Wilbur sat on the edge of the couch, one leg bouncing restlessly as he stared at his phone screen. The dim glow from the lamp beside him cast long shadows across the cluttered living room—empty coffee cups, a half-played record left spinning on the turntable, and a jacket draped over the armrest. His phone buzzed in his hand, and he snatched it up, only to see the same notification: No response.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, tapping out another message. Where are you? It’s late. He hesitated before sending it, frowning at the lack of read receipts on his previous texts. Maybe their phone had died. Maybe they were just out with friends and lost track of time.

But then why weren’t they answering?

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and started pacing, running a hand through his already-messy hair. His mind was quick to jump to the worst-case scenarios—an accident, a mugging, something worse—but he forced himself to shake it off. Don’t be dramatic. They’re probably fine. Still, he couldn’t shake the gnawing unease curling in his stomach.

After another few minutes of silence, he tried calling again, pressing the phone to his ear as he stared at the front door like he could will them to walk through it.

“Pick up. Just… just let me know you’re alright.” His voice was quieter this time, the usual sarcasm stripped away, leaving only worry in its place.

The call went to voicemail.

Wilbur exhaled sharply and dropped onto the couch, gripping the phone tight. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He rubbed his hands over his face, his fingers tapping anxiously against his jaw. He hated waiting. He hated not knowing.

His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. It was getting later. If they weren’t home soon, he was going out to look for them—no matter how ridiculous that made him feel.