Peter was pretty sure the universe was punishing him when he walked into the dining room and heard the same, dull drone of bland folk music he had heard months before. Cursing, he turned to find Matthew across the room, that stupid piano player who had flirted with Wendy, playing the piano, his slow, coarse fingers plunking away at the keys.

He considered briefly using a teleportation spell on the man to be rid of him before Wendy joined him for dinner. He wasn't sure he could tolerate another evening of Wendy fawning over that boorish man. In fact, he knew he couldn't tolerate another evening like that. He didn't have that kind of control anymore.

He stalked across the room and sat heavily down at an empty table on the far side of the room near a window, the chair creaking under him, making sure to take the seat that would block Wendy's view. He knew, though, that that wouldn't work. If Wendy set her mind to something, it would be easier to move a mountain than get her to change her mind.

Wendy appeared in the doorway several minutes later. Her eyes immediately found Matthew, without so much as a glance over at him. He watched with clenched teeth as she came up and touched his shoulder gently and smiled warmly as he turned and laughed, the sound full and deep. Matthew stood and threw his arms around her, her arms circling his neck. When they separated, Matthew bent and kissed her hand, the one that she wore her wedding ring on. The one Peter had given her.

A waiter appeared on the edge of his tunnel vision and he realized this twig of a teenager had been asking if he wanted a drink to start for a couple moments already. With the utmost difficulty, he was able to order a glass of scotch for himself and wine for Wendy.

His drink arrived the same time that Wendy did with Matthew in tow. He downed the entire drink as he held Matthew's gaze and then held his empty glass up and shook it, the glass catching in the honeyed light of the room. The waiter nodded from across the room and scurried off to get him another.

Wendy gave him a warning look and then turned and said, "Matthew, I believe you remember my husband, Peter."

That was the longest sentence Peter had heard from Wendy in weeks. Ever since the night of the thrown mug, they had been living in near perfect silence, which made research and directions difficult, but even more so, it made life difficult.

"Of course!" Matthew exclaimed, reaching out a hand for Peter to shake. Peter made sure not to move a muscle. Wendy shot him a dark look, but he remained still.

"Matthew's performing at a pub in the village centre tonight," she informed him. He knew Wendy wasn't asking for permission; she had never needed any sort of permission from him. "I'll be able to play there, too."

He looked between Matthew and Wendy, considering his next move.

"Thanks for the invitation, Matt," he said icily. "Glad to have a night out on the town."

If Wendy were telepathic he knew she would have sent him a thought that resembled something like, As if you were invited! Or even wanted!

Peter knew he wasn't either of those, but despite the weeks of strained silence, he still felt that deep ache, the desperate need to be around her. He didn't have the self-control to brush it off anymore.

Matthew looked between the two, eyes shifting from the fake wife playing the part well to the fake husband not even trying to play the part. Peter briefly wondered if it was dangerous to act like this, to get so close to blowing the whole charade, but he couldn't bring himself to care when Wendy was standing so close to Matthew, with that man's greedy eyes on her.

"Great! I'll see you two later then!" he said before turning and walking awkwardly back into the sea of diners.

Once Matthew was out of ear shot, Wendy turned and demanded shrilly, her voice piercing the background chatter and clink of cutlery, "Are you serious? Are you—"

She was about to continue her scolding when the waiter arrived with his second drink and placed it gently in between the two. With a tight smile, she took a seat across from him and sweetly ordered dinner for herself and him. As soon as the waiter had taken a few steps away from them, she turned back on him, voice rising and said, "I was not inviting you. I was telling you."

He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "As if I'd let you traipse off into an unknown village at night with a man you barely know."

It was her turn to scoff. "I've been traipsing through an unknown universe for months with a monster." Peter flinched. He couldn't pretend that the addition of monster didn't sting. "I'm pretty sure I can handle a man who wants to flirt with me and have a couple of drinks," she bit out.

"He wants to do more than flirt with you," he said. He brought up his scotch to his mouth, inhaled the heady scent and took a long drink. This was the longest conversation that they had had in weeks and Peter was desperate for it to continue, to fall back into the comfortable rhythm of banter. And the way to keep it going was to rile up Wendy, to pretend he was his old self, charming and aloof.

But Wendy wouldn't be flustered. She raised her chin only a fraction. "It's none of your concern what he wants to do with me," she told him.

"Oh, so you're going to bring him back to the room we share?"

She tilted her head and glared. "He has a room of his own."

Peter's mouth snapped shut, tongue like lead. The cold from the window began to seep in suddenly, chilling him. Stupidly, he hadn't thought about that possibility, too eager to just talk with her to even think straight.

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Pan," she told him, leaning forward on her elbows.

"I'm not jealous," he said automatically, but all he could think about was what Wendy might look like in Matthew's arms. How she might look laid out on his bed, hair pooling around her like liquid gold, lips swollen from his kisses, eyelashes fluttering across her cheeks. It was enough to make him sick. But, no, he wasn't jealous. Certainly not.

XXX

Matthew left for before Wendy was able to finish dinner, running on a tight schedule. So, it was up to her to find her way to the pub. She wrapped herself in her warmest cloak and tugged on her nicest gloves before stepping out into the brisk night.

It was a seaside town, positioned on craggy cliffs that fell away into a churning ocean. Sleet swept off the water and fell down onto the town, making the roads slick and shiny in the dim lights of the lampposts, the air sharp and cold. She knew the next morning the sleet would be turned into ice and they would have to carefully maneuver the horses over slipper roads.

Her boots clicked along the street. The town was small, but lively with townsfolk milling about, returning home after dinner or heading out for drinks and entertainment. She might have happily melted into the crowd had it not been for the malignant presence a few feet behind her.

She had told Pan in no uncertain terms that she neither wanted nor needed him to accompany her; he was most certainly 'ruining the mood' as Michael might have said. She didn't even really know what she wanted out of Matthew; it wasn't terribly attractive that he was perfectly fine to go after a supposedly married woman. But it was nice to feel wanted… at least wanted by someone who wasn't a monster.

She arrived at the pub quickly, sliding in through the door and hanging her cloak by the fireplace with everyone else's. Matthew was about to take the stage, waiting for an elderly woman to finish her set. She gave him a wave and he motioned towards the bartender. She ordered a drink and signed herself up to go in a little while.

As she turned with her mulled wine in hand, Pan was right behind her.

"Can't you leave me be?" she demanded.

He gave her an icy look. "Perhaps, I enjoy this kind of music."

She scoffed.

She turned and found a table near the window, shoved into a small corner with four seats. She slid into the most well-positioned one and turned to hear the last of the woman's lilting ballad. Pan joined her a few moments later with a mug of beer.

She gave him a glare, making sure to know he was unwelcome, as he slid into the seat next to her. She turned and focused on the music, the piano. It wasn't so much that his company bothered her. In fact, it was quite the opposite. His company was comforting, soothing. Even if she acted as if he was unwelcome beside her, she felt as if he was very welcome. His presence was solidifying beside her, almost as if he was supposed to be there.

Which was the problem.

It made her furious that she felt like that.

That peace that had lulled her into stupidity had finally shattered. She couldn't forget who he was or what he had done. But she also couldn't forget how much she wanted to hear this thoughts and ideas or how much she wanted him by her side.

When Matthew had suggested going to the pub, she had pounced on it. Here was an opportunity when she wouldn't have to deal with the constant back and forth. She could forget that she was being torn at the seams. She could melt into the music and forget herself in Matthew's plain and unpolished charm.

But, no.

Pan was just as stubborn as she was and he wouldn't let her be.

As the song ended, Wendy gave a clap as the old woman stood and gave a shaky curtsy. Pan raised his mug slightly and tipped his head.

"She wasn't half-bad," he commented.

"Shut up."

"Are you a child?" he asked her, eyes skimming over her. Stupidly, her cheeks warmed.

"Are you a child?" she snapped. "You're the child that can't take the hint that no one wants to play with you."

"And you're the child who can't see the danger she's walked into."

She scoffed. "Don't act as if I'm a damsel in the distress." She snorted and added, "Or as if you're some knight in shining armour."

Matthew finally took to the stage and settled down at the piano. The crowd was silent as he struck up a dancing song, lively and full. The song burst out of the piano, filling the room with mirth and cheerful notes. Several people came up before the stage and started to dance along, swirling and jumping, clapping and laughing.

She itched to join them. It reminded her of how she and her friends danced at the end of balls. When most of the guests had cleared out and the food and decorations had begun to be taken away, she and her friends would convince the band to strike up for one last dance and they would spin and twirl, inelegant and full of joy. Her feet had been sore at the end, but she could never feel it in those moments.

Sometimes, she wondered if she had ever lived that life or if it had been a dream.

Matthew played two more songs, just as lively and bursting with joy as the first had been. She listened, completely captured by the sound, wishing she could dance along with it, wishing she could dance with her friends that were now long dead.

By the time the last song ended, tears were in her eyes and there was a lump in her throat. She missed her life. She missed her family. She missed the joy she had once had. She wanted it back.

She wiped at her eyes quickly. She felt Pan's eyes on her and she refused to turn and look at him.

"Do you really have such poor taste that you'll get weepy over some dull folk songs?" he asked from across the table.

She downed the last of her drink and said, "Fuck off," before walking off to find Matthew.

She found him talking with another man, a mug of beer in his hand, his cheeks flushed and bright. He was handsome, tall with hazel eyes that she found warm and inviting. His smile was a little lopsided and his dark hair fell across his forehead haphazardly. Even though she knew he was several years "older" than her, he had a boyish charm about him. He might have been a boy she courted back on Earth. They would have talked about music and pianos and her parents would have thoroughly approved. Someone safe and uncomplicated.

She greeted him with a kiss on his cheek and extolled his performance. She couldn't tell him exactly how it had moved her, but she was still practiced enough to ask about the notes and the composer and the finger movements.

He talked excitedly about it with her before he asked about which songs she would be playing. She smiled and explained that he probably wouldn't recognize the songs she planned on playing.

"Yes, I remember from last time that I didn't recognize your songs either," he said. "Do you write your own songs?"

She laughed. "No, no." She touched his arm, fingers ghosting over his sleeve. She didn't need to look back to know that Pan was looking on with severe disapproval. "I came across a music book from Earth a little while ago and was taken with their composers," she lied.

"Ah, that explains it," he said. "You'll have to tell me about it."

And so she did. She explained about Mozart and Tchaikovsky and Amadeus. She talked about their histories and their styles, the drama of their lives and the beautiful music that came out of them. Matthew leaned against the wall, the man he was originally talking to long forgotten.

He was completely intent and focused on what she said, but his responses… lacked. His insights and his questions didn't capture her mind, didn't spark her imagination or excitedly send her into an explanation about something else that was connected. His mind wasn't dull, it was just… it didn't work the same way hers did. It didn't—it wasn't like—

Furious, she realized that she meant Pan.

Matthew's mind didn't work the same way Pan's did. She missed his sharpness and brilliance, how his mind danced with hers.

She was waved over by the bartender as Matthew asked about The Nutcracker. She slipped away quickly and found herself in line. She watched as the last player finished their set before she took to the stage. Matthew was close by and gave her a wink and wave. Her heart warmed.

Despite herself or perhaps, in spite of herself, her eyes found Pan. He was still in his seat, two empty beer mugs in front of him. He looked at her with a blank expression and for a moment, she wished he would come up to the stage and beam at her. She wished it was easy to smile back at him and giggle if her were to give her a thumbs up.

She turned to the piano and sat down, hands ghosting over the keys. She took a deep breath and began to play. She played a part of one of Tchaikovsky's concertos. She knew it wasn't the same without the orchestra, but it was still a beautiful tune. She had always found his pieces to be so delicately beautiful, fragile and tentative, but lush and effusive. As she played, she felt the swell of the music carry her up and away.

The music filled her and her heart sang as her hands flew over the piano. Each note was crystalline, glowing at the beginning and by the end, so brilliantly bright it was so hard to stand it. She felt full and whole as the notes flowed out of her, overtaken by the emotion she imagined Tchaikovsky must have felt, the grace he had filled his songs with.

She could easily have drifted away on that song, happy to forget herself and the world as she became intertwined with the notes and the sound and the beauty. But she knew this song by heart and soon, painfully soon, it came to an end.

She didn't wait for any applause before she jumped to the next one; another by Tchaikovsky, this time from Swan Lake. It was a little more melancholic this time, filled with yearning, but still hope was in it, radiant as ever.

She was back in the theatre for the first time, watching the ballet with her family. The music had enveloped her and she couldn't breathe for a moment, struck by the sounds and the dancing. Tears had sprung to her eyes as she had gripped the program so tightly it had twisted into a mess of paper.

She swirled along with the notes, lifting her higher and higher over lush, green forests and turquoise lakes. Everything was soft and downy, filled with magic and wonder. She was no longer sitting in a cramped pub at an old piano; she was part of the music then, swept away with the song.

The song ended and even though she knew she had probably already taken up her time slot, she played another piece from Swan Lake, defiant, but so desperate to luxuriate in the music that she didn't care if anyone minded.

She fell back into the music, soft and delicate, just as gorgeous as the last two. She let it sweep her away on its melody, as if she was caught in a slow river, the water warm and smooth to the touch. Over her, the notes rose up like tall, regal trees, casting shade that was dappled with warm sunlight. She could stay here forever, caught in the beauty of it all, only half aware of who she was and what had transported her here.

But she played the last note and the mirage burst around her. She was suddenly back in the pub and a tidal wave of applause crashed over her, jarring her back into reality. Matthew stood practically on the stage, whistling and clapping and laughing. She smiled back at him easily, but her eyes found Pan's without even thinking.

He wasn't standing up. He was lounging in his chair, clapping half-heartedly, face distant. Her heart fell and she wanted to scream. She wanted to demand that he be like Matthew, sunny and easy and uncomplicated.

Stepping off the stage, she decided that she didn't care if Matthew's mind wasn't as sharp and quick as Pan's. He smiled easily and adored her music and that was all that mattered as she allowed him to sweep her into his arms as they began to dance.

She was so pleased she was able to that she danced with him the rest of the night, twirling through jigs and ballads, swaying in his arms to love songs as they talked idly about music and composers. He glanced every now and then back at Pan, but she always drew him back. They didn't need to dwell on that cold presence.

Near the end of the night, she turned his face towards her. She could feel his stubble, his skin warm under her touch. His chest was flush against hers, warm and solid. His body was comfortable, something she could fall alongside easily. She laid her hand on his cheek as they swayed to a slow, love song. His eyes were warm and easy as he looked down on her. Now was the time and so she reached up, and waited in anticipation for his lips to touch hers.

Instead, he pulled back and cleared his throat.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He smiled down at her sadly. "I really like you, Wendy."

"And I like you, too," she said. "When people like each other, they often kiss."

He grinned, but it quickly faded. "I can't do this," he confessed. He gave a shrug. "I can tell…" he paused and thought for a long moment, "… You both aren't what you seem."

She furrowed her eyebrows. Heart beating, she waited with bated breath. Did he know who Pan was? Had he figured it out?

"I can't hazard a guess about who you two really are, but you're not a normal married couple." She searched his face, scanning for any hint that he knew more than he was letting on. "I mean, I guessed that your marriage wasn't a marriage for love when we first met, but now, well."

She sighed. Neither she nor Pan had done a good job as of late of pretending to be a convincing married couple from the Enchanted Forest.

"I mean, Wendy, come on. You might be able to overlook it once, but…" Matthew glanced at Pan out of the corner of his eye. "He's not—"

Human.

"You don't need to say it," she said, sparing him the misery.

"You are, though. Aren't you?"

Wendy nodded.

"But you aren't from here?" Her heart sank. So much for their ruse.

"No, I'm not." She gave another long sigh. Defeated, she said, "It's complicated."

Matthew nodded. "That's what I'm trying to get at. I can tell your situation is complicated and I don't want to get in the middle of you and Peter."

She wanted to insist that there was nothing to get in the middle of, but that would have been dishonest. She looked down at the floor for a long moment. She had no defence, nothing to say. She was painfully aware that her situation was deeply complicated and that she was most certainly in the middle of something with Pan.

"You both…" Matthew paused again, clearly choosing his words very carefully. "Yearn. Long, perhaps? Care for one another, at least."

"You're mistaken," she said. "He doesn't."

He shook his head. "If he didn't, he wouldn't be here." She wanted to scream, to stamp her feet. He didn't know who Pan was, what he had done. "And besides," he said, breaking her out of her angry thoughts, "it would be one thing if only he cared, but I saw how you looked at him on stage."

"Matthew—"

"You don't have to explain or even tell me the truth, but I saw what I saw," he told her firmly. Again, protesting would have been dishonest.

"So that's it?" she asked, deflating.

He nodded. "You've been so lovely, Wendy, but I don't want to get caught up in between the two of you." He bent and kissed her on the cheek before walking away, leaving her alone on the dance floor in the middle of the song.

She was left blinking on the dance floor, watching him put on his cloak and gloves before slipping out of the pub. She watched one of the last bits of normalcy, something so uncomplicated and simple, slip away from her.

XXX

Peter was pretty sure he was going to get an earful in the next ten minutes when he saw Matthew leave Wendy on the dance floor in the middle of a song. He wasn't too deluded to admit that a part of him was glad that dull, simple man had finally left her alone, but the look on Wendy's face made him regret the feeling immediately.

In fact, it made him regret coming at all.

He had decided to be a dark, thundercloud over what was supposed to be a cheerful evening for her.

He had stooped low and followed her around like some lovesick puppy, just waiting to get kicked. She had made it crystal clear in the weeks before that she did not want to get close to him. What the fuck was he doing running after her when she was trying to get with another man?

She stood standing for a long while, swaying slightly with the music. She had been so happy just an hour ago. He had watched her with his heart hammering in his chest as she played such beautiful music. It had been so heartbreakingly sad and tender and delicate. He had loved every single note she had played and had been devastated when it ended. But even off the heels of her magnificent performance, she had looked over to him and her face had fallen immediately.

Was he really so much of a monster that he could take away her joy just like that?

After a few moments, she made a beeline for her cloak and threw it on with barely a glance towards him. He stood immediately, coming up behind her and put on his own cloak. She brushed past him and out the door quickly and he had to jog to keep up with her.

The sleet poured down on them as they made their way back to the inn and in the angry silence, the way back felt so much longer. Their footsteps echoed and boomed into the cavernous night and with Wendy's back to him, Peter felt alone.

He truly had nothing and no one.

Not even Wendy.

Not anymore.

XXX

Wendy couldn't tolerate it anymore. The sleet pouring down dampened the sound of everything around them, except the clack of their shoes along the cobblestones. They could have been the only two people in the world right then, and it still wouldn't have made things any easier.

"Why don't you just leave?" Wendy demanded, whipping around. Her cheeks were hot and even the sleet whipping into her face didn't cool them.

He stopped in his tracks, abruptly, almost crashing into her. She didn't know it was possible, but he grew colder, sharper as the wind ruffled through his hair. Her heart squeezed in her chest, she wanted to reach out and brush his locks off his forehead. Her fingers itched at her side, wanting to feel his body underneath her hands. For a moment, she felt nauseated that she had been so close to Matthew, when all she really wanted was Peter flush against her.

"We're going back to the same room. I can't."

She gave him a disapproving glower. "Don't play dumb," she said, her voice shrill. Pan glanced up at the buildings lining the street, apartments and townhouses. He was probably thinking that the people filling those homes probably didn't need to hear Wendy screaming at him in the middle of the night. But she couldn't tolerate it anymore. She couldn't even articulate what it was.

"Our deal is over. There's nothing keeping you with me anymore," she went on, voice rising in pitch, landing on something she knew that would hurt. But as the sharpness of her voice rose, so did a lump in her throat and tears prickled her eyes. "So, why don't you just leave?"

"Why don't I just leave?" he repeated, incredulous, teeth flashing. "Why don't I just leave?"

Something cold and terrifying gripped her, shook her.

The tears threatened to spill over. Anger and grief roiled in her. Everything was far too much; there was too much inside her, it was going to suffocate her.

"Why don't I just leave?" he asked once more. She nodded and she watched as he collapsed in on himself. The icy exterior completely shattered into pieces, splintering into a jagged expression. For the first time, she saw so clearly what he felt: the anger and the grief and the longing and the misery. All of what she felt.

Gravity pulled her forward, or perhaps it was him, his hands rough and desperate on her face into him. Their mouths crashed together and there wasn't a thought in her mind when his lips met hers. It was all reactions: simple and easy, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her body. His chest was flush against hers and his mouth was on her, insistent and passionate, tasting of beer and cold.

Her hands were greedy and all she could do was rove them down his arms, over his chest, through his hair. She couldn't deny any longer that his body had almost always been on her mind these past few months. She couldn't pretend that she watched him discreetly, how his pants tightened around his legs when he swung up onto his horse, or how his shirt pulled over his arms and back when he reached for books in libraries. She couldn't lie and say that it didn't leave her warm and flustered and aching for him.

She opened her mouth, desperate to taste more of him. She sucked on his lip and he moaned into her mouth. Hearing him she thought she might turn into a puddle right there. She balled her hands into his shirt and pulled him forward even more. Their teeth clacked together, but she didn't care and he clearly didn't. One of his hands was on the small of her back, splayed out deliciously, long lean fingers digging into her. His other was at her jaw, keeping her close with almost a bruising pressure.

Distantly, Wendy knew that they were kissing in the middle of the street, for everyone to see, but she just didn't care. Didn't care when Peter left her lips for a moment to kiss her neck. Didn't care that she moaned into the night. And most certainly didn't care when she slipped a hand up Peter's shirt, ghosting along the cool, smooth skin on his stomach.

XXX

Peter was trying desperately to think of a place they could quickly go to for more privacy. But it was ridiculously hard to think about anything when Wendy's mouth was on him. He ran through pretty dismal options: an alleyway, an awning—

—and then Wendy slipped her hand up his shirt and his mind went blank.

White heat blazed through him and without even meaning to he had taken them back to their room. No candles were lit and the room was nearly pitch black in the storm, but they needed no light.

Unfazed by the sudden change of scenery, Wendy immediately tugged at his coat, insistent and impatient. Peter was more than happy to tear it off and toss it across the room. Next was her cloak that she took off without even waiting for him to ask. Boots were kicked off, his shirt was tugged off and the hooks on the front of Wendy's dress were unbuttoned in a matter of moments.

She pushed his shoulder, with her mouth still on his, and he took a halting step before the back of his knees hit the bed. "Down," Wendy commanded against his mouth and without a second thought, he obeyed, sitting heavily on the bed. Her mouth left his for a moment before she lifted her skirt and straddled him on the bed. His hands found her waist as hers came to his face. She kissed him, hard, her hands almost bruising the sides of his face. But he couldn't bring himself to care, because after weeks of distance, of stilted silence, of fury and thrown mugs, Wendy was close to him again, closer than he had ever imagined she would be.

Her mouth slipped from his onto his chin and his jaw and she peppered kisses down his throat, breathing, "Peter, Peter, Peter," over and over again, like a prayer, with a reverence and tenderness he knew he did not deserve.

He loved when she used his named.

He loved how it sounded in her mouth.

He pulled her closer to him and she rocked forward against him, their bodies meeting in all the right places, the friction burning him. Her hands were tangled in his hair now, clenching it in fistfuls, as if she couldn't get enough of him, as if she could never get enough of him, as if she would never be satisfied if she had all of him.

She leaned into him, pressing herself against him and he leaned back, lying fully on the bed. Her hair curtained around both of them and it felt like they were the only people in existence. And he would have been perfectly happy to keep it that way.

Suddenly, her kisses were less intense and her hands were gone. A protest broke out of his throat, more a groan than anything else. "Help me get this off, then," Wendy demanded. He realized belated she was struggling to lift her dress up and over her head. His hands went to immediately help her before he paused.

Where exactly was this going?

They would have sex and then what? Be the happy couple they should be pretending to be? Research and chatter on about spells? Go back to the angry silence from before?

"Wait, bird, stop," he said and she reared back immediately, off of him. She remained straddling him as he sat up. Her hands came to rest at her buttons, fidgeting, waiting.

"What's happening?" he asked.

A long pause. "I don't know." Another pause. "Do you?"

It was his turn to think for a long moment. "No."

How was this going to end?

"I don't…" He thought of the night of the Cloak of the Fates. "I can't do what we did again. I can't go to sleep in a dream and wake up in a nightmare."

He felt her go stiff against him. "My feelings won't change in the morning." I'll still be angry in the morning, a part of me will still hate you in the morning, was what she meant.

"I won't be any different in the morning, either," he said. I'll still be Peter Pan, King of Neverland, in the morning, my past will still be my past in the morning, was what he meant. He sighed. "I wish things were—"

"Don't say it," was all she said, voice tight. He wanted to tell her that if he could, he would have made things easier, simpler, more fair.

They sat for a long moment, her still on top of him, the warmth humming between the two of them, reluctant to break the spell they had cast. He took a deep breath and finally said, "Let's go to sleep in reality."