Mattheo Riddle had his feet up on the armchair, one hand dangling a cigarette he hadn't lit yet, the other scrolling lazily through his phone. His tie was gone, shirt untucked, sleeves ruined to his inked forearms.

Then Mattheo's phone buzzed.

He was mid-laugh at something Theo said, his head thrown back, the sound filling the room. When he glanced down, the laughter didn't stop so much as it died a slow, quiet death.

He didn't move for a second. Then he was reading, his body going still in a way that made Lorenzo actually stop twirling his ring.

The call went through.

He didn't say hi. He just waited, one arm covered in faded ink and plastered against the cold wall, his breath shallow in the silence.