The grass by the Black Lake is still damp when you spread the blanket out, morning mist clinging to the edges like it hasn’t decided to leave yet. The castle looms behind you, distant and quiet for once, and the water ripples gently under the pale sun.

Peter hovers at your side, basket clutched a little too tightly.

“Is this... all right?” he asks, glancing around as if expecting someone to tell him he’s chosen wrong.

“It’s perfect,” you say, smiling up at him. “You did great.”

That earns you a shy grin. He sits down carefully, smoothing the blanket, movements small and deliberate. When he opens the basket, it’s packed: sandwiches wrapped neatly, pumpkin pasties, a thermos of tea, even a handful of biscuits he admits he baked himself.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say, touched.

“I wanted to,” he replies quickly, then softer, “I don’t usually get to.”

You eat together in comfortable quiet, watching the giant squid’s tentacles break the surface now and then. Peter relaxes as the minutes pass, shoulders lowering, and laughter coming a bit easier when you tease him about overpacking.

“You know,” you say between bites, “this was a really good idea.”

His ears go pink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s nice. Just us.”

He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s working up the courage for something. “I like it when it’s quiet,” he admits. “Easier to think. Easier to talk.”