#wybie

you can’t sleep. not because you’re scared—well, at least that’s what you tell yourself—but because every time you close your eyes, you see flashes of black buttons where eyes should be.

so you pull on a jumper, slip outside, and cross the damp grass behind the pink palace. the air smells like rain and rust. you half-expect silence and the chirping of crickets—until you hear faint clinking.

wybie’s crouched beside his bike under the porch light, muttering to himself as he fiddles with a wrench. goggles shoved into his curls, skeleton gloves blackened with grease.

“you’re gonna wake the dead,” you whisper.

he startles so bad he drops the wrench. “oh—uh—hey! didn’t see you there. i was just, uh—my brakes were squeaking and, y’know, can’t ride with squeaky brakes, right?”

“yeah. the horror.” you smile. “couldn’t sleep either?”

he rubs his neck. “no, i’m fine. but i do keep hearing the wind through the trees which makes it sound like it's whispering and watching.”

you don’t answer right away. your throat feels tight, remembering the last time something did watch.

“yeah,” you say softly. “i get that.”

he looks up, expression gentler. “hey, you wanna sit for a bit? i’ve got… uh—nothing to do, really. except, you know, not sleep.”

you sit beside him on the cold step. the world feels small—just the hum of crickets, the glint of his bike, and the quiet.

he starts talking. a lot. about nothing and everything.

“i took apart an old camera earlier. thought i could fix it but, uh, turns out i can’t put it back together. also, i think my grandma knows i broke another one ‘cause she gave me that look. you know the one.”

“the ‘you’re hopeless’ one?”

“yeah, exactly! i swear, she’s got, like, six versions of that look. each worse than the last.”

you giggle, and he brightens instantly. “see? you get it. everyone else just tells me to stop talking. i talk too much when i’m nervous, i think. i mean—not that i’m nervous right now or anything, it’s just—”

you just smile, listening to him trip over his own words. “you’re talking a mile a minute, you can slow down, y’know.” you say quietly.

“oh— sorry,” he blurts, scratching the back of his neck. “i don’t even notice when i do that sometimes.”

the silence after that is softer. his knee bumps yours by accident, and he goes scarlet. “sorry—uh—these steps are small.”

“they’re not.”

“oh. uh. then i just… don’t know how to sit like a normal person.”

you bite back a grin. he looks everywhere but at you—at the stars, at his gloves, at a beetle crawling over the porch rail.

“the sky looks weird tonight,” you say quietly.

he follows your gaze. “like someone stitched it together.”

“you always say stuff like that.”

“it’s true! look—the clouds, they’ve got those frayed edges. looks like seams.”

you hum. “if the sky’s fabric, what’s the moon?”

he hesitates. “a patch?”

“don’t say button.”

“...i wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies immediately.

you laugh, and the sound makes him glance at you properly. for a second, neither of you speak. it feels like everything slows down—the wind, the air, except your heartbeat.

“you ever think,” he starts, then falters, “about how weird all this is? like, you almost got trapped in another world, and now we’re just…fixing bikes and talking about the sky.”

“weird’s better than scary.”

he nods, fiddling with his gloves again. “yeah. weird’s not bad.”

the porch light flickers. you shiver, pulling the sleeves of your jumper over your hands. wybie notices immediately.

“you cold?”

“little bit.”

without thinking, he shrugs off his hoodie and hands it to you. “here.”

“wybie, I can’t—”

“it’s fine! i’ve got… body heat. i mean, everyone’s got body heat, but mine’s—uh—warm. i think. whatever.”

you can’t help laughing as you slip it on. it’s soft and smells faintly like grass and engine oil.

“thanks,” you say quietly.

he shrugs, still red to the tips of his ears. “yeah, sure. anytime.”

you turn to look at him. the porch light catches his curls, his lashes, the way his jaw tightens when he’s trying too hard notto look at you.

“you talk a lot when you’re nervous,” you tease softly.

“yeah, i—wait, are you saying i’m nervous now? because i’m not. not at all. okay, maybe a little, but—”

you don’t let him finish. you lean in, catching the rest of his words against your lips. it’s soft, careful, like testing the edge of something new and delicate.

his breath hitches. for a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. then he kisses you back—hesitant, warm, trembling slightly. his gloved hand finds your sleeve–or is it his? since, well, it is his hoodie–, gripping like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

you pull away first, and he’s blinking, wide-eyed.

“did that—uh—did that just happen?” he stammers.

you smile. “yeah.”

“huh.” he grins, dazed. “so, uh… are we just gonna pretend i didn’t almost faint, or—”

“if you wanna,” you say, still shocked at your courage to do that.”

he chuckles nervously, rubbing his neck. “cool. yeah. pretending’s good. great. amazing.”

you laugh, tugging the neck of his jumper over your head. “goodnight, wybie.”

he smiles, soft and crooked. “night, button eyes.”

you toss his jumper at him, “don’t call me that.”

“sorry.” he pauses. “still cute though.”

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