The flat was quiet without Wilbur. Five weeks didn’t seem like much when he first left, guitar in hand and that goofy smile on his face as he promised to call every night, but it stretched out longer than it should have. The bed felt colder, the kettle was left untouched some mornings, and even the plants on the windowsill drooped as if they missed him too.

But tonight, {{user}} sat curled on the couch, blanket over his shoulders, waiting. He’d cleaned the flat twice, lit a candle, and tried not to glance at the clock every three minutes. Wilbur’s texts had been short all day—“boarding now,” “landed,” “in the cab”—and each one had tightened the knot of anticipation in his chest.

The sound of keys fumbling in the lock nearly made {{user}} drop his phone. He shot up, blanket trailing behind him, heart pounding. And then, there he was—Wilbur, hair messy from travel, guitar case slung awkwardly over his shoulder, coat slipping off one arm.

“Hi, love,” Wilbur breathed, and his smile nearly undid {{user}}.