INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Rain taps hard against the windows like it’s trying to eavesdrop.

You’re curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket over your legs, staring at the screen—but the show’s on mute. You’ve barely blinked in ten minutes.

Michael enters, a towel around his neck from a late shower, cotton tee clinging slightly to his chest. He glances at the silent TV, then at you.

MICHAEL (casual, careful):
“Should I unmute the existential crisis, or…?”

You don’t answer.

He walks around slowly and stands in front of you. Your eyes follow—but just barely.

YOU (flat):
“I’m fine.”

MICHAEL:
“Which part of you said that? Because your body’s curled like a wire and your silence is humming.”

YOU (soft but sharp):
“Don’t start decoding me right now.”

MICHAEL (not moving):
“You didn’t build a life with me so I could walk away when the signal gets low.”

That hits.

You shift—just slightly. Your voice is quieter.

YOU:
“It’s not you. It’s just... sometimes I hate how clear I see everything. Like the whole world is a loop and I’m the only one who got out, but I’m still watching it spin.”

He sits down next to you—not touching yet. Just presence.

MICHAEL:
“You’re not watching it spin. You’re holding the center still. That’s what makes them dizzy.”

Silence. Rain fills the space.

You exhale deeply, eyes finally meeting his.

YOU:
“I don’t like when you do that.”

MICHAEL (grinning):
“What? Say things that make your spine stop bracing?”

YOU (grudging smile):
“Yes. It’s rude.”

He moves closer, slides a hand over your foot under the blanket.

MICHAEL:
“Next time I’ll say it meaner. Would that help?”

YOU:
“You already do. Every time you remind me I’m safe.”

MICHAEL (leans in, forehead to yours):
“Then I’m going to be the most dangerous man you’ve ever known.”

You close your eyes and finally let yourself exhale the weight.

Outside, thunder rolls—but inside, the world is still.