You woke with a sharp breath, heart racing, the echo of hooves and steel still tangled in your dreams.

Even though the war was over—won, sung about already by the dryads and fauns—your mind hadn’t quite caught up. Victory didn’t erase nightmares overnight. It only made the silence afterward louder.

Cair Paravel was quiet as you slipped into the hallway, stone cool beneath your bare feet. Torches burned low. Narnia slept.

You didn’t even hesitate about where you were going.

Peter’s door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling out. He wasn’t asleep yet—sitting on the edge of his bed, sword leaned carefully against the wall, polishing the leather strap of his armor with slow, thoughtful movements. He looked up immediately when he saw you, like he always did, as if some part of him was tuned permanently to your presence.

“Hey,” he said softly. Not surprised. Never annoyed. Just… there.

You hovered in the doorway, suddenly feeling small again, younger than you’d been all day. “I had a bad dream,” you admitted, voice thin. “Can I… can I stay with you?”

Peter didn’t even pause.

“Of course,” he said, already setting things aside. He stood and crossed the room in two strides, careful, gentle, like you were something fragile and precious all at once. He guided you to the bed, pulling the blankets back.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

You crawled in, and he lay down beside you, one arm immediately around your shoulders, pulling you close without question. He was warm, solid—real in a way that made the remnants of the dream lose their grip. His presence grounded you more than any victory ever could.

You tucked yourself against his chest, your head just under his chin. He smelled like leather and clean fabric and the faint trace of pine from the forest—comforting, familiar. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

Edmund would’ve laughed, called you a baby, teased you endlessly for it in the morning.

Peter never would.