Empty bottles littered the low tables. A forgotten record crackled softly from the corner, the needle skipping over the same groove. The fire had burned low, casting everything in shifting amber shadows.

Blaise was sprawled in the corner armchair, scrolling lazily through his phone, a faint smirk on his face. Lorenzo was dozing against his shoulder.

And then there was Mattheo.

He was sitting on the floor. Back against the sofa, legs stretched out, head tilted back. He'd been bickering with Theo about something — Quidditch, or a bet, or neither — but his voice had gone quiet.

His eyes were closed.

His breathing had slowed.

And his head — heavy, unthinking, unconscious — had somehow drifted sideways.

Until it came to rest against your thigh.