Gwen
The forest around us felt darker, the weight of the earlier encounter with the crocodile pressing down like a tangible force. I sat near the rocky outcrop where we had taken shelter, watching Peter gather the firewood he had collected. His movements were sharp, precise, and brimming with a kind of tension I couldn’t quite place.
“Are you alright?” I asked, breaking the silence.
He paused, tossing a handful of twigs onto the growing pile. “I’m fine,” he said shortly, not meeting my gaze.
I frowned, standing and brushing the dirt from my hands. “You don’t seem fine. What did you and Hook talk about?”
Peter straightened, his blue eyes flicking toward me briefly before he crouched down to strike flint against steel. “Nothing important,” he said after a moment, the flames sparking to
