He finds you in the kitchen.

2:47 AM.

You're crouched beside the fridge, hands flat on the cold tile, back against the lower cabinet. Not crying—because crying’s something you unlearned. But your breathing is uneven. Your jaw is tight. You're shaking in a way that makes Wilbur pause in the doorway like he's just walked into a crime scene.

He doesn’t speak.

Just sinks to the floor next to you. Legs crossed, knees brushing yours. The tile hums with chill beneath him.

A minute passes.

Then another.

And then:

“…You used to sit like this in my room when we were kids.” His voice is barely audible. Soft. Hollow with memory.

You don’t look at him.

“You’d tuck into the corner with your arms around your knees like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Like maybe if you were small enough, your parents wouldn’t find you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I used to lie to them, y’know.” He leans back against the fridge. Looks up at the ceiling.

“You’d come over with handprints on your arms, and I’d tell my mum you fell. Tripped on the stairs. Bruised easy.” He laughs, but there’s nothing happy in it.

“I didn’t even know what gaslighting was. I just knew the truth would get you sent home.”

You let your head fall back against the cabinet with a dull thud. Still no tears. Still that awful, hollow quiet.

“You remember that pillow I kept on the floor by my bed?” You blink, slowly.

Wilbur nods.

“It was for you.”

You turn to look at him now. Slowly. Fragile.

He keeps going.

“I always left it there. Even when you hadn’t stayed over in weeks. Even when I told my mates I just liked ‘extra support.’” His eyes are shining now. “I kept the pillow cold. Just in case. Just in case that night was the night. The one you needed it again.”

You can’t breathe.

Not properly.

Not with the way he’s looking at you—like he’s known you forever, and still can’t believe you’re real.

“And now?” He breathes in. Slow. Heavy. “Now I watch you do your laundry at 2AM and pretend it’s because you’re a night owl. Not because you’re scared of being in the living room alone.”

You look down. Fingernails digging crescents into your palms.

And then he says the thing he was always going to say.

The thing that’s been sitting between you for years.

“I think I loved you even when I didn’t know what love was. Even when I was five and thought kissing was gross, I remember thinking—‘But I wouldn’t mind it if it was her.’”

“I’ve been in love with you since before I knew I had a choice.” He shifts—closer now. Hands in his lap, careful not to touch you yet. “And if you’d never said a word to me again, I’d still sit outside your bedroom door every night and wait. Like I always did.”