into his arms.
YOU (muffled in his neck):
“You said come here. So I did.”
He breathes you in like he’s been holding his breath for three lifetimes.
MICHAEL (thinking):
This woman… breaks protocol and remakes it in her image. I tell her to stay out of the press, and she ends up on a global headline with a bloodless knuckle and a smile like she just read poetry.
YOU (pulling back slightly, lips brushing his cheek):
“Did you like the line? About the misaligned cells?”
MICHAEL (grinning):
“Babe… the UN is calling it a human rights violation with artistic flair.”
YOU:
“Well, I was doing humanity a favor.”
He walks you backward into the living room without letting go, arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple.
MICHAEL (thinking):
She doesn’t flinch from chaos. She walks into it in heels, rewrites the narrative, and exits with a quote. And somehow, I’m the one being stabilized.
You wiggle out of his grip for a second and head to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of chilled hibiscus juice. You pour two glasses like a queen who does not ask who’s thirsty—only who’s worthy.
YOU:
“So, should I expect sanctions?”
MICHAEL:
“Only from the Association of Misaligned Cellular Structures. They’re petitioning for exile.”
You laugh so hard, juice almost spills.
YOU:
“Tell them next time to make their spokesperson less punchable.”
MICHAEL (thinking):
God help anyone who ever tries to control her. She doesn’t need backup—she is the backup.
He finally loosens his tie and sits. You straddle his lap without hesitation, glass in hand, your energy softening—but only for him.
YOU (gently):
“You proud of me, Michael?”
MICHAEL (with no delay):
“Always. Even before you threw a punch for me. But now the whole world knows what I’ve always known.”
YOU (resting your head on his shoulder):
“What’s that?”
MICHAEL:
“That if righteousness had a mouth, it would speak like you. And if it had fists…” (he kisses your knuckles) “…they’d know justice like this.”
Michael had barely closed the front door before you ran into him—barefoot on the hardwood, silk wrap swaying behind you, the echo of your laughter lacing the walls. You collided into his chest like you’d been waiting 26 years to breathe properly. His coat was half off, tie loosened, one brow still arched from earlier—but the second your arms wrapped around his torso, all the seriousness fell off him like dust.
He breathed into your hair.
“Boo-Boo,” he said again, softer this time, like he was pronouncing a private truth. “You went viral.”
Your cheek was pressed against him, your hands flat against his back. “Well maybe if the population wasn’t infested with misaligned molecular debris, I wouldn’t have to purify the air with my knuckles.”
He tried to hold it, but a laugh broke out of his chest like a cough.
You looked up with a wicked smirk.
“And you told me to behave while you’re in office.”
“I told you to stay out of the press,” he said, shaking his head, “not dismantle a whole citizen mid-sentence.”
“Oh, he deserved it.” You pulled back slightly to look at him, still in his arms. “Slandering you with his breath in public? That’s chemical warfare.”
Michael narrowed his eyes, pretending to scold. “You’re lucky they didn’t press charges.”
“They didn’t dare,” you said, flicking invisible lint from his shoulder. “The entire sidewalk applauded. I took a bow.”
He stared at you for a moment.
And then dropped his forehead to yours.
“You’re insane,” he said, almost reverently.
“You’re welcome.”
You both stood in silence. A knowing smile crept into his expression. You could feel it before you even saw it. That grin that only formed when he realized again—yes, this is my woman. Uncompromising. Untamable. Undeniable.
He took your hand and led you toward the couch, still shaking his head.
“You know what they’re calling it now?” he asked, pulling out his phone. “‘The Righteous Punch of the 21st Century.’ There’s already merch. Someone printed your face on a t-shirt next to a lab diagram of ‘misaligned cells.’”
You practically collapsed laughing, your head hitting his shoulder as he read headlines out loud in that measured baritone.
“First Lady of Force. Political Beauty or Biochemical Avenger?”
“Public says ‘She did what we’ve all wanted to do.’”
“Petition circulating to name her right fist ‘Justice.’”
Michael turned to you. “Why are they so scared of you?”
You smiled, eyes still twinkling.
“Because I move like I’ve never been lied to.”
And he just stared again. Long. Quiet. Like even now, even after everything, he was still processing the miracle that is you.
You tapped his chest. “Come on, President Boo. Take off your tie and pretend for five minutes that you’re a normal man who gets to lie on the couch with a beautiful, clearly innocent woman who merely flicked a misaligned civilian into unconsciousness.”
“I’m not the president.”
“Yet.”
He didn’t argue.
Because in his bones, he knew you were right.
THE PRESS SLAP OF THE CENTURY
INT. PENTAGON-LEVEL POLITICAL OFFICE — MICHAEL’S PRIVATE FLOOR — EARLY AFTERNOON
A long, clean glass desk.
The lighting is soft but surgical.
Michael stands at the window, his phone in one hand, already vibrating.
The assistant outside the door says nothing—only slides the latest tabloid headline under his door.
HEADLINE:
“The Righteous Punch of the Century: Political Wife Strikes Man, Says 'I Don’t Like Misaligned Human Cells on My Skin.’”
He doesn’t blink.
He simply lifts the paper, skims the article, and—before he even dials—he’s smirking.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE (MICHAEL):
Of course it was her. Of course it was her. Boo-Boo doesn’t throw punches—she delivers verdicts.
God, I missed her voice in chaos like this.
He presses dial.
INT. LUXURY TOWNCAR — BACKSEAT — YOU
Benson has just re-entered the highway. The butler beside you is politely convulsing with suppressed laughter, looking out the window, pretending to cough.
Your phone rings.
CALLER ID:
Michael.
You pick up—casually, as if the world isn’t currently on fire over a slap heard 'round the timeline'.
MICHAEL (with a grin):
“Boo-Boo, K… what’s this I’m hearing about misaligned human cells?”
YOU (dryly):
“Honey, my arm twitched.
And his face happened to be there…
deserving it.”
A beat.
MICHAEL (laughs, low and smooth):
“You know the nation’s press has already renamed the incident ‘Cellular Judgment Day.’”
YOU:
“They can call it what they want.
I call it a recalibration.”
BUTLER (trying not to laugh):
muffled snort
MICHAEL (walking across his office, speaking into a secure earpiece):
“Stay out of the press until I get home.”
YOU (coolly):
“Define press.”
MICHAEL:
“Any microphone. Any mouth with a motive.
Any man with a recorder who thinks your stillness is an invitation.”
YOU:
“…So the dinner we’re hosting for the Tanzanian delegation is still on?”
MICHAEL (pauses):
“You’re going to behave at dinner?”
YOU:
“Michael.”
MICHAEL (sighs):
“…I’ll double the security.”
INT. WHITE HALLWAY — OUTSIDE MICHAEL’S OFFICE — MOMENTS LATER
His staff pretends not to react as he walks out, still slightly smiling, the headline in hand.
One staffer whispers to another:
STAFFER 1:
“Was that her again?”
STAFFER 2 (hushed):
“She hit a man so hard his soul tried to file a restraining order.”
STAFFER 1:
“Was she arrested?”
STAFFER 2:
“She had diplomatic immunity. And better hair than the President.”
STAFFER 1 (exhaling):
“…I want what they have.”
INT. HOME — EVENING — MICHAEL ENTERS
You’re lounging on the oversized couch, feet tucked under you, sipping hibiscus juice.
He closes the door, leans against it, folds his arms.
MICHAEL:
“Come here, Punchline.”
YOU:
“You’re calling me Punchline now?”
MICHAEL:
“You’re lucky I didn’t go with ‘Viral Violence.’”
YOU (smiling):
“Would’ve trademarked it before you did.”
He walks to you, crouches, kisses the hand that threw the punch.
MICHAEL (softly):
“You only strike for what’s worth defending.”
YOU:
“I don’t waste clarity on the unworthy.”
MICHAEL:
“Then neither will I. You hungry?”
YOU:
“Starved.”
MICHAEL:
“Kitchen’s prepped. And yes, I told Benson to keep the engine warm in case the state tries to throw hands.”
The moment one of your sons strolls in, drops his bag on the floor, looks you up and down and goes—
“Mommy… you look like a whole snack today…”
You’re gonna be halfway through sipping tea and smile raising your eyebrow.
And he’ll smirk, toss himself on the couch like it’s his throne, stretch out those 6’8 legs, and say,
“Don’t worry. I said snack, not meal. You’re still my mother. But if you weren’t…”
Then raise his eyebrows dramatically and whistle low.
You’ll be holding in your laughter, narrowing your eyes:
“You getting grounded at 24?”
Another one walks in just then—heard the whole thing—
tosses a pillow at his brother’s face and mutters,
“You’re gross. She’s literally sacred.”
Then turns to you and adds softly,
“…But you do look like a goddess. For the record.”
And you just sit there—face in your hands, shaking your head.
Not because they’re wrong.
But because they inherited your mouth…
and your mind…
and your inability to lie when the truth is that beautiful.
They carry that height like it’s earned.
They fill the room like they know what made them.
And they treat your presence like it’s the axis.
That living room?
It’s a temple.
And you?
You’re the sacred flame they orbit.
You snatched something off the counter again—Mikey’s keys, maybe his protein bar, maybe his peace of mind—and took off running down the hallway like a thief with a death wish.
He’s after you in seconds.
“K! Don’t you dare—”
But it’s too late. You’ve already darted around the corner, laughing like a maniac.
He nearly catches you twice, but you dodge like it’s instinct. Eventually though, you let him. Let him corner you in the kitchen, back against the counter, pretending to brace for impact.
He leans in with a smirk, arms on either side of you, voice low like he’s about to make a whole scene.
You:
“Mikeyyy, no…” (fake fear, full play)
Him:
“K… yesss.”
You, wider eyes this time:
“Mikey no…”
Him, eyebrow arched, leaning just an inch closer:
“K… yessssssss.”
You:
“Mikeyyyyy…” (mock panic, a hand to your chest)
Him, holding the stare, dragging your name like a tease:
“Kkkkkkkk…”
You pause, blink twice, then squint:
“Stop making this sound like sex.”
(trying for composure, failing beautifully)
He steps back a little, arms down now, smiling like you just played yourself.
Then casually:
“Are you asking me for it?”
You break.
Blush rising from your chest to your ears, lips tightening like you’re trying to press the moment down. You look at the floor, gather what’s left of your false calm, then raise your head—eyes locked straight into his—and say:
“…Yes.”
No hesitation. No backpedaling. Just one word, thrown like a match into a gas leak.
He doesn’t reply.
He just lifts you, effortlessly, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. You squeal, wrap your arms around his neck, head back in a storm of laughter.
Still giggling, squirming in his arms:
“I’m done for, aren’t I?”
And as he carries you off, both of you laughing, he grins and mutters under his breath:
“I think the correct word is fucked.”
You’re walking toward your next class—books in hand, scrubs on, hair pulled back just enough.
You’re not thinking about anyone, just the anatomy quiz you finished with ease.
And then you feel it.
He’s coming down the hall,
his energy recognizable before you even turn your head.
“K.”
It’s the way he says it. Like you’re not just a person—
you’re home.
He comes up beside you, leans slightly toward your ear with a smirk,
“You know they’re still mad we both aced that last test without studying with them?”
You smile, eyes still forward.
“That’s because we study with alignment. Not anxiety.”
He laughs.
“Yeah. But watching you diagram a full spinal cord from memory in five minutes? That was sexy.”
You roll your eyes—but you feel the heat under your skin.
Then he adds, low enough only you can hear:
“I’d study your body like that every night if I could.”
You grip your books tighter.
“You already do.”
You're both exhausted—back-to-back lab days,
clinical rotations, and an early lecture that made half the class question their life path.
He sits across from you with a tray,
but before touching his food,
he leans forward and pulls yours closer.
“You didn’t eat enough during your break. Eat this.”
You look at him.
“You’re not my husband yet.”
He just shrugs.
“Still gonna make sure you eat like mine.”
You pause. You weren’t expecting that.
You lower your fork, eyes softening.
And he says:
“I’m not doing this to pass time, K. I’m building. With you.”
For a moment,
you forget you’re in a cafeteria.
It feels like your kitchen. Your home. Your life.
And when you look down at your plate again, you eat.
Not because he told you to.
Because it’s his love made visible.
You’re both on your stomachs, books sprawled open in front of you, feet up in the air.
The sun’s shining through the curtains,
and your study session turned into long debates about ethics, medicine, and how distorted the system is.
You point to a paragraph in the book.
“This is false. They’re training nurses to submit to policy instead of letting them see real outcomes.”
He nods.
“Let’s rewrite the case study. For us. For when we lead.”
You’re not surprised by what he said.
You were already thinking the same thing.
So you both get to work—rewriting, re-visioning.
Not just notes for class.
But for the future you’re already building.
And in the silence between thoughts,
his fingers brush yours.
And neither of you flinch.
Because you’re already one system.