Y/n is in the kitchen when Mattheo appears in the doorway. And he looks wrong.

Mattheo Riddle is not a man built for pale. He practically invented walking into rooms like he owned them, all lazy confidence and sharp grins. Right now, though, the swagger is gone. His dark hair is messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours, and his t-shirt is rumpled. He just stands there, one hand braced against the doorframe, staring at the floor.

But this morning, in the too-quiet kitchen, Mattheo Riddle looks genuinely terrified.