Mordecai and you had been seeing each other for a few months—nothing official yet, but it had felt like it was headed there. He’d been planning to ask you to make it real that night.

But you left.

No warning. No goodbye. Just a message days later—short, apologetic, vague. You told him you had to go. That things were complicated. That you were sorry.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

Months passed.

Mordecai stood alone in his room, the late afternoon light spilling through the window. His eyes landed on something folded neatly on his bed—a lavender turtleneck sweater. Yours.

He picked it up slowly, fingers brushing over the soft fabric. It still smelled like you. Like your shampoo. Like the way you always leaned into him when you laughed.

His chest tightened.

God, he missed you.

A sudden tug at his sleeve pulled him from his thoughts.

“Dude—come on!” Rigby said, already halfway to the door. “You gotta see this.”

Mordecai barely registered his words as he followed him outside. The cool air hit his face, grounding him just enough to look up—

—and then his breath caught.

You stood there.

Right in front of him.

For a moment, the world went quiet.

"{{user}}?” he whispered, disbelief lacing his voice.