It’s loud.

Not in a bad way.

The kind of loud that you feel in your chest. The kind that rattles your ribs like bones turned to bells. The kind that makes everything before it seem too quiet—too dull.

Wilbur’s onstage.

A local bar near campus. The lighting is terrible. The speakers are a little blown out. The floor’s sticky. But none of that matters. Not really.

Not when he’s like this.

Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, guitar strap digging into his shoulder. His fingers are moving fast—sure, practiced—but there’s something messy about it too. Something alive.

The bass is pounding. The drum kit kicks like a heartbeat.

And Wilbur?

He’s not just performing.

He’s somewhere else.

Grinning like the song is coming from him and not through him. Sweaty and flushed and feral. His voice cracks in the chorus—beautifully, carelessly—and it sends a shock through you so hard you forget how to blink.

And he sees you.

Somewhere in the chaos, in the flashing lights and sticky floors and screaming voices—he finds you.

Front row. Elbows on the stage. Eyes wide. Silent.

He smiles.

God, that smile.

He ducks the mic just long enough to murmur into the noise:

“This one’s for you.”