It’s chaos — the kind of chaos that makes your brain static. The register’s beeping nonstop, someone spilled a drink, and there’s a kid crying somewhere near the pastry case. You’re one straw away from snapping when Wilbur, voice just loud enough to reach you over the noise, mutters from the other side of the counter, “Are they multiplying? I swear there were only five of them ten minutes ago.”

You don’t even have the energy to glare. He grins anyway — that lazy, infuriating grin that makes it impossible to stay annoyed for long. His curls are a mess, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he’s been in battle. Honestly, he kind of has been.

The door chimes again. More customers. You catch his expression flatten into quiet horror before he forces a polite smile. “Hi there! What can I— yep, of course, seven complicated orders, why not?” he says under his breath, voice dripping with sarcasm that only you can hear.

You almost laugh. Almost.

By the time the last person leaves, the café looks like a war zone — sugar on the counter, spilled milk on the floor, the faint smell of burnt espresso clinging to everything. You lean against the sink, half-dead, while Wilbur finishes wiping down the counter. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets out a long exhale and drops the rag dramatically beside you.

Then, with that same ridiculous, exhausted grin, he says,

“We should get a medal.”

You blink, barely processing.

He pushes off the counter, leaning close enough that his arm brushes yours. “Or a nap,” he adds, voice lower now, teasing but softer around the edges. “Preferably together.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He probably is. Probably.