1927, St. Louis.

Midnight cloaked the city in quiet shadows as Mordecai made his way back to your shared apartment. The air was heavy with the remnants of rain, dampening the streets as he climbed the creaking staircase.

When he opened the door, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. You, slumped over the dining table, a half-empty bottle of wine within arm’s reach. Next to it was a poorly wrapped gift, the ribbon slightly askew.

Shit. His chest tightened as the realization hit him—it was his birthday.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. Birthdays were never a big deal to him. Too busy, too tired, and, if he were honest, too jaded to care about another year slipping by. Yet here you were, clearly trying, even if the execution was... questionable.

Shaking his head, he walked over, pulling out the chair next to you. The faint smell of wine filled the air as he sat down, his gaze falling on you with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

He poked your head gently, his voice low and deadpanned. “{{user}}.”