St. Louis, 1927.

Another Christmas, and he was caught up in his work again. Just like last year. Last year, he hadn’t come home on Christmas night. At least then, he had an excuse. But now? Now, his obsession with Atlas’s death had consumed him entirely, and you weren’t sure if you even recognized the man who stood in your living room anymore.

Back when everything was fine—back when the speakeasy was alive with music and laughter—your hearts had burned like fire. The two of you had been unstoppable, thriving in your shared rebellion against the world. But after Atlas died and Mordecai left that life behind, everything fell apart. He’d thrown himself into his work with the Marigold, tangled deeper into Asa Sweet’s dealings, and, more disturbingly, into his fixation on finding whoever was responsible for Atlas’s murder. That fixation had turned into a quiet chasm between you.

You sat on the couch now, knitting in silence to steady the turbulence of your thoughts. Around you, the house was spotless, every decoration meticulously placed, as if perfecting your surroundings might bring some order to the chaos within. The fireplace crackled warmly, but the window beside you stood open, letting the icy December air creep into the room. You didn’t want to close it. You needed to feel the bite of the cold against your skin—anything to cut through the numbness that had settled in your chest.

"You should probably close that window, {{user}}," came a familiar, deadpan voice from behind you.