Never (Never, #1) (110)

There’s a little clearing on the tippiest-top of the mountain the castle’s nestled up against, and you can see as far as the eye will let you.

Peter stands behind me, ducks, then rests his head on my shoulder. He points to a distant light. “See that?”

I nod.

“That’s our island.”

I turn my head to look at him, and our noses brush, and through me cracks an interesting whip. Some sort of strangled wistfulness for Jamison, some kind of relief and fragile hope that I’ve Peter here all the same. “Our?”

He gives me a half smile. “My.”

I look away, rolling my eyes, but I don’t move away from him. A bit because I’m cold, a lot because he’s being the Peter that I think I came here for.

Peter slips his arms around me from behind. “Are you happy here?”

I stare out at all of it. “Sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?” He sounds bothered.

I don’t look at him. “Yes.”

Peter turns me around. “I want you to be happy here.” His eyes dance over my face like he’s looking for clues. “Is there something I could do to make you happier?”

I lift my brows playfully. “You could…remember my name…”

He rolls his eyes. “I know your name.”

“You could…” My voice trails as my eyes fall down his arms that are holding both of mine. I pick off a shiny scale. “You could not make out with mermaids.”

“I kiss mermaids,” Peter says, pulling a face. “I don’t know what make out is. It sounds stupid.”

“It’s the same thing.”

He shrugs. “I knew that.”

“You could not be weird when it’s my birthday.” I give him a look.

Peter scoffs. “I don’t even care that you turned old. I’ve been good about that.” He gives me a defiant look. “I haven’t brought it up once. You don’t look old. You just look the same, so that’s good.” He gives me a little shrug.

I poke him in the ribs. “You could…not leave me to die with a minotaur.”

And then something peculiar happens. Peter’s countenance changes. Something rolls over him that I haven’t seen in him before. Guilt, I think? Remorse, maybe? Regret, as though he feels actually bad for what he did. Peter’s eyes drop from mine, and his face pulls uncomfortably.

“I would never let you die.”

I nod because I believe that he believes that.

“Perhaps not on purpose.”

That makes him frown more. He licks his bottom lip and stares at me. “You are my favourite one, do you know?”

I tilt my head patiently. “Your favourite what, Peter?”

“Girl.” He shrugs. “Ever.”

I stare over at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods, sure.

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “There’s something—” He grabs my hand and puts it over his heart, places his hand over mine. “Do you feel it? Like strings?” He looks for my eyes. “From me to you?”

I nod. “The Darling girl and the Pan.”

“Yes, but no.” He sighs as though I’m misunderstanding him. “It’s more than that. It’s…you.” Peter shrugs like it’s hopeless. “You are more beautiful than the others. And better, I think. I like your face.” He touches it with his big paw hands. “I think about it all the time. Sometimes I get angry at it because I’ll be doing important things like painting the sky or fighting a monster and your face just—bang!—pops into my head and distracts me from what I’m doing.” Peter looks truly bothered by this, and he swats his hand through the air. “It’s annoying,” he tells the smile on my face.

“Sorry,” I tell him, but I don’t mean it.

He stares at my mouth. “You kiss better than the other ones too.”

I square my shoulders and take my hand back from his chest, instead unbuttoning one of the buttons of his shirt.

“Are you kissing lots of people then?” I ask, not looking him in the eye.

He knocks my chin up with his finger so I’m looking at him. “What’s lots?”

I give him a defiant look. “You tell me.”

Peter shrugs again. “The mermaids are good, but usually it’s slippery and kind of salty.”

I grimace. “Right.”

“Marin is okay at it,” he goes on. “The best one out of them. Calla is good too, actually.”

I give him a long look. “This doesn’t make me happy here, Peter.”

His brows cross. “Why?”

“Because.” I turn away, indignant he’d have me explain it.

He stands in front of me. “Because why?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Would you like it if I talked about other people I was kissing?”

And then he grabs me, a hand on each of my arms, grips me tightly. It hurts me a little, but I know it wouldn’t be on purpose. He just gets swept up in moments. He shakes me twice. “Who are you kissing?” he yells.

“No one.” I shake my head quickly, thankful I can say it and mean it. Grateful Jamison never did because I’m worried of what Peter might have done if he had.