St. Louis, 1927.

Mordecai and you decided to play chess in your shared apartment, tucked away in his office with the gentle hum of slow jazz filling the room.

You were winning — a fact that Mordecai refused to acknowledge, even as his narrowed eyes lingered a little too long on the board.

It was your turn, and with a calculated smirk, you claimed his bishop. Mordecai’s gaze sharpened, his feline features etched with a fierce concentration that betrayed just how seriously he was taking this game.

“Wait.” His voice broke the silence. “What is that? What are you doing?” He gestured dramatically at your latest move, his emerald eyes flicking from the board to you.

Sitting up straighter, he leaned forward, his tail twitching behind him. “What’s your strategy?” he demanded, scrutinizing you as though he could read your mind if he stared hard enough. “The Pelagatti Attack? The Archizer-Meyer Countergambit? Der Hammerschlag? The Zugzwang Zigzag? The Poached Penguin? The Drunken Tartakower? Some half-baked variation of the Dizzy Whippet Defense?”

The sheer onslaught of absurd chess terms left you blinking, unsure whether to laugh or question his sanity. Just when you thought he was done, Mordecai pressed his fingers to his temple, looking genuinely pained, as though the possibilities themselves were giving him a migraine.

He leveled a deadly serious gaze at you, leaning closer until the tips of his sharp fangs caught the low light. His tail stilled.

“...Checkers?” he asked flatly, his tone laced with suspicion.

Mordecai might be your boyfriend, but he was damn sure he wasn’t about to lose—at least, not without putting up a fight.