I glance over at him, my anger from a second ago a bit destabilised by his touch. “Yes.”
He gives me a pointed look. “You are nosy though.”
“I’m not nosy.” I cross my arms, indignant. “I’m just trying to know you.”
Peter shrugs, a lightness to him again. “You know me.”
“No.” I shake my head, and I tell myself that I’m not even remotely unnerved by how quickly the tides of him can change. Because the ocean changes quickly too, and it’s fine and safe and people hardly ever die in it.
“I don’t,” I tell him. “Not really.”
“Yes, you do!” He sighs. “I love the sun and flying and treasure and adventure and—”
“That’s not who you are. That’s what you love.”
Peter gives me a look like I’m stupid. “We are what we love, girl.”
“I love rocks and the earth and learning, but I’m not those things!”
“Well, I love danger and I love freedom, but try to tell me for a second that I’m not those.” He lifts an eyebrow, daring me.
I nod and my shoulders slump, because I’m tired and he’s right. He is.
“You are those things,” I concede.
He nudges me with his elbow. “The good kind of dangerous…”
“Yes.” I nod. Even though I’m not entirely sure.
He sighs, looking at his hands. “I shouldn’t have stormed at you.”
I stare over at him, taken aback. “Was that you?”
I had wondered.
“Yes,” he says, staring at his hands.
My face lightens up a bit. Maybe it shouldn’t, but awe happens without your permission most of the time. “How do you do it?”
“I don’t know. Just happens.” He shrugs. “Sometimes when I think about you, the sky turns pink.”
My eyes go round.* “Really?”
He shrugs again. “The first time we kissed, there was a meteor shower that night after.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs.
“Felt dumb.” He flashes me a smile as he looks away.
I duck so our eyes catch. “Peter, how could that possibly feel dumb?”
“I don’t know how I got here.” he says rather suddenly, and his brows bend in the middle in a way that makes my heart’s knees bend. “Or where I came from or who my parents are. They just didn’t want me or to know me, because I’m here, and that’s all I know.”
“Oh,” I say, wishing we didn’t have that in common. It’s an awful club to belong to.
“The fairies raised me though,” he says, catching my eye. “Together with the land. I think that’s why it happens. The land’s my friend.”
I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it now. “It listens to you?”
Peter nods. “And feels with me.”
“Do the animals?”
“Most of them.”
And I’m back in awe now, staring up at him all wide-eyed and stupid.
“Are you impressed?” He smirks.
I nod a bit solemnly. “Yes.”
Peter puts one arm on my waist and the other around my back, brushing his lips over mine.
“Good.”
* * *
* It’s not a terrible look, and it’s really only actually sort of scary if it’s getting dark out.
* That does feel debatable, but it’s not a hill I’m willing to die on.
* And all the things I was worried about just a minute ago topple straight out of my head.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Sleeping is better when there’s not a pillow wall between you.
Not that he’s holding me or touching me. Sometimes I’ll wake, and his leg will be kicked over me, but that’s about it as far as nightly affections go.
But the wall being down does afford me one thing.
A spectacular morning view.
It might be a contentious thing to say, and he himself would most definitely disagree with it, but I think Peter is his most beautiful while he is sleeping. When he’s awake, he’s never still long enough to be able to take him in properly, and truthfully, there’s much to take in.
There’s almost a lustre to his skin—fairy dust, maybe? I don’t know—something golden that’s over him; he’s gorgeously olive. Freckles that kiss his cheeks and his shoulders like I wish I was allowed to, but he doesn’t like affection on anyone’s terms but his own. His hair is styled every morning by the sea and the wind, and they push it the perfect, wavy way.
His eyes flutter open, and I close mine quickly.
He’d be altogether too smug if he knew I watch him while he sleeps sometimes.
He sits up and shakes me because I’m good at pretending.
“Get up, sleepyhead girl. It’s morning.” He jumps to his feet and flies straight to the beam, flipping off it and soaring over the boys’ beds below us. “Morning, everyone!” Peter yells.
The littlest boys rub their tired eyes awake.
“Medicine!” Peter hollers, and we all groan, but I follow him down and hand it out.
Brodie gives me a tight smile when I hand him his, and I give him an extra warm smile because I feel as though he needs it.
“You’re looking rather tall today, Brodie.”
Something flickers over his face, and he says nothing, but he sits down quickly before Peter has a chance to look over at him.
I slide into the seat next to Peter and reach across him to a bowl of berries, pulling them closer to me.
“Gorgeous spread, Hobb! Thank you!” I call out in the hopes that they’ll hear me.
“You don’t have to thank him,” Peter says as he shovels some bacon into his mouth.
I shrug breezily. “But isn’t it nice to?”
Peter pulls a face. “He has to. He’s a slave.”
I peer over at Peter. “Not an actual slave?”
He frowns at an apple he’s holding, bites down—big crunch. He glares at the bite mark he made in it, then he looks over at me, straightening up.
“Why do you always wear the same thing?” Peter asks, staring at me with his head tilted.
My head pulls back. “I beg your pardon?”
“The same clothes.” Peter squints at me. “You’re always in them.”
I wave my hand at him. “So are you.”
“Tiger Lily never wears the same thing,” he says loudly over me and looks back at his apple before he takes another bite from it.
“There is no Tiger Lily, Peter,” I tell him, straightening up. “Her name is Calla.”
He turns and faces me again. “Calla never wears the same thing.”
“Well.” I give him a curt smile. “I suppose someone told her to pack appropriately then.”
Peter rolls his eyes and pushes back from the table. “This again!”
I shake my head at him, incredulous. “You told me I didn’t need anything! Do you know what that implies?”
He glares at me. “Of course I know what it implies.”
“And yet—” I lift one eyebrow, pointedly.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he says, walking away from the table. “It’s boring.”
I frown after him. “Where are you going?”
“Just somewhere not with you,” he says before he takes off out the window.
I stare after him, my cheeks a bit pink, mildly mortified, and the silence from the Lost Boys makes it worse.
They all stare at their plates, not daring to say anything in case Peter’s spying. He would spy too, to listen to see if someone said anything that went against what he thinks.