Last year of high school.

Wilbur was always there—somewhere in the peripheral warmth of your world. A friend of a friend. That boy who made dry jokes in math class and offered you the last seat during lunch when everyone else’s tray was already down.

You weren’t close. But you liked each other. There were quiet smiles when you passed in the hall. A few shared bus rides. A paper plane folded with your name on it, once, because he was bored and you looked tired.

You thought that was all you'd ever be.

Years later.

It’s pouring. The kind of rain that tastes like spite. Cold and mean and too loud.

You’re crouched under the overhang of a convenience store. No umbrella. No phone battery. Just one last text glowing dimly in your hand:

"Come home when you aren’t an emotionless wreck."

The sting of it isn’t new. But it lands deep tonight.

You’re too numb to cry, even though your face is wet.

And then— Headlights.

A car pulls up. Slows.

You don’t look up until a voice says, careful:

“Hey… you okay?”

You know it before you even see him. The accent. The height. That cautious kind of concern.

Wilbur.

Wilbur from high school.

Wilbur who always offered space.

You blink up at him, and something in your face makes him stop whatever else he was about to say.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let me drive you.”

You don’t say yes. You just move.

The drive is quiet.

Not awkward. Not prying. Just… quiet.

His car smells like petrichor and mint gum. His music is soft. You stare out the window, and he doesn’t ask why you're not home yet. Or why you're shaking even though the car is warm.

He pulls up to the curb outside your shared flat.

And waits.

Because something in him—some twitch behind his ribs—knows not to drive off just yet.

Then he sees it.

The door bursts open before you even knock. Your boyfriend. Yelling. Ripping the bag from your hands. Shoving. Loud, mean, cruel.

Words Wilbur wouldn’t whisper in his sleep.

He doesn’t remember opening his door.

But he remembers the crack of his voice cutting through the rain:

“Hey!”

You flinch.

So does your boyfriend.

But Wilbur keeps going. Pacing forward. Jaw clenched, hands curled like he's never curled them before.

“You don’t talk to her like that.”

“Who the hell are you—”

“I’m the guy who’s going to get her the hell away from you.”

It escalates. Too fast. Too loud.

You try to step between them, panic rising—

And that’s when he pushes you.

Just a little. Just hard enough to make you stumble back and hit the wall behind you.

That’s all it takes.

Wilbur sees red.

You’re not sure how the fight ends. You only know Wilbur’s breath is heavy, his knuckles scraped and bloody, and your ex is shouting something blurred through the rain. Something about how he would regret even getting to know you.

The car door slams shut beside you.

The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in a blanket in Wilbur’s flat.

It smells like coffee and books and boy.

Wilbur kneels beside the couch, holding a wet cloth.

“You’re bleeding,” he says quietly. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. “Your cheek.”

You just nod.

He dabs gently. Not like he’s cleaning a wound—like he’s cleaning a hurt. Like if he does it carefully enough, it might undo every sharp word ever said to you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry before,” he admits after a long beat.

You don’t speak. You just sit there. Soaked. Silent.

“He doesn’t get to treat you like that,” he adds, quieter. “No one does.”

And in that breathless pause, Wilbur speaks again. Almost apologetically.

“Sorry if this is weird. I just… I remembered you. Back then. Always a little quiet. Always walking home alone.”

He shrugs.

“I used to wish I was brave enough to walk with you.”