God Button

The control booth smelled like coffee and cable heat, the same as it did every Tuesday when Nerys Roach arrived for the afternoon broadcast. She ran her fingers down the fader bank, checking each channel for the third time, because precision was the only thing between a clean broadcast and a train wreck. And Nerys did not do train wrecks.

She settled into the swivel chair and pulled her headphones into place, the cans warm against her ears. Through the glass, the studio lights came up one bank at a time. Corey was already in his chair, shuffling papers, that easy half smile on his face. He looked good. He always looked good. That was part of the package.

Portia Erickson walked in a few minutes before the hour, carrying a paper cup of tea and a stack of notes. She set both down at her position across from Corey, adjusted her mic, and said something Nerys could not hear. Through the glass, it looked like a joke. Corey laughed and shook his head.

Nerys watched the VU meters jump. She could hear them once the board was live, but right now she was only watching. Checking. Doing her job.

As the hour struck, the red ON AIR light above the door glowed to life. Nerys counted down in her head. Three. Two. One.

Corey opened his mouth and the show began.

His voice was warm and familiar, the same voice that asked her what she wanted for dinner, the same voice that murmured against her neck in the dark. But on air it shifted into something broader. Public. Inviting.

Portia came in on cue, sharp and bright, and the chemistry was immediate. Nothing forced about it. Genuine.

Nerys adjusted a level on Corey's mic. He was running a little hot, pushing into the red. She brought him down two decibels without thinking. Portia's voice cut through clean and clear.

"So you're telling me you actually believe that," Portia said, and there was a laugh in her throat. "That a person can just wake up one day and change everything. No buildup. Just. Different."

Corey leaned forward. Nerys could see the tendons in his neck. "I'm saying the moment matters. The choice matters. You can't just drift into a new life. You have to wake up and pick."

"Pick what?" Portia said.

"Whatever it is that scares you."

The pause was exactly the right length. Portia let it hang, then said, "That's a very on brand answer for a man who's never been late to anything."

Corey laughed. Nerys did not.

She pulled up the second segment notes and checked the timestamps. Everything was on track. The show was running smooth.

But her eyes kept drifting to Portia.

Portia was tall and sharp featured, with a posture that said she belonged in the chair she sat in. She did not fidget or check her phone. She stayed fully present in every moment of the conversation, and that presence made the audience lean in. Nerys could feel it even through the glass. Even through the technical distance.

She had helped build this show. Cast the co host. Approved the budget for the new furniture in this studio. And now she sat in the booth watching them work, and something in her chest pulled tight.

It was professional envy. That was all. Portia had the spotlight. Nerys had the faders. That was the trade.

She pulled up the weather segment and cued the producer voice in her head. Watch the levels. Mind the timing. The show was the thing.

The show was the thing.

Segment two ran clean. Segment three had a guest who rambled a little too long, and Nerys had to cut the interview short by ninety seconds to make the news break. She did it without telling anyone. Pulled the fader down and queued the next track. That was her job. To make the hard cuts invisible.

When the credits rolled at the top of the hour, Nerys let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

Through the glass, Corey pulled off his headphones and said something to Portia. They both laughed. It looked easy, like they were having fun.

Nerys began shutting down the board. Channel by channel. The faders dropped into silence.

She could see them still talking through the partition. Portia was leaning against the desk, her arms crossed, her head tilted. Corey was standing close. Not too close. Just close enough that Nerys noticed.

She should go in there. Say goodnight. Be the wife.

Instead, she saved the session log, closed her laptop, and stood up.

The booth door opened into the hallway, which led to the elevators, which led down to the parking garage, which led home.

Home meant dinner. Normalcy. Anything other than standing in the studio doorway watching her husband laugh with another woman.

Nerys chose dinner.

She drove home through the early evening traffic, the radio off, her hands steady on the wheel. She thought about the show. The timing had been good. The levels had been clean. She had done her job.

At home, she started the rice. She chopped the vegetables. She set the table for two.

When Corey walked through the door that evening, he smelled like studio air and coffee. He kissed her cheek and said, "Good show today."

"You sounded good," she said.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. "Portia was on fire. She's going to be great for the ratings."

Nerys nodded and stirred the rice.

"She asked about you," Corey said. "Wanted to know if you ever came out of the booth."

"What did you say?"

"I said you prefer the view from behind the glass."

"That's true," Nerys said, and she meant it. She did prefer it. She liked the control and the quiet, liked being the one who made things run smooth without anyone noticing.

Corey sat down at the table. "She said she wanted to meet you properly. Not just a wave in the hallway."

Nerys carried the pan to the table and served them both. Steam rose between them. "Maybe next time."

"Next time," Corey agreed.

They ate in comfortable silence. The rice was good. The vegetables were crisp. The conversation stayed safe.

But Nerys kept seeing the shape of Portia through the glass. The way she leaned. The way she laughed. The way she made Corey lean in.

Professional envy. That was all.

She washed the dishes while Corey watched television in the other room. The water ran hot over her hands. She scrubbed the pan clean.

That night, she lay beside her husband in the dark, listening to his breathing even out into sleep. She stared at the ceiling and thought about the red ON AIR light.

She had pressed it today. She would press it again tomorrow.

That was her power. That was her position. And for now, that was enough.

She closed her eyes and let the sound of his breathing carry her under. But somewhere in the dark, a seed had been planted. A question that had not yet formed into words.

What would it feel like to stay in the booth after the show ended?

What would she hear if she kept the cans on?

The answer waited in the silence of the control room, patient as a held breath.