KEEP A PLACE FOR ME // Wilbur Soot X Reader

9

Maddy was absolutely thrilled to find out that the noisy guy from your office and Wilbur Soot (someone she had discovered by accident at a local pub years ago) were actually the same man. And that he had given you a copy of his album. And that he had come over specifically to talk to you after his set.

You were just glad that Jazzy hadn't heard that flirty comment he'd made about not having cute journalists disturb him in a recording studio - you'd have never heard the end of it. From either of them.

They had barely even let you get any sleep that night - the album had been on repeat and they had grilled you for every detail of the encounter. It was reminiscent of high school sleepovers, when your friends would wring you dry of every detail about the guy you fancied - except you definitely didn't fancy Wilbur.

He might have been tall and good looking and able to play the guitar and have a pretty good singing voice, but that didn't mean he wasn't the person who had made countless phone interviews awkward with his carrying on. One flirty comment wasn't going to make up for that.

That didn't stop you from listening to his album as you drove to work though. It was a pretty good album after all. Nothing like it had been live, but you were beginning to learn the words.

You paused the track as you pulled into your usual parking space and eased the car to a stop, switching off the ignition. You bundled your coat around you as you grabbed your bag and got out of the car - it was growing colder, and this morning was particularly windy. You hurried inside the building, waving to Oscar as you made your way to your office.

You passed Wilburs door and paused for a moment. You should thank him for the CD. He wouldn't be in til later, but you could leave a note on his door or something of the same spirit. Yes, that would do.

You unlocked the door to your own office and flicked the lights on. It was just as you had left it last night - desk chair still stranded in the middle of the room from where you had been spinning around, happy that you'd gotten the job.

Amongst everything else, it had almost been overshadowed. But no, as you sat down and booted up your computer, you scanned through your email on your phone. Already, five new emails from the magazine. And you hadn't even technically started yet.

Your computer turned on fully, drawing your attention to the screen. There was a sticky note - you'd forgotten you left it. You plucked it off the screen to read what it said.

complain to oscar about neighbor again. be more clear.

You thumbed the note before tossing it in the trash. You had just been angry yesterday... and what did it matter really? You had gotten the job yesterday. That was it.

No other reason.

It felt strange though, that yesterday you hadn't even known his full name, and now you were about to write a note thanking him for his album, and that you thought it was rather good.

You peeled another note off the stack and grabbed a pen from your cup of them, clicking it a few times before leaning over the paper.

You paused.

How did people start thank you notes? 'Dear Wilbur' was too formal, but addressing it like an email was too professional-

Why were you worrying about this?

You would just dive into it.

Thank you for the album. I liked it better live, but the recording is nice too-

You scratched it out before you could finish the thought. No, that wasn't right. Tossing the note aside, you peeled off a fresh one and started again.

I rather like the sound of your voice-

No, but that wasn't right either. You scrapped that one as well, resting your elbows on the desk.

This was ridiculous. You wrote for work everyday, anything from how-to's, to in depth reports on politics. There was no real reason why you should be having such trouble with a simple thank you note. Writing was how you made your living, and this barely qualified as writing at all.

"This is ridiculous." You said it aloud, like the words would make the trouble go away. "It's just a sticky note."

You peeled off another note and began again.

The album is very nice. I listened to it in the car this morning-

You balled up the paper and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall your shared with Wilbur and fell to the floor, sitting on the ground.

This was stupid. If it was this hard to think of a thank you note, why even bother leaving one in the first place-?

You took a breath. It was the principle of the thing now.

You peeled another note from the stack and put your pen to the paper.

Thank you for the copy of the album last night. I really enjoyed your show - you're quite good with a guitar.

You didn't bother scribbling your name at the bottom - he would know who it was from. You read the note over again, making sure you hadn't spelled anything wrong (which would be embarrassing, you were a journalist for Christ's sake) and got up from your seat.

You opened the door and peeked out into the hallway first, to make sure no one was there to witness you. Another ridiculous thing - there was nothing strange about leaving a note on a neighbors door. You straightened your spine and walked out into the hallway, note in hand.

It was only a few steps to Wilburs door, and you stuck the note right in the center, as high as you could reach, so that he would see it. It stuck out like a sore thumb - bright yellow against the dark wood.

Before you could change your mind, you ducked back into your office and shut the door.