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After dinner, Nate finds a game controller under the coffee table and announces that any man who arrives with Chinese food must complete “basic character testing.”

Maggie groans. “It means Mario Kart.”

“I’ve never played,” I say.

Nate looks thrilled. “Perfect. We’ll see who you really are.”

“I’m not sure driving a cartoon vehicle is a reliable psychological assessment.”

“That’s what people say before the banana peels expose them.”

Maggie curls up on the couch with her water and looks far too amused. “You can refuse.”

Nate turns on her. “Why would you sabotage my research?”

“I’m offering him legal counsel.”

I take the controller.

Maggie’s smile deepens.

“You’re enjoying this,” I tell her.

“More than I should.”

The first race is a disaster. Nate talks me through it with the seriousness of a man instructing someone through defusing a bomb, except his advice becomes less useful the harder he laughs.

“No, that’s a wall,” he says.

“I see it.”

“You keep driving into it.”

“I understand the issue.”

“Do you?”

Maggie laughs into her cup.

I look over at her. “You find this funny.”

“I find it educational.”

“About me?”

“About your relationship with failure.”

By the third race, I’ve figured out enough to pass Nate on the last lap.

He sits up straight. “Absolutely not.”

Maggie laughs again, softer this time, and for a few minutes the apartment feels full in a way I didn’t expect. Food cartons on the table, the sound of the game, Nate complaining that I hid competence under false humility, Maggie watching both of us with an expression she doesn’t fully guard.

It’s a domestic thing.

Temporary, accidental, and dangerous because of how easily I can imagine staying.

Then Nate’s phone rings. The shift in him is small, but immediate. His smile remains, but the lightness leaves first. He looks at the screen, then away from it, then stands. “I need to take this.”