As she stepped into the shower, there was already a layer of dirt settled in the bottom of the tub. Peter must have been filthier than she’d thought. Wendy turned up the heat as high as she could stand. The water rushed down her body, taking the remnants of the woods along with it. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile and took a deep breath, letting the water wash along her neck and across her parted lips. The rhythmic pounding against her skin was comforting. Her muscles ached and burned, especially across her shoulders. She was thorough in scrubbing herself clean. She shampooed her hair twice. When she was done she stepped out of the water and pulled a dry towel from the rack. She rubbed it through her hair before wrapping it tightly around her body. The knots and tangles in her short hair were stubborn, but the conditioner and some rough handling with a brush smoothed it out.

Wendy dug through the pile of pajamas she had haphazardly grabbed and picked out a nightshirt and cotton shorts. She used the damp towel to wipe the fog from the mirror. She stared at her smudgy reflection, focusing on her exposed legs.

Peter was just on the other side of the door, and they were going to be sleeping in the same room.

Her heart was beating fast, but not the jarring pound in her temples like when she was in the woods. This was a light flutter at the base of her throat. She did her best to swallow it down. Woman up, Wendy Darling, she chided herself before stepping into her bedroom.

Peter was on her bed next to an empty container of cold chicken chow mein. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed against her pillow as he hugged it to him. His nose was tucked into his shoulder, his eyes closed, his lashes splayed against his freckled cheeks. One of his legs was bent and one foot hung off the side of the mattress. The curve of his back was relaxed and languid.

Quietly, Wendy stepped farther into the room. Had he already fallen asleep?

It was so strange to have him there. Peter Pan—her Peter—was in her world, in her room, on her bed. The boy she’d daydreamed about as a little girl. A boy who was supposed to be just make-believe, a creation of her mother’s imagination, only real in her stories. But he was real. A little worse for wear, and older, and he was here, with her.

Careful not to jostle him, Wendy knelt down next to the bed. Her chin rested atop her hands on the edge of the mattress. She would never get this close to him when he was awake. A thrill ran up her spine, like she was taking something she wasn’t even supposed to touch.