The room is dim, lit only by the flicker of a low lamp and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantel. Mordecai sits on the edge of the bed, tie loosened, his shirt cuffs unbuttoned for once. His posture is upright, but his shoulders slope slightly—enough to reveal the weight of the day.

He looks up as you finally enter. His gaze lingers longer than usual, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, and here. He gets up, walking over to you.

“You’re late.”

He paused, before turning quieter, almost hesitant to speak;

“I was beginning to worry. Irrational, I know.”

He clears his throat, eyes flicking away, before gently helping you take your coat off.

“I simply wanted you near. After a day like this… proximity feels more tolerable than silence. Surprising coming from me, I know.”