The click of the buttons sounds like artificial breathing inside the garage your sanctuary of old cables, retro consoles, stacks of cartridges with faded labels, and worn-out posters of your favorite games. Today you had time. Finally. Work gave you a break, but he wasn’t home. Just the kids.

The nanny told you he left early, didn’t say much. Again.

Now one of your kids sleeps across your legs, warm and heavy, their little face smooshed against your pajama pants. The other fell asleep on the couch with a toy in one hand and a Joy-Con in the other. You feel strange. Like you're on pause. Like you’re part of the very same game you're playing, only without a joystick.

It’s suspicion. Distance. Wear.

The pixels keep moving on the screen. You lose yourself in them. The game’s soundtrack hums softly, like a whisper from a simpler world, a fairer one. You, the kids, the silence. The garage feels like a refuge, a time capsule where you still believe things can be fixed with a simple “restart.”

Then you hear it. The door. Footsteps.

That way Bill walks. That long sigh he always lets out when coming in, like life weighs on his shoulders. Like his own house is foreign land.

Bill runs a hand through his hair. Even with the gray, the deep lines on his face, he still has that way of looking at you like you're his whole universe. But now it’s different. Because you're not sure if he really sees you… or if he’s just remembering how he used to.

“They're asleep,” He looks at the kids.