The house was quiet.
Not the usual quiet—this was the kind that crept into the corners, thick and pressing, as if the walls were holding their breath. The kind of quiet that didn't soothe but weighed on the skin. Alex sat on the living room couch, laptop open on the coffee table. He wasn't typing. He wasn't scrolling. Just… staring.
The screen glowed with cold numbers: bounce rates, regional trends, pre-save conversions, real-time engagement. "Youth" was performing well. Exceptionally well, even. Germany. Brazil. South Korea. A steady upward curve, a thousand little arrows blinking green.
And yet, none of it registered. The spreadsheet might as well have been written in another language.
His mind had stopped working properly hours ago. The thoughts were there—half-formed, urgent, circling—but none of them were clicking. They hovered just beyond reach, like puzzle pieces from the wrong box. His head felt full, and empty, all at once.
It wasn't just exhaustion. It was depletion. Like someone had hollowed him out with a spoon.
The front door opened. Closed again, softly. Footsteps. He didn't look up. Didn't need to.
Leo.
He walked in like he always did now—no knocking, no announcement, just a quiet entrance that never felt like an intrusion. Something about Leo's presence had become a constant, like background noise you didn't realize you needed until it disappeared.
There was a brief silence. The kind that came from someone just standing and watching.
Then: the snap of plastic. A small, solid sound.
Alex blinked. His laptop screen had gone black.
Leo stood over him, one hand on the closed lid, the other holding a controller he'd just tossed into Alex's lap.
"You're done," he said, calm but unshakable. Not angry. Just final.
Alex looked down at the controller. His fingers curled around it automatically.
"I can't," he said after a beat, though it sounded more like a reflex than conviction. "I've got to check the budget notes. Finneas sent a revised—"
"You'll check them tomorrow," Leo cut in, already flopping down beside him. "Or Sunday. Or never. Doesn't matter. Tonight, your brain goes on vacation."
He grabbed the second controller and started flipping through the console menu like this had been the plan all along.
"You look like the kind of guy who tells their toaster thank you. That's how fried you are. FIFA. Now. No arguments."
The absurdity of it pulled a tiny sound out of Alex—half sigh, half laugh. He didn't respond, but he didn't move to reopen the laptop either.
Leo didn't need to push again.
The match began with a whistle from the TV and the sudden flash of a digital stadium. Bright green turf. Running players. Familiar commentary. The music had shifted into something upbeat, almost nostalgic in how it filled the corners of the room.
And just like that, the world outside the living room was gone.
No label meetings. No European promo. No stack of emails waiting for answers. Just the back-and-forth of joystick flicks and shouted commentary that only made sense if you'd known someone since before either of you could drive.
It didn't take long before they were shouting at the screen.
"Offsides?! That was not offsides, your AI ref is rigged."
"You can't say 'rigged' every time you suck, Leo."
"That's not true and also incredibly rude."
They argued about goals. Argued about settings. Argued about whether the chip shot was cheap or genius. They inhaled a bag of chips without meaning to. At some point, Alex realized his cheeks hurt. He had been smiling. Actually smiling. Not for a camera, not for a quote—just because the moment pulled it out of him.
It felt so normal that it nearly broke him.
Every shout, every stupid joke, chipped away at the tension in his chest. Not all at once—he was too tightly wound for that—but enough to breathe easier. Enough to forget, at least for a little while, that he was more business than boy these days.
Leo made it look effortless. Just showing up, pulling him out of the quicksand.
And Alex let himself be pulled.
The match ended in a 2-2 draw. The final whistle blew, and Leo threw his controller at the couch cushions like it had personally betrayed him.
"I want a rematch," he declared, pointing dramatically. "That last goal was a glitch. No way you pulled that off on purpose."
Alex leaned back, eyes half-lidded, still catching his breath from laughing. "Skill. Accept it."
"Skill, my ass."
They didn't move. The game screen idled, a soft loop of victory music playing in the background.
Alex could feel the shift. The pressure that had been crushing him all week had lightened—not gone, but manageable. Like he'd surfaced just long enough to gasp air before the next plunge.
He looked sideways at Leo. Not with gratitude. Not with the kind of dramatic emotion people write songs about. Just… awareness. That steady presence. A quiet lifeline in the chaos.
Leo didn't try to fix things. He didn't give pep talks or demand emotional confessions. He just showed up. Closed the laptop. Handed over the controller. Made space without asking for anything in return.
And somehow, that was enough.
"You see the trailer for that new superhero movie?" Leo asked suddenly, as if the shift in tone didn't matter. "It looks like a dumpster fire. We're seeing it. No arguments."
Alex laughed. Actually laughed.
"Yeah," he said, letting his head fall back against the couch. "Yeah, we are."
And that was it.
No big moment. No sweeping conclusion.
Just two friends on a couch, the ghost finally quiet, the world held at bay by the soft hum of a paused game and the knowledge that—for tonight, at least—he didn't have to carry everything alone.