This was not how Y/n's Sunday was supposed to start.

Actually, let's be real—this wasn't how anyone's Sunday was supposed to start. Sunday mornings were sacred. They were for sleeping until noon, scrolling TikTok in bed, nursing the kind of hangover that made you question every choice you made after 10pm.

They were absolutely not for waking up in Mattheo Riddle's bed.

The room was too bright. That was the first thing. The kind of cruel, unfiltered morning light that only existed to make bad decisions look worse. Green and silver Slytherin banners hung slightly crooked on the walls. A Quidditch jersey draped over the back of a desk chair. An ashtray on the windowsill. The whole room smelled faintly of smoke and something else—something sharper. Mandarin peel, maybe. Black pepper.

And beside Y/n, sprawled across the other half of the bed like he owned the entire concept of personal space, was Mattheo Riddle.

Messy dark curls. One arm thrown over his face. Wearing—mercifully—a t-shirt, though it was rumpled beyond repair. And on his neck, just above the collar, there were marks. Faint. Purplish. The kind of marks that made a person's stomach drop through the floor.

Y/n's party dress from last night lay in a heap by the door. Her shoes were by the desk. And she was wearing his shirt.

Oh, this was bad.

This was the kind of bad that future relationship counselors from TikTok would do a case study on. This was "Am I The Villain?" subreddit material. This was—

He sounded like he'd swallowed gravel. And maybe regret.

Then, very slowly, he lifted his arm and squinted at Y/n. Brown eyes went from sleepy, to confused, to something dangerously close to genuine horror.