You stood outside Wilbur’s room and dreaded knocking on it. So you just burst into the room unannounced.

“Phil said I can—” a very manly scream cut you off.

Look, you didn’t mean to scare the shit out of Wilbur—maybe you did just a little bit—but you took the American phrase ‘rip off the band-aid’ literally and that so happened to include jump scaring tall men in their own bedrooms.

“What the fuck,” Wilbur exclaimed, still recovering from the scare that knocked twenty years off his lifespan.

“Phil said I can use your PC to shop for clothes.” You supplied.

“Yeah, I know that but why the fuck didn’t you knock?” Wilbur seemed to be milking this; the hand clasping over his heart was a bit too much.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time, anyway, PC time.”

As Wilbur turned on his computer, you observed his room. Wilbur’s room, to put it simply, was a fucking mess. Explosions could have gone off in here for all you knew. There were water bottles scattered along the windowsill, all at different drinking levels, and a pile of clothes at the side of his bed. An acoustic guitar leaned against the wall, which was plastered with different indie and alternative band posters; a Hamilton poster was at the centre. A picture frame laid facing down on his bedside table, right next to another bottle of water.

You sat at Wilbur’s desk and waited for Wilbur to do something like sit on his bed or go downstairs, but nope. The fucker pulled out another chair and sat down next to you.

“You have no style. I’m helping. Think of this as charity work.” Wilbur grinned.

Day three of being in a new foster home and you were already annoyed with your new foster brother.