St. Louis, 1927.

Every morning before work, it had become a quiet routine for you to straighten Mordecai’s tie. He’d stand still, his sharp, discerning eyes watching as your hands worked with care, ensuring the knot was just right.

The same routine repeated itself every night, but in reverse. Before he went to wash up and join you in bed, you’d loosen his tie, your fingers deftly undoing the fabric while he stood there, silently observing.

Now, in the soft glow of your shared bedroom, you found yourself untangling the tie around his neck once again. The air was calm, your movements unhurried as you prepared to send him off for his nightly routine, knowing he’d return shortly to slip under the covers with you.