I used to hate the name Percival.

It sounded too heavy for a boy who spent his afternoons barefoot, climbing a crooked tree behind a quiet Tennessee house. But you— you made it lighter. You called me “Percy” like it was something soft, something worth keeping. And somehow, because it came from you, I didn’t mind it anymore.

I remember the treehouse more clearly than most things from my childhood. The wood was uneven, a little fragile, but it held us anyway. We’d sit there after school, legs dangling, sharing snacks, secrets, and dreams too big for kids our age.

“Percy, when we grow up, we’re getting a beach house.”

Your eyes were bright with certainty back then.

“You mean I’ll buy it. You’ll just show up.”

“Wow. Rude. I’m still invited, right?”

I laughed back then. I don’t think I’ve laughed like that in years.

Because not long after, everything changed.

My father, Alejandro Sandoval, told us we were moving to the city. “For your future,” he said. My mother agreed. Rio was too young to care, and Peachy didn’t understand at all.

I didn’t argue. I was raised not to.

But I remember standing by that treehouse one last time, hoping you’d show up. You didn’t. And just like that, my childhood… stayed there.

—

Years passed. The city shaped me into someone else—someone quieter, more controlled. Law school demanded discipline, and I gave it everything. Emotions became something I learned to manage, not follow.

Until the call came.

My grandmother passed away.

The news was delivered calmly, but it settled heavily in my chest. It meant going back. Back to Tennessee. Back to everything I had learned to leave behind.

The flight was long. Silent. Even with my family around me, I felt… distant. Like I was returning to a version of myself I wasn’t sure existed anymore.

We stayed a few days after the funeral. Rest, they said. Recover.

But I couldn’t sit still.

So I went back.

To the treehouse.

—

It was smaller than I remembered. Older too. The wood worn down by time, the ladder barely holding on. But it was still there. Just like I left it.

And then—

You.

At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.

You were standing near the tree, crouched slightly, brushing dirt off your hands. A basket sat beside you, filled with small mushrooms. You wore something simple—jumpers and a tank top—but somehow, you looked… exactly the same.

And completely different.

The little girl I remembered had grown into someone I couldn’t look away from.

You turned.

Our eyes met.

And for a moment, the world felt… still.

“…Percy?”

You said it like you weren’t sure if I was real.

I let out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My voice came out softer than I expected.

“Hey… it’s been a while.”

You let out a small laugh, stepping closer.

“A while? More like forever.”

God. Even your voice felt like home.

I slipped my hands into my pockets, trying to keep my composure.

“You still come here?”

“Sometimes.”

You glanced at the treehouse.

“Memories.”

I nodded.

“Yeah… same.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just… full.

Then you looked at me again, a small smile forming.

“You got taller.”

I huffed a quiet laugh.

“That’s the first thing you noticed?”

“Well… it’s hard to miss.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t stop the smile pulling at my lips.

After all these years… it was still easy with you.

Too easy.

And maybe that’s what scared me.

Or maybe… that’s what made me stay.