It’s pouring. You're both trapped under the tiny front overhang of the shop, bags in your arms, watching the sky drown the parking lot.

You don’t say anything. You just sigh, all soft and pouty, tucking your head into your hoodie like a little marshmallow of suffering.

Wilbur glances at you. Blinks.

“…Want to share my umbrella?” Then quieter, like he’s trying to be brave: “It only fits one and a half people, but you’re little, and I’m pathetic, so maybe that’s a good ratio.”