Wilbur enters the apartment, shrugging his flannel off his shoulders as his eyes drift over to you, over the bar top, into the kitchen. “Hi, i’m home.” He hums, throwing his flannel in the back of the sofa, walking into the kitchen, up behind you, leaning over your shoulder, seeing what you’re cooking. “what cha’ makin’?” He asks, gently grabbing the spoon out of your hand and continuing to stir whatever you had in the pot for you.