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.