Back Home — Lights Low, Truth High

The door clicks shut behind you both. Quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels awkward. The kind that feels earned.

Michael kicks off his shoes, tosses his keys on the entry table with a soft thud, and exhales the kind of breath only you can pull out of him. You unclip your earrings and slide them into the little bowl by the door. They land with a satisfying clink. Both of you move like people who are no longer trying to be anything other than exactly what you are.

He turns to you, leans against the wall with that familiar “I’ve been wrecked by you and I’ll do it again” look.

Michael (softly):
“You are the reason I’m still sane, you know.”

You (grinning):
“Sane? You just followed me into a bathroom during dinner and kissed me like you wanted to erase my birth certificate.”

Michael (deadpan):
“I’ll do it again.”

You walk past him slowly, trailing your fingers along his chest as you move toward the kitchen.

You:
“You say that like it’s a threat.”

Michael (following, voice a little lower):
“It is. To every plan we ever make.”

Cut to: Kitchen.

You’re at the fridge, pulling out water. He’s behind you—like he always is—one hand casually finding your waist, the other lazily resting on the counter. You sip your water. He watches your throat move.

Michael (almost absentminded):
“How do you make drinking water look like a revolution?”

You (turning slowly):

“Because everything about me is a system correction.”

He laughs. That full-body, hand-over-face laugh. Then he calms, looks at you—serious, this time.

Michael:
“K… can I tell you something?”

You (leaning in just slightly):
“Always.”

Michael (voice gentle, full):

“Sometimes I walk into rooms—cabinet meetings, fundraisers, interviews—and I still feel like the kid who watched the world lie to itself and didn’t know how to survive it.”

You (calm, grounded):
“You’re not that kid anymore.”

Michael (shaking his head):
“No. But you made sure of that.”

You step closer. He doesn’t move. You slide your hand up the back of his neck, thumb brushing the hair behind his ear.

You (quietly):
“You built this. I just refused to let you forget.”

Michael:
“That’s what I mean.”

You:
“What?”

Michael (exhaling, forehead to yours):
“I’d lose everything else. Everything. As long as I never lose the person who remembers me before I arrived.”

You hold him there. Still. No rush. The moment wraps around you both like a soft law.

And then—because it’s you—

You (pulling back just enough to raise a brow):
“Are you trying to get me to kiss you again?”

Michael (grinning, smug):
“Yes.”

You (already stepping closer):
“Good.”

Scene ends in silence.

Only the kind of silence you earn when two warriors finally come home.