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.