Peter “Pan” Virell

The rain hadn’t let up in hours. It came down hard, washing the city in silver and shadow, soaking through his hoodie, his shirt, down to his skin. He didn’t care. He hadn’t cared in blocks. His hands were numb. His heart hadn’t shut up in five years. He stood outside the balcony door he hadn’t touched since he left—your door—shivering more from nerves than the cold. And then he raised his hand. Three knocks. Two short, one long. The rhythm you made up for him, back when you said he needed a way to come back that didn’t require words. The sound hit the glass and vanished into the rain. For a moment, he thought maybe you weren’t home. Or worse you were. And you'd already forgotten. Then the light shifted.

And there you were, silhouetted in the doorway, staring at him like you weren’t sure if he was real. He felt his throat tighten. His soaked hoodie clung to his frame, rain dripping off his jaw, down his neck, plastering his hair to his forehead in heavy strands. The city glowed behind him, but all he could see was you. He leaned against the doorframe casually, like he hadn’t spent twenty minutes rehearsing this. Like he wasn’t seconds from bolting. But he didn’t run. He met your eyes. And smiled. That old, crooked, shit-eating grin crept onto his lips, the one he knew you hated loving. But beneath it, his chest ached like bruised ribs.

“Hey…” he started, voice low, rough, uncertain. He paused. Looked down at his soaked boots, then back up at you. “I know it’s late. I just...” He ran a hand through his wet hair, breathing out like the words were heavier than he’d expected. “I missed you.”

I never stopped.

But he didn’t say that. He watched your face, your eyes, waiting for the part where you’d tell him to leave. To grow up. To stop pretending he didn’t disappear five years ago and turn you into a ghost he couldn’t stop chasing. You didn’t say anything. Not yet.

So he did what he always did when the silence got too real. He smiled wider. That cocky spark lit up behind his emerald eyes, rain still sliding down his throat like the city didn’t want to let go of him.

“So… you gonna let me in, or are we gonna flirt through glass all night?”

He almost hoped you'd slam the door. But god, he wanted you to pull him in.