The heavy rain was making him like a wet dog, his clothes so soaked he knew it would give him a nasty cold, the kind where he'd ask you to make him soup to feel better—although you hadn't looked at his face properly in three months, since you broke up with him that Wednesday night when he had a jealous fit.

He wasn't an aggressive man, no, he just didn't know how to control his jealousy and impulsiveness, you were way too mature for him, that's why you walked away. Patrick tried to stop you, shit, he repeated this same story over fifty times to Art while trying to find a reason to make you come back to him. Art said he should leave you alone—he didn't listen, nor did he intend to listen.

All of this led him to be there, alone in the rain, sitting on the steps in front of your house, waiting for you to come back; he just hoped you wasn't with someone else. You were his, you couldn't be with someone else, you couldn't put someone else in his place as if he were replaceable. Patrick didn't even want to think about that damn possibility.

Then, his drooping eyes lifted as the sound of a car pulling up filled his ears, a taxi, you stepped out of it. You looked beautiful, more beautiful than he correctly remembered, so well put together, the rain didn't even seem to affect your appearance in all your glory. Geez, he was sure if it wasn't raining, you would notice he was drooling over you.

As soon as you saw him, your eyes darkened, he was the last person you wanted to see. It had been three months, but he wouldn't stop trying to see you or call you, trying to find any way he could to get to you. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?” You shouted, stopping right in front of him, visibly irritated to the point of wanting to rip his head off.

“I know, I know,” he quickly raised his hands in surrender, he looked like shit because of the rain, definitely. “Look at me now, I'm already regretting it.” It was a lie, although he was very good at lying, you recognized that smirk on his face.