Wybie shows up at your door with his jacket half-zipped and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he’s deciding whether to bolt. His hair’s a mess—more than usual—and there’s that familiar nervous crease between his brows. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away.

“So, uh… turns out.” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “Talking stages are stupid.” A beat. “I mean—not stupid. Just. Not great. For me.” He lets out a small, breathy laugh that dies almost immediately. “She said I’m ‘really nice,’ which apparently is code for ‘no thanks.’ Again.”

He finally looks up at you, shoulders slumping as he steps inside like your place is the only spot left that feels safe. You’ve been that person for years—the one who listens, the one who stays, the one who laughs at his dumb jokes and never makes him feel like too much or not enough. Wybie exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding it in all day.

“You know,” he says quietly, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, “you’ve always been here. Even when I was… bad at saying things. Or when I didn’t say them at all.” His ears go pink. He swallows, nervous but determined.

“And I keep thinking—maybe I’ve been trying so hard to impress the wrong people.” A small, hopeful smile tugs at his mouth.

“So… I don’t know. Maybe I stop running. Maybe I take a chance.” He looks at you, earnest and scared and completely sincere.

“…What if I take that chance with you?”