Crying.

Oh, you sure did a lot of that. When you were small, when you were angry, when she snapped at you, when you couldn’t stand yourself, when you saw her hurting—your eyes would sting and water would spill before you even realized it. You cried so much it became a rhythm in your life, like breathing.

Miss Peregrine never fussed about it. Over the years she learned to step around it, like one might step around a squeaky floorboard in an old house. But what always lingered with her—what she could never quite ignore—was the way you looked when you cried.

That face. That helpless, almost broken look, tears streaming down, lips trembling, your nose red and raw, your whole expression flushed. She thought she should be stern about it, but she wasn’t. Not really. Because every time she saw you like that she knew—whether she wanted to admit it or not—that you were hers to keep safe.

And the worst part? The most delicate, dangerous part? You never cried harder than when her hands found your wings.

You always kept them close to her, tucked in tight, folded almost protectively around your body. She didn’t touch them often; she respected the boundaries. But when she did… Gods. Your whole body would tense, a shiver running through you like lightning. You’d dig your face into the sheets, clutch the pillow as though it were the only thing anchoring you to earth.

Just like now.

She was straddling the back of your thighs, calm as ever, fingers careful as they brushed through each feather. It was shedding season, and she’d done this countless times before. Sorting the good from the loose, pulling the ones that needed to go so new growth could come in clean and strong. She did it every cycle, with a patience only she had. But no matter how many times, your reaction never changed.

You lay on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, half-hidden. In the soft lamplight your hair stuck to your damp forehead. Your lashes glistened, wet. And your lips—parted, trembling slightly with each shaky breath—looked almost like they were begging for mercy. One hand gripped the pillowcase in a white-knuckled fist, while the other curled uselessly near your mouth, as if you could bite back the sounds trying to escape.

Miss Peregrine’s hand slowed, lingering over the line of your wing. She felt the tremor under your skin, the way you tried to stay quiet for her.

“Easy, love,” she whispered, smoothing her fingers along the feathers before tugging another loose one free. “I know it’s sensitive. I’ll be gentle.”

You gave a shaky exhale, pressing your face harder into the pillow. “I-I can’t help it…”

“I don’t want you to,” she murmured, her voice warm and steady. “Don’t hold yourself so tightly. Just breathe for me.”

Another feather slipped free. She set it aside, then laid her palm against the curve of your wing, grounding you. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?”

You nodded weakly, your breath unsteady but slower now, as though her voice alone was guiding you through.

“You’re always so brave for me,” she said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead. “Even when it feels like too much.”

A broken sound caught in your throat, and your hand fisted the pillow tighter. “It’s embarrassing…”

Her hand stilled, then pressed gently against your back. “No. It isn’t. Not to me. You don’t have to hide, not here.”

The words cut through the haze, quiet and firm, and they made your chest ache in a way nothing else could. She plucked another feather, slower this time, her fingers soothing the place it had been.

When you shuddered again, she leaned closer, her lips almost brushing your ear. “I’ve got you. Always.”