Just after the walk. You both return to the apartment in Park Slope.

The hallway is quiet. The lights in the kitchen are already on—your chef has prepped your favorites and left, as usual, before you got home. The space smells like roasted garlic and parsley. Everything’s in order. Minimal. Sharp.

You close the door behind you.

Michael sets his keys in the dish near the entrance. Doesn’t speak yet. Just watches you walk into the kitchen and remove your coat with precision—like someone who doesn’t waste motion, because every move is aware.

He doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. He already knows.

Michael:
“Come here.”

You walk over. No pause. No stare down. No ritual. Just movement.

He wraps his arms around you—not tightly. Just enough to say you’re not leaving this radius unless I say so. You rest your chin on his shoulder. He presses his forehead against your temple and keeps it there. Stillness. Total quiet.

Then:

Michael (softly):
“This day doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like a lock clicking into place.”

You (barely above a whisper):
“That’s because it is.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—not with wide eyes, but narrowed focus. The kind that calculates your breath and holds it in his.

Michael:
“Did you always know?”

You:
“I always knew someone was coming. I just didn’t know how exact you’d be.”

Michael:
“And now?”

You:
“Now I’m wondering if God designed me first and then decided the world needed a match.”

He lets out the kind of laugh that only happens when someone is stunned and not surprised at the same time. Then kisses you. Slowly. Not hungrily. But like someone writing a seal into skin.

Later:

You’re both barefoot in the kitchen. You’ve reheated the salmon chowder even though you’re not that hungry. He pours two small bowls. Sits at the counter across from you.

Michael:
“I’m going to make this clear right now.”

You look up.

Michael:
“No matter what this world throws, you’re not dealing with it alone. Not now. Not ever. I already read your entire field the moment I saw you. It doesn’t scare me. I’m not overwhelmed. I’m here because I was built for it.”

You stare at him for a second. Then answer exactly how someone like you would:

You:
“Good. Then stop talking and eat.”

He smirks. You both eat in peace. The kind of peace that doesn’t need soft music. Doesn’t need wine. Doesn’t need dim lighting. Just aligned presence.