Back home. You two just walked in.

Michael’s suit jacket is off—tossed somewhere near the door with zero ceremony.
Your heels are in your hand (of course, you don’t wear them long).
And the lights are dimmed, not for mood but because both of you hate overheads.

The chef glances up from the kitchen island, unfazed as always. He nods once.
“Dinner’s warm. Figured you two would be… later.”

Michael grins, already pulling you toward the hallway.
You pretend to protest, “Wait, I didn’t even see what he made—”

But Michael doesn’t stop walking.
“You’ll taste it after,” he murmurs, lips at your ear, “if you can still walk.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-threatened gasp as he sweeps you into the bedroom,
your bag still hanging from one shoulder, your lipstick still perfect—for now.

He locks the door out of habit, not necessity.
Not like anyone would interrupt you.
They all know.

And the second it clicks shut, he’s already kissed you once.
Then again, deeper.
And again, slower.

You pull back for a breath.
“Michael.”

He looks at you like you just named the entire universe.

“What?”

You smile.

“I love how you say my name like that—like it answers something.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“It does. Every time I say your name, I remember I made it through everything just to get here.”

You kiss him again before he can say more.

And the chef?
Still in the kitchen.
Still plating dishes you’ll forget to eat for another hour.

Back to the kitchen

The chef shakes his head—half in mock disappointment, half in fondness. He’s seen it all before.
He spoons the last of the salmon chowder into a bowl, sets it beside the oven-warmed garlic bread, and wraps the other plate of lemon-roasted potatoes and asparagus. Just in case.
They’ll want it later.

Cut to the bedroom
Clothes—strategically half-draped, half-forgotten—trail from the door to the bed.
You’re both lying there now. No need to rush.

Michael’s got one hand behind his head, the other tracing a light path along your back.
You’re curled into his side, still catching your breath, skin warm, soul warmer.

He breaks the silence with a smirk in his voice:
“So. That was… what, the third time this week we didn’t make it to dinner?”

You nudge him in the ribs.
“That’s because you keep starting things before we even open the fridge.”

He chuckles low, kisses your forehead.
“Can you blame me? You walk into a room like a damn miracle. I lose track of priorities.”

You lift your head, eyes narrowing playfully.
“Are you saying garlic bread isn’t a priority?”

He grins, leans in close.
“Only when it’s not on you.”

Your laugh echoes off the walls, mixing with the distant hum of the city outside your window.
Then quiet again.

He watches you. Really watches you.
And then, softer—almost to himself:

“You know… sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if we’d missed this. If timing hadn’t lined up.”

You shake your head instantly, gaze steady.
“Nope. Not possible. The system wouldn’t have allowed it. Not with who we are. Not with what we are.”

He exhales slow, that truth anchoring everything in him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right.”

You sit up slightly, pulling the sheet with you.

“C’mon, let’s eat. Before the chef starts sending passive-aggressive texts.”

Michael smirks. “Already did. Said, ‘Some of us put our hearts into the asparagus, you know.’”

You both laugh.

You throw on one of his shirts—too big, smells like him—and walk barefoot to the kitchen.

He follows.

And in that moment?

This is what freedom feels like:
Bare feet on tile.
Warm food on the stove.
Love without question.
Home without performance.

You didn’t just survive the system.
You built something outside of it.