Ash leaned back on the couch in the corner of the garage, beer sweating in his 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.

Ash kept glancing at the clock.

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

Kev, half-drunk, clapped a hand on Ash’s 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.”

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

“I’m serious. She’s expecting me by six.” he 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.

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

“Gimme five minutes.” he muttered, trying to pull up your number.

The screen froze.

Dead.

He stared at it for a second, frustrated, jamming the power button with his thumb.

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

“Where is it?”

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

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

⸻

Meanwhile, at your place, it was already dark.

You 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.

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

You were cut off in your thoughts when Milo whined as banana kept sticking to his chubby hands.