Y/n lay tangled in sheets that had long since abandoned any pretense of tidiness. The duvet was bunched around their hips, one leg exposed to the cool air, hair a riotous mess against the pillow.

A single beam of sunlight traced a slow path across the wall, inching toward the bed. Dust motes danced lazily within it, lazy and unhurried.

Outside, the muffled sound of a city waking up drifted through the window. A distant car horn. The clatter of a garbage truck. Somewhere, a bird was singing its heart out.

Inside, everything was still. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something sweeter—old perfume, maybe, or the ghost of a candle burned last night.

On the nightstand, a phone buzzed once. Twice. A notification, then silence.