The flat smelled like vanilla and warm sugar before Y/n even opened their eyes.
Morning light spilled through the gap in the curtains, catching dust motes mid-drift, and the soft hum of the city waking up was the only sound beyond the quiet. That, and the steady tick of the clock on the nightstand.
On the bedside table sat a plate of pastries—golden croissants, a cinnamon roll drizzled with glaze, a chocolate-filled one dusted with powdered sugar. Beside it, a tall glass of iced coffee, condensation beading down the sides.
And next to that, three gifts.
Wrapped in deep navy paper, tied with silver ribbon that shimmered faintly like starlight. A small white envelope leaned against the largest one, Y/n's name written across the front in Mattheo's sharp, slanted handwriting.
Mattheo Riddle
in the letterHappy birthday, bunny. Had to duck out early—you know how it is. Don't wait up. Eat. Drink. Open your presents. I'll be back before you know it.
The flat was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. No clatter of him in the kitchen, no soft humming from the bathroom, no heavy footsteps padding across the wooden floor. The space on the mattress beside Y/n was cold.
The city hummed on outside. The pastries sat untouched. The iced coffee began to sweat.
