"Chocolate?"

Wendy smiled at Edward appreciatively. "Sure, thanks." He handed her a small, square piece of chocolate. When she bit into it, she discovered it was full of caramel. "Mmm. This is so good. Where'd you find this?"

"My uncle came over for a few days, and he brought this box of chocolate from France. My mum's been trying to get rid of it ever since. She hates chocolate."

"Why?"

"It reminds her of my dad."

"Ah." Wendy said nothing. Edward's father had run off with another woman when he was very young, and Wendy did not feel the need to pry into his memories. He certainly didn't pry into hers.

They were taking a walk through the park. It had become their Sunday tradition, after Wendy started going into the park again. The scream on her fifteenth birthday had spooked her terribly, and it had taken an awful lot of coaxing before she stepped inside the familar stone walls again.

She was sixteen now - it was actually her birthday right then - and a small part of her was starting to agree with her brothers. It was all quite unrealistic. Flying boys, pirates, mermaids - preposterous.

But the vast majority of Wendy still firmly believed in Neverland, and Peter Pan. This was the part that left her window open every night, who hesitated every time someone mentioned growing up, and who, when doubting it all, never thought about Tinker Bell, lest her thoughts of uncertain belief could affect the fairy as much as speaking of disbelief could.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Edward said, awakening Wendy from her thoughts. They'd stopped by street-lamp next to the river. The sun was just starting to deep towards the horizon, so for now, it was simply a pole of steel.

"Oh, thank you."

Edward was quiet, then he asked, "Was it?"

"Was what what?"

"Was your birthday happy?"

"Oh," Wendy said softly. No one had ever really asked her that question. "I suppose so. We went to church, and I had Mother's homemade cake, and I got some nice gifts. And everyone was happy."

"Supposing is not the same thing as knowing, Wendy," Edward said thoughtfully, his blue eyes questioning her.

And then he leaned in, and his lips met hers.

A kiss.

In every way it resembled the kiss from four years ago, but in every way it was different.

Because this kiss was just a kiss. It wasn't sacred, special. Hidden.

Yet, Wendy still trembled, and she still felt her blood race. And when he pulled away, she still relived the moment, running over every nook, every cranny.

Edward smiled gently.

Wendy felt her heart crack slightly. Nothing too bad.

She needed to get out of here.

Wendy pushed past Edward and ran across the bridge. "Wendy, wait! I'm sorry!" Edward called after her. But she kept running.

Just a small crack. So why was she running?

Because, the sensible part (or the part she used to deem sensible) reasoned, it meant she was moving on from Peter. And she couldn't do that.

Could she?

Wendy stopped, breathing hard. She blinked, coming to terms with her location. She wasn't even in the park anymore. She was standing in the shadows of a decrepit old building, in the poorer part of town. In the street, peddlers were selling their wares and children ran around, causing trouble. She watched as an older boy silently stole an apple for a smaller girl, who squealed in delight. The boy bowed, and for a second, he faced Wendy's direction. Her heart stopped. It couldn't be -

"Gotcha!" A voice suddenly shouted from behind her, and rough hands grabbed her arms.

"Check her pockets!" A second voice snickered.

"Let go of me!" She shouted, almost fainting from the mixture of Edward's kiss and the boy who looked liked Peter and the sudden attack. "Let go! Help! He -" And then a cloth was shoved underneath her nose. It was soaked and smelled funny, and Wendy began to lose consciousness.

"Ow!" The voice of the first man suddenly yelped, and the arms dropped her. She fell to the sidewalk, panting. She heard the sounds of rocks flying, swearing, and then two heavy sets of boots running away. Wendy wasted no time. She pulled herself up and ran, ignoring everything.

The shouts behind her.

Her shaking body.

The hoarse, familiar voice that called out her name.

All ignored.