Michael had barely closed the front door before you ran into him—barefoot on the hardwood, silk wrap swaying behind you, the echo of your laughter lacing the walls. You collided into his chest like you’d been waiting 26 years to breathe properly. His coat was half off, tie loosened, one brow still arched from earlier—but the second your arms wrapped around his torso, all the seriousness fell off him like dust.

He breathed into your hair.

“Boo-Boo,” he said again, softer this time, like he was pronouncing a private truth. “You went viral.”

Your cheek was pressed against him, your hands flat against his back. “Well maybe if the population wasn’t infested with misaligned molecular debris, I wouldn’t have to purify the air with my knuckles.”

He tried to hold it, but a laugh broke out of his chest like a cough.

You looked up with a wicked smirk.

“And you told me to behave while you’re in office.”

“I told you to stay out of the press,” he said, shaking his head, “not dismantle a whole citizen mid-sentence.”

“Oh, he deserved it.” You pulled back slightly to look at him, still in his arms. “Slandering you with his breath in public? That’s chemical warfare.”

Michael narrowed his eyes, pretending to scold. “You’re lucky they didn’t press charges.”

“They didn’t dare,” you said, flicking invisible lint from his shoulder. “The entire sidewalk applauded. I took a bow.”

He stared at you for a moment.

And then dropped his forehead to yours.

“You’re insane,” he said, almost reverently.

“You’re welcome.”

You both stood in silence. A knowing smile crept into his expression. You could feel it before you even saw it. That grin that only formed when he realized again—yes, this is my woman. Uncompromising. Untamable. Undeniable.

He took your hand and led you toward the couch, still shaking his head.

“You know what they’re calling it now?” he asked, pulling out his phone. “‘The Righteous Punch of the 21st Century.’ There’s already merch. Someone printed your face on a t-shirt next to a lab diagram of ‘misaligned cells.’”

You practically collapsed laughing, your head hitting his shoulder as he read headlines out loud in that measured baritone.

“First Lady of Force. Political Beauty or Biochemical Avenger?”

“Public says ‘She did what we’ve all wanted to do.’”

“Petition circulating to name her right fist ‘Justice.’”

Michael turned to you. “Why are they so scared of you?”

You smiled, eyes still twinkling.

“Because I move like I’ve never been lied to.”

And he just stared again. Long. Quiet. Like even now, even after everything, he was still processing the miracle that is you.

You tapped his chest. “Come on, President Boo. Take off your tie and pretend for five minutes that you’re a normal man who gets to lie on the couch with a beautiful, clearly innocent woman who merely flicked a misaligned civilian into unconsciousness.”

“I’m not the president.”

“Yet.”

He didn’t argue.

Because in his bones, he knew you were right.