It’s late.
The flat is quiet in that perfect, sleepy way—just a soft hum of the fridge and the gentle rasp of rain against the windows.
Wilbur comes home to the smell of popcorn and the faint glow of a paused movie on the TV.
He drops his keys gently into the bowl by the door, already toeing off his boots, careful not to disturb the stillness. He’s halfway through pulling off his jacket when he sees you.
On the couch. Curled up.
Dead asleep.
And wearing his hoodie.
It hangs off of you like a blanket—comically oversized, sleeves swallowed by your hands, the hood bunched beneath your cheek where you’ve half-face-planted into the pillow.
One sock peeks out from under the throw blanket.
There’s a crumb on your lip.
His heart lurches.
He stares for a moment, motionless in the dark, a kind of warmth blooming beneath his ribs so suddenly it makes him unsteady.
You’re still here. You always stay up waiting for him, even when you can’t quite keep your eyes open. You put on his playlist—he can hear the faint lull of some instrumental track looping gently from your phone on the coffee table. You’re wearing his hoodie.
Mine, he thinks. Then: She’s not. But god, I wish.
He steps closer.
Kneels beside the couch.
Brushes the crumb away from your cheek with the back of his finger. His touch lingers—just for a second.
You stir, barely. Your nose scrunches a little.
He smiles. So softly.
Then he leans in, voice barely above a breath.
“You look better in it anyway.”
You don’t open your eyes. But your hand twitches—grabs for the sleeve of the hoodie like you're tucking yourself further into it. Further into him.
Wilbur’s knees stay on the carpet longer than they should.
He presses his forehead to the edge of the cushion, just beside your arm. Doesn’t care that he’s on the floor. Doesn’t care that his heart is thudding like it’s trying to confess for him.
You hum in your sleep.
He exhales.
And in the quiet, he finally says what he’s never had the courage to say while you were awake:
“…You’re my favorite part of this house.”