It’s a Saturday. You stop by Wilbur’s house like always.

His mum opens the door with a smile. "He's in the garage, love."

You nod, thank her, and head down the familiar hallway. You've been here a million times—late nights finishing projects, early mornings waiting for rides, impromptu hangouts when neither of you could sleep.

But you've never actually been in the garage.

You push the door open—and stop.

There he is.

Hair pushed back with sweat, a t-shirt clinging to his back in the worst/best possible way, sleeves shoved up just enough to reveal his forearms. He’s focused—entirely. Muscles tight, breath fast. And he’s absolutely wrecking a punching bag. Gloves on, jaw clenched. Every hit echoes in your chest.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your mouth may or may not fall open a little.

Because. Holy shit. What.

This is Wilbur.

Your childhood best friend. The boy who accidentally dyed half his hair green with a busted highlighter in Year 8. The one who snorts when he laughs too hard. The one who cried when you got a paper cut because he “felt spiritually responsible.”

And now he’s in front of you like this??? With a punching bag??? Looking like this???

You make a sound. An unfortunate, squeaky kind of inhale.

He stops.

Turns.

"Hey—" he says, breathless. A slow, crooked grin pulls at his lips when he sees you. "Didn’t hear you come in."

You’re still standing there. Barely breathing. Brain at blue screen of death levels of meltdown.

He tilts his head. "You alright?"

You nod too fast. Way too fast.

He walks over—gloves off now, hair tousled, eyes bright.

“You look…” he pauses, squints at you, teasing, “…weird. Like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a really sexy version of me. Which I totally get, by the way.”