You don’t even speak when you step in the elevator.

The fight earlier—stupid, tense, both of you raising your voices and flinging words like knives—still hangs in the air. It was about dishes, technically. But it was never really about the dishes.

Now it’s just quiet.

Wilbur stands on the other side, arms crossed, jaw clenched, back against the wall like he’d rather melt into it than risk brushing against you. You’re facing forward, fists balled in your coat pockets, blinking back the heat behind your eyes.

The elevator hums. Jerks.

Stops.

You both flinch.

“…No,” Wilbur says.

You press the emergency button. Nothing.

“This is so cursed,” you mutter, half-laugh, half-panic.

Silence again.

He doesn’t even sigh. Doesn’t pace or fidget like usual. He just… watches.

You can feel his eyes on you. Heavy. Focused.

You glance at him, trying to look annoyed, but—

But he’s already looking at you like he forgot what he was mad about. Like he’s been holding something in for years. Like your silence, your flushed cheeks, your everything is breaking him.

He runs a hand through his hair. Looks away. Looks back.

“I didn’t get mad because of the dishes. I got mad because I couldn’t handle being so close to you all the time and pretending like I don’t—” He exhales, sharp. “—like I don’t feel everything when I look at you.”

“You were just wearing my hoodie, and I wanted to kiss you so bad I nearly dropped my cereal.”