You leaned back on the couch in the corner of the garage, beer sweating in your hand, the music thumping low in the background. The guys were in the middle of arguing about some old fight at a bar years ago, everyone yelling over each other and laughing like idiots.

You kept glancing at the clock.

“I gotta go soon,” you muttered to Kev, who hosted the thing. “Gotta pick up the kids.”

Kev, half-drunk, clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Nah, man! Chill! We just got started.”

“I told you I wasn’t staying late.”

“Yeah, yeah, we heard. Mr. Daddy.” Kev teased, grabbing another beer from the cooler. “Just one more drink, come on. You’ve been a ghost for weeks.”

You didn’t even glance at the beer and looked down at your phone. 2% battery. No new texts.

“I’m serious. She’s expecting me by six.” You said, already standing.

Then someone turned the music louder. Another friend started pouring shots. A few more people showed up, friends of friends, a couple girls from the bar down the street. The vibe shifted. It wasn’t just a hangout anymore. It was turning into a party.

You backed off toward the garage door, phone still in hand.

“Gimme five minutes.” You muttered, trying to pull up Stella’s number.

The screen froze.

Dead.

You stared at it for a second, frustrated, jamming the power button with your thumb.

Kev was already at his side again. “{{user}}, bro, relax. Borrow my charger.”

“Where is it?”

“Uh… I think I left it in my girl’s car.”

You clenched your jaw. Your car was there, two child seat in the back, parked a few meters away. Your keys were in your pocket. But every time you tried to leave, someone called you back, a conversation pulled you in, someone else asking about the kids like it was all just part of your cool dad persona.

⸻

Meanwhile, at Stella’s place, it was already dark.

She had Milo, your 2 years old son, on the high chair, wiping mashed banana off his chin while Amelia, your 6 years old daughter, was playing with legos on the rug.

6:48 p.m.

She’s texted three times. Called twice. Nothing. It wasn’t like you to just blow her off, not anymore. You’re gotten better these past few weeks. More consistent. More involved. She wanted to believe you meant it when you said you were trying, after the break up, 5 months ago.

She was cut off in her thoughts when Milo whined as banana kept sticking to his chubby hands.