Stolen glances. · Y/n story by @harrypottaluva

The late evening sun slants through the grimy window of your shared flat, painting the living room in stripes of gold and dust. The only sound is the faint hum of London traffic, seven floors below.

Mattheo Riddle

flicks the lighter, the small flame catching with a soft click Here we go.

He brings the joint to his lips, the paper catching and glowing a steady orange. The flame illuminates the sharp angles of his face—the dark sweep of his lashes, the curve of his mouth as he inhales, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow. He holds it for a moment, eyes closing, then lets the smoke curl slowly from his lips.

Mattheo Riddle

passes it to you, fingers brushing yours Your turn.