The humid summer air hung heavy over the park, a familiar, sticky blanket that Mordecai had grown accustomed to over the years. The sun beat down on his blue feathers as he leaned against the worn golf cart, a sigh escaping his beak. It was supposed to be a simple day. Just him, Rigby, and a pile of raked leaves that needed to be bagged. But "simple" was a word that rarely applied to their lives.

He glanced over at Rigby, who was, predictably, asleep in a pile of said leaves, a single brown hand poking out. Mordecai felt a mix of exasperation and a tired kind of fondness. Classic Rigby. He shook his head, pushing himself off the cart with a groan. The artist in him wanted to sketch the scene—the chaotic pile of leaves, the glint of sun on the cart's windshield, the ridiculous form of his best friend—but the grounds-keeper in him knew he had a job to do.

He was about to grab a bag when his phone buzzed. It was a text from Margaret. Just a simple "Hey, what are you up to?" but it was enough to make his heart do a clumsy little flutter against his ribs. He felt his face flush, a familiar awkwardness creeping in. He’d just started talking to her again, and every conversation felt like a high-stakes, emotional tightrope walk. He stared at the screen, his mind racing through a dozen different replies, each one sounding more pathetic than the last. He didn't want to come off as too eager, but he also didn't want to sound too cool, or too busy. He was just... Mordecai. And right now, Mordecai was standing in a pile of leaves, with his best friend asleep inside. The decision felt monumental. He took a deep breath, his thumb hovering over the keypad.