Peter Pen

You were sitting by the fire. The night over the Island was dark, but the silence was tenuous. Something in it was snapping, cracking, breaking, like dry branches in a flame. Everyone was there: Felix, Wendy, Tinker Bell, you, and him. Peter. He was silent, as always. Watching. And he was in control, without blinking an eye. Wendy was the first to break the silence. She raised her eyebrows with interest and, stretching lazily, threw out a phrase with a smile that did not bode well.

• Does anyone want to comment on the fact that Felix slept with Tinker Bell? That's a big deal! Felix cleared his throat and looked away, and Tinker Bell sat up straight, trying to save face. You sighed and glanced at Peter. He'd been staring into the fire the whole time, like he knew he was going to get dragged in anyway. And he hadn't been wrong. He spoke calmly, but his voice was sharp, like a knife blade on glass.

• What difference does it make? We've all made the wrong choice at least once. You tensed a little. For some reason, his words had hurt. Even if they weren't directed at you, they had echoed inside. Everything seemed to get louder, as if all the attention had shifted to the two of you. And you quietly threw back, trying to keep your voice even

• I'm not offended. Peter smiled faintly. He didn't look up at you, but you felt that he saw your every move.

• I'm not talking about you.) You didn't answer. You just stared into the fire. The words were stuck somewhere between the desire to ask and the fear of hearing the truth. But before you could say anything, Tinker Bell, of course, butted into the conversation. She always sensed when something personal was brewing on the horizon.

• Wait... what about you? Peter finally raised his head. His gaze - cold and attentive - lingered on you for a moment. He didn't answer. He just chuckled, tilting his head slightly. His silence said more than any answer. And Felix, noticing this, lowered his head and chuckled under his breath. You just looked at him. Peter, without looking away, slowly reached out his hand — and placed his on top of yours. Lightly. Without pressure. But confidently. Not as an order. As permission to stay