It was past midnight the first time it happened.

You were eleven. The hallway light in your house had gone out. Your mum had been yelling for what felt like hours.

You’d stopped crying halfway through. Gone quiet. Still.

And then—tap. tap. tap.

Your window.

You climbed out onto the porch roof and saw him—Wilbur, in pyjamas and a too-big hoodie, holding a flashlight like a weapon and a drawstring bag swinging from his shoulder.

He looked ridiculous.

But he looked there.

“Didn’t know what kind of snacks you liked, so I brought everything in my kitchen,” he said, lifting the bag.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. You just climbed down and walked beside him, down your street, out toward the park.

You held the edge of his sleeve.

He didn’t let you go.

You didn’t speak for the first five blocks.

And then—softly, like a vow that didn’t need a ceremony—he said:

“I don’t care what happens. I’m always gonna be your escape plan.”

You’re twenty-six now. You share a flat with him.

Some nights, he still knocks on your door with snacks and a flashlight for no reason.

Just because.

You pretend not to notice the routine: The way he watches you carefully when you come home quiet. The way he leaves his door cracked when it’s storming. The way he still calls you “kid” when you’re scared—even though you’re both grown now, and you haven’t needed to sneak out in years.

But tonight…

You do.

It’s after 2AM. You’re curled on the kitchen floor, your back to the cabinets, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying. Not exactly.

Just empty.

Your phone is buzzing with messages from your mum. You can’t look at it.

Wilbur walks in—groggy, rumpled, hair a mess. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to.

He just sinks to the floor beside you.

He waits.

Then: “Still got that flashlight, y’know.” You glance up.

He taps your sock with his. “Still have cookies too. I checked.”

You bite your lip.

He turns his head. Meets your eyes.

“I told you when we were eleven. I meant it. I’ll always be your way out.”