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.”