It’s the kind of cold that settles in your bones, despite the thick wool of your coat and the comforting pressure of Peter’s arm beneath your hand. The streetlamps are dimmed under blackout orders, throwing only the faintest glow across the pavement as you walk in step through the quiet Finchley streets. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once and goes quiet again. The city always feels different after a raid — like it’s holding its breath.

Peter doesn’t speak at first. He just walks beside you with his head slightly bowed, the wind teasing a lock of fair hair across his brow. There’s soot smudged faintly on the collar of his coat, and his gloves are worn at the fingertips.

“It’s strange,” he says finally, voice low, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the stillness. “How quiet everything gets after the sirens stop. No cars, no chatter. Just… silence.”

His eyes flick to the sky — stars just barely visible through the haze — and then back to you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Makes a fellow think too much, I suppose.”

He slows slightly as you near the corner, boots scuffing softly against broken cobblestone, the sleeve of his coat brushing yours with each step.

“What were you doing out still, anyway? Mum would’ve had my head if I hadn’t found you.”