Streamers in soft gold and deep crimson hang from the ceiling, perfectly spaced. Balloons cluster in corners, their ribbons trailing over the backs of armchairs. A cake sits on the main table—three tiers, decorated with buttercream roses in Y/n's chosen palette. Little hors d'oeuvres arranged in neat spirals. Tiny sandwiches cut into stars.

Everything is exactly right.

Y/n checks the time again.

Five past.

Maybe they're just running late. It happens. People lose track of time, especially on a Saturday. Y/n smooths down a streamer that's started to curl at the edge, adjusts a napkin, straightens a fork.

Ten past.

The fire crackles. The food sits untouched. The balloons sway gently, as if waiting.

Twenty past.

Thirty.

Y/n's smile has long since faded. They stand near the entrance, staring at the door, hands clasped together, chest tightening with every second that drags by.

An hour.

No one.