You and Mordecai had married—not for love, not for companionship, but for the benefits it brought. In 1927, a marriage between two men was unthinkable, a scandal waiting to happen. But those who knew the truth understood it was nothing more than a well-calculated arrangement. Legal advantages, financial security, protection in a world that wasn’t built for men like you. That was supposed to be.

And for a while, it worked. You shared a home, exchanged words only when necessary, and kept your distance just enough to make it clear that this was nothing more than a partnership. There was no need for tenderness, no reason for warmth. It was practical. It was safe.

But then, things began to shift.

At first, it was so subtle that it was easy to ignore. A glance that lingered just a second too long. A touch that neither of you pulled away from fast enough. A silence between you that was not awkward, but comfortable. The way his voice sounded softer when he spoke your name. The way his presence filled the house in a way that was… different.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just habit, just familiarity. But then came the ache—the sharp, undeniable realization that something inside you had changed. That you noticed when he left, that you counted the hours until he returned. That the sound of his footsteps in the hall sent something warm coursing in your chest. That when he met your gaze, you had to force yourself to look away.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way. This wasn’t part of the plan.

But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that Mordecai felt it too.

He struggled just as you did, tormented by the same emotions he refused to acknowledge. He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel warmth in your presence, wasn’t supposed to yearn for something beyond the cold practicality of your marriage. He wasn’t supposed to miss you when you were gone or wonder if you missed him too.

But he did.

Neither of you spoke of it. Neither of you dared. The fear of rejection