9:13 PM.

You’re standing in the kitchen in one of Michael’s crisp button-downs, sleeves rolled, collar slightly askew like you own the whole world—and you do.

Michael’s across the island, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

Michael:
“You told Lila what about me?”

You smirk, slicing a mango with surgical precision.

You:
“That your negotiation face looks like you’re smelling spoiled milk.”

He tilts his head, mock-offended.

Michael:
“That’s treason.”

You:
“That’s truth.”

He walks around the island, eyes narrowing.

Michael:
“Oh, so now you’re the sovereign judge of faces?”

You:
“I’ve always been the sovereign judge of everything. You just happened to be the first one worthy of cross-examination.”

He moves closer, one arm out like he’s about to trap you between the counter and his chest. You dodge under it smoothly, mango still in hand.

You:
“You're too slow, old man.”

Michael:
“Old? Oh no. That’s war.”

He makes a grab for the mango. You yank it away like it’s royal property.

You:
“Touch the mango, and I’ll revoke your dinner privileges for a week.”

Michael:
“Then I’ll just eat you.”

You pause.
Raise an eyebrow. Tilt your head. Then calmly set the mango down.

You:
“Say that again. Slower.”

He steps right up, barely touching you.

Michael (low):
“I said... I’ll eat you. Thoroughly. Carefully. Repeatedly.”

You lean in, not flinching.

You:
“That’s what I thought.”

A knock at the door interrupts. You don’t even turn.

You:
“That better be Lila with the emergency asparagus.”

Michael:
“If it’s Sam again, asking for advice on ‘what confidence sounds like,’ I’m not answering.”

You (calling out):
“It’s unlocked! Bring offerings or retreat!”

The door creaks open. Lila peeks in.

Lila:
“I brought asparagus... and Sam’s still trying to figure out how you won that debate without raising your voice.”

Michael looks at you.

Michael:
“Don’t say it.”

You:
“I’m just saying, I could run this whole block barefoot with one hand tied.”

Lila whistles.

Lila:
“Bet.”

Michael (to you, softly):
“You really are a problem.”

You (grinning):
“And you really are my solution.”

He kisses your forehead—quick, reverent—and you both turn to the stove, pretending you’re not already full from the chemistry.