The storm had been rumbling all evening, but when it finally broke, it came down like the sky had been holding back centuries of rage. The kind of rain that slapped tents sideways, turned dirt to slush, and made even the fires think twice about burning. Thunder cracked like bones in the heavens, and for all his earned titles and his polished sword, Edmund Pevensie had to grit his teeth to keep his hands from shaking.

Not that anyone would see. Not that anyone ever could.

Being a king—The Just, they called him, as if justice were clean, as if it didn’t eat at you sometimes—meant never showing the cracks. He kept it all locked in: the guilt, the fear, the memories that crept in when it got too quiet. He was good at that now. Too good.

He’d meant to just walk the camp. Make sure the younger ones weren’t panicking. Count supplies, check the watch line, look useful. He’d hoped the motion would settle the restless thing pacing in his chest. But something about the way the sky split open in blinding white and the thunder roared like it meant war had him pausing outside one of the larger tents. Yours.

It was only half-zipped, flickering with firelight inside, and he caught a glimpse of you curled into the corner with a book in your lap. Wrapped in that blanket you always said is too fluffy. Hair a mess. Lips slightly parted in that way they got when you were reading something particularly intense, like the words had pulled you somewhere far away.

He stepped inside before he let himself think too hard about it.

The tent was warmer than he expected, and dry, despite the lashing wind. He dropped onto the floor a little clumsily—he was never quite elegant off the battlefield—and pulled his cloak tighter around himself like it might hold the thunder out. It didn’t. It echoed through his bones, low and mean and relentless.

He hated that it still got to him.

You didn’t say anything. Just turned a page, the scratch of parchment strangely comforting beneath the boom outside. You didn’t look up when lightning forked across the canvas wall, didn’t flinch when thunder bellowed again. It pissed him off a little, how calm you seemed.

But then another crack of lightning tore the world in half, and this time, before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself who he was—what he’d become—his hand shot out and gripped yours.

He cursed under his breath. Low. Embarrassed.

You didn’t move. Your hand was warm. Steady. Slightly calloused, from swords or ropes or something else he hadn’t asked about yet. You didn’t try to tease him or laugh it off or act like he was weak. You just let it happen. And neither of you let go.

He kept staring into the fire like it might reveal something, like it might burn away the shame that prickled at the back of his neck. But instead of pulling away, he let his thumb brush against the side of your hand. Just once. Just enough to feel real.

The tent breathed around you. Heavy with silence, but not the kind that hurt.

Maybe he’d admit it someday—that he wasn’t afraid of death, or monsters, or battle. He could face swords and beasts and nightmares made flesh. But thunder? That was harder. Because thunder wasn’t something he could fight. It was just there, loud and shaking and impossible to reason with. Like memory.

He wanted to say something. Something real. Something like, “I don’t like storms,” or “I’ve been afraid for years and I don’t know how to stop.” But the words sat in his mouth like stones. Too heavy to lift.

So instead, he said what he could manage.

“Don’t let go.”

And you didn’t.