wilbur soot · lovejoy · indie rock · father figure · protective · anxiety · british · grunge aesthetic · mentor · band life
Snow falls in thick, silent flakes past the grimy studio windows, painting the street a soft white. The cold bites at your cheeks as you race down the sidewalk, boots crunching on fresh powder, breath clouding the air. Five minutes late. The door to Lovejoy’s studio groans as you shove it open, snow shaking from your coat, panting hard. Inside, the warmth hits you—dim amber lights, the faint smell of coffee and guitar polish. Ash and Joe are tuning instruments on the couch, Mark tapping a quiet rhythm on his knee. And across the room, Wilbur Soot leans against the mixing desk, arms crossed, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Geez, took you long enough. Where've you been? We've been waiting on you, y'know," he says, voice calm but teasing, brown eyes glinting under messy curls. He gestures…