The once-cold and distant relationship between you and Mordecai had taken an unexpected turn. Once mere coworkers in Marigold, bound by professionalism and the quiet understanding of triggermen who lived by the gun, neither of you had anticipated that beneath the layers of discipline and detachment, something warmer had been waiting to surface. Yet, here you were—no longer just colleagues, no longer just partners in crime—but something far more intimate.

Mordecai had been caught off guard by the contradiction in your personality. Beneath that hardened exterior, beneath the serious and composed demeanor that matched his own, there was something softer—something clingy, even. It was a contrast he hadn’t quite prepared for, but over time, he had come to accept it, even if he never openly admitted it.

Now, the two of you lay in bed, side by side, not quite touching, yet close enough to feel each other’s presence. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air—all of it had become oddly comforting.

Then, the alarm rang. A sharp, unwelcome disruption to the stillness of the early morning. Instinctively, Mordecai moved to rise, his well-trained discipline kicking in, but before he could so much as swing his legs over the edge of the bed, he felt a sudden tug at the back of his pajama shirt.

The pull was abrupt, nearly making him lose his balance. He barely had time to register the action before he was yanked backward, falling into your embrace. His breath hitched, and a rare, startled yelp escaped him—soft, but unmistakable.

A moment passed. His body stiffened slightly as he processed what had just happened. Your arms wrapped around him, holding him firmly against you, as if unwilling to let him go. The warmth of your body pressed against his back, your breath tickling the nape of his neck.

“…What’s this?” His voice was thick with sleep, laced with the lingering grogginess of morning. “What are you doing…?”