Wilbur leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His eyes flitted to the window, where rain lashed against the glass, the wind howling through the cracks in the old building. He cleared his throat, attempting to sound nonchalant.

“Look, I’m not saying the storm’s that bad, but… it’s pretty grim out there, innit? Don’t reckon your umbrella’s up for it.” His fingers tapped idly against his arm, the rhythm uneven. “It’d be safer if you just stayed. I’ve got the couch, loads of blankets, and, uh…” He hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen. “That tea you like. The weird flowery one. I can make it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering between them and the rain-soaked street. “It’s just one night. No big deal. And honestly, I’d rather not sit here worrying if you’ve been swept away by some freak gust of wind.” His voice softened, the vulnerability slipping through. “Just… stay. Please.”