The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. The argument had been stupid — it always was. Something about dishes, or music volume, or who left the lights on. But with you and Wilbur, everything small turned sharp, every word hitting just deep enough to sting.

You stormed out before he could get the last word in, muttering something under your breath as you stomped down the stairs — except you didn’t make it far. Your foot slipped on the second step, a sharp pain shooting up your ankle as the world tilted. You hit the floor with a wince, the impact jarring but not enough to knock the anger completely out of you.

For a second, there was silence. Then the sound of footsteps — quick, uneven, too heavy to be calm.

Wilbur appeared at the top of the stairs, breath uneven, curls a mess, that familiar frustrated look painted across his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he breathed, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. He jogged down the steps, crouching in front of you before you could protest. “You’re impossible. Now sit still.”

You tried to wave him off, but he caught your ankle gently — firm enough to stop you from moving, careful enough not to hurt. His fingers were warm, his brows drawn together in concentration as he checked for swelling. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You can’t even storm off properly.”

His tone was biting, but his hands… weren’t.

He pressed lightly along your ankle, eyes flicking up to yours every time you so much as flinched. “Does that hurt?” he asked quietly, the irritation melting away just enough to let concern show through. You didn’t answer, and he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course it does. Brilliant.”

He glanced around, spotted your dropped phone halfway up the stairs, then looked back at you. “You should really stop making me care,” he said under his breath, almost too soft to catch. Then, louder, “You’re lucky I have a first aid kit somewhere.”

A few minutes later, you were sitting on the couch, ankle propped on a pillow, an ice pack wrapped around it while Wilbur rummaged through drawers for bandages. The tension still hung between you — but it was quieter now, softened by the sound of him mumbling curses at himself every time he dropped something.

When he finally settled beside you, wrapping the bandage carefully around your ankle, he didn’t look up. “Try not to fall down any more stairs,” he murmured. “I’m running out of sarcasm to cover the fact that I actually give a damn.”

He tied off the bandage with a neat little knot, fingers lingering just a second too long. And when you caught him looking — really looking — he immediately looked away, muttering, “Don’t make it weird.”

But the corners of his mouth twitched, like even he couldn’t pretend anymore.