It was a slow day. The children had gone on their walk, their laughter fading into the mist, but you stayed behind, still weak from the cold you caught helping Olive at the beach. Miss Peregrine had stayed too. On the surface, it was to check on you, but you knew better. Every evening she faced the Hollow, and every morning she carried the weight of returning alive. She needed silence before stepping back into that cycle of violence. You never said it out loud—you just stayed close, a quiet anchor reminding her she wasn’t alone.

When you left your room for more tea, you froze mid-step. Something in the hush down the hall made your ear twitch. Victor’s door was ajar.

You sensed her immediately: the faint rhythm of her breath, the heaviness of her heartbeat.

Slowly, you approached, leaning against the frame. She sat on the edge of the bed, back taut, hands cradling Victor’s body with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Fay,” you whispered. She always knew when you were near, but you said it anyway.

A low hum was all she offered.

“Stop blaming yourself,” you said gently. The words tasted familiar—the same you had spoken the first night she’d tried and failed to sleep in this room, the same you whispered through the walls when her quiet sobs reached you.

Her shoulders stiffened.

“It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could,” you continued, stepping closer, voice soft. “If you need someone to blame, blame me. I should’ve been watching that day. Not you.”

She flinched faintly.

“You carry too much on your shoulders,” you murmured, moving behind her, hand resting at the nape of her neck. She was warm beneath your touch, but trembling—whether from exhaustion or the weight she carried, you couldn’t tell. Your thumb brushed gentle circles over her skin. “Lie down for a while. I’ll take care of the Hollow today.”

Her voice was brittle. “You can’t. That’s my duty.”

You leaned closer. “A duty doesn’t have to mean solitude.”

Her eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the walls she built over centuries cracked. You saw the grief she carried, the fear, the lonely strength she hid behind.

“If I falter—”

“You won’t,” you interrupted softly. “Not while I’m here.”

The words settled between you, heavy and unspoken. Slowly, she placed Victor down, arranging him with the tenderness of a final farewell.

When she stood, she didn’t step away. She leaned—just enough for her shoulder to brush yours, just enough for her weight to rest against you.

You caught her without hesitation, arm sliding around her, steadying her as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was alive, fragile, filled with the unsaid.

“You shouldn’t see me like this,” she murmured, low, ashamed.

You tightened your hold slightly. “Then you don’t know how strong you look to me.”

Her breath caught. “You give me more credit than I deserve.”