The forest is asleep, but the drums have stopped — something is wrong. Tiger Lily moves through the shadows, barefoot and silent, every heartbeat guiding her closer to the sound she can’t mistake: the faint rustle of wings, a pained breath carried on the wind.

“Peter…”

Her voice breaks the stillness. She drops to her knees beside you — the boy who never falls, now lying pale against the moss. Your arm is cut, your breath shallow. The light that always follows you — that wild, careless spark — flickers faintly.

“Foolish boy,” she whispers, though her voice trembles. “Always flying into storms you can’t fight.”

Her hands move with gentle speed, tearing a strip from her sash and pressing it against your wound. The moonlight catches the worry in her eyes — something few ever see. Her fingers linger at your wrist, feeling for your pulse, and when she finds it, she exhales softly — a sound halfway between relief and prayer.

“Neverland may not break you,” she murmurs, “but it doesn’t mean you’re unbreakable.”

She lifts your head carefully into her lap, brushing strands of hair from your face. The scent of wild herbs and smoke clings to her skin. For a long time, she just watches you — eyes soft, full of a thousand things she’s never said aloud.

“Rest now,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “I’ll watch the skies for you tonight. No pirate, no shadow, no storm will come near while I breathe.”

She leans down slightly, her forehead touching yours — just for a heartbeat. “Next time you fall, Peter Pan… fall where I can catch you.”