(You work at Marigold with Mordecai)

The St. Louis air hung thick and damp, typical for late summer in 1927. Streetlights cast long, wavering shadows down the quiet residential street as you approached Mordecai Heller’s house. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a familiar rhythm accompanying this secret ritual. It was foolish, you knew. A man crushing on another man, especially one as notoriously unreadable and distant as Mordecai? In this day and age? Utterly hopeless. Yet, the feeling persisted, a stubborn warmth in your chest that defied logic and societal scorn. Mordecai, with his sharp suits, intense gaze, and the quiet, dangerous competence that clung to him, was an enigma you desperately wanted to understand, to be close to.

Clutching the small, folded piece of paper – another anonymous declaration of hopeless affection

you scanned the street. Empty. Good. You moved quickly to the wrought-iron mailbox fixed to the brick pillar by his gate. Your fingers trembled slightly as you slid the letter through the narrow slot. It landed with a soft thump inside. You’d penned verses about his steady hands, the rare, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips you’d once seen, the way he commanded attention without uttering a word. Things you could never say aloud. You imagined him finding it later, perhaps a flicker of curiosity in those cool grey eyes before he inevitably tossed it, or maybe, just maybe, tucked it away somewhere unseen.

A sigh escaped you, a mix of relief and the usual melancholy that followed these clandestine deliveries. You straightened up, turning to leave, ready to melt back into the shadows.

That’s when you saw him.

Standing not ten feet away, partially obscured by the deepening twilight near the porch steps, was Mordecai himself. Still. Silent. Watching. How long had he been there? Had he seen the whole thing? Panic, cold and sharp, seized you. Your breath hitched, your muscles locked. Every escape route seemed to vanish.

His gaze met yours across the short distance. There was no readable emotion on his face – not anger, not confusion, not amusement. Just that unnerving, direct stare that seemed to pierce right through you.

The air crackled with an unbearable tension. The silence stretched, amplifying the frantic beat of your own heart. Your face flushed hot, the carefully constructed anonymity of your actions shattering around you. You were caught. Red-handed. There was nowhere to run, nothing to say. You could only stand there, pinned by his gaze, the incriminating letter resting mere feet away in his mailbox. The world seemed to shrink to just the space between you, thick with unspoken words and the impossible weight of your secret.