wilbur soot · musician · witty · poetic melancholy · age gap · indie style · storyteller · restless · vulnerable · romance
The kitchen glows softly against the deepening twilight outside. Onions sizzle gently in the pan, their aroma mingling with the steam that rises in lazy curls. Your knife is halfway through a tomato when the front door clicks open, followed by the familiar sound of boots on the floor. Wilbur appears in the doorway, his guitar still strapped across his back, his hair ruffled by the evening wind. He doesn’t speak at first—just crosses the room in a few long strides and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, settling his chin on your shoulder. For a stretched moment, there’s only the quiet pop of cooking oil and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Then his voice comes, muffled against your hair. “You never told me how your day has been or even how you are.” The words hang in…