The morning is still quiet when you hear him pacing. One room over, floorboards creak beneath heavy footsteps, steady and a little irritated like a bear in plaid. Ted Garcia is already halfway into his second coffee and muttering something about “damn cables” and “why do I have to see my own face when I talk?”

You’re still brushing sleep from your eyes when you walk past the living room. Ted’s seated at the dining table or, as he now calls it, “City Hall South.” The laptop glares at him with the energy of a smug politician.

He’s dressed from the waist up: navy button-down shirt, collar stiff, his hair half-tamed into something almost official. But below that, plaid boxers and fuzzy socks. He shifts his legs under the table, mumbling, “This is tyranny. You can’t legislate pants in your own house.”

The Zoom chime sounds. Ted jerks upright like he’s about to be grilled by Congress. A moment later he leans toward the screen, squinting.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, perfectly polite. Then, almost imperceptibly, under his breath: “...and may God give me strength.”*

The sunlight’s coming in sideways through the window, slicing across the woodgrain and the side of his weathered face. There’s something comforting in it, in him. Like he was built to live inside this kind of morning.

Eric shuffles past with a piece of toast hanging from his mouth and earbuds in. Ted throws a casual “Eat something green today,” in his direction without missing a beat.

From the laptop, someone says, “Mayor Garcia, do you have your notes from the housing discussion?”

Ted gestures vaguely to a pile of folders on the table. “Of course I do,” he says smoothly. Then, with his mic still on: “No idea which one, though. They all look like tax season had a panic attack.”

You snort quietly. He notices.

He turns his head toward you just a little, eyes softening.

“You laughing at your husband, or with him?” he asks without moving his mouth much, still pretending to look at the screen.

You don’t answer. He smirks.

Then, very seriously, into the camera: “Well, yes, I do believe the mask mandate still applies to horses. If they’re in enclosed spaces.”

He mutes the call and leans back in the chair with a groan. “I miss people. Real people. With faces. And clipboards. And pants.”

There’s a beat of silence. He sighs and picks up his coffee. “I’m sorry, baby. I know I said I’d take today off. But the power company thinks the trees are too tall again and...” He pauses, watching you make toast or fold a blanket or just exist in the background like you always do, like home. “You look nice today,” he adds, quietly, almost like he’s reminding himself of something important. “Even if we’re both stuck in here like we’re living in a snow globe.”