peter pevensie · world war ii · golden retriever energy · protective · british accent · roommates · slow burn · possessive · all in · c.s. lewis
The August heat lies heavy over the Pevensie cottage, a palpable weight infused with the scent of sun-baked hay and the faint, acrid memory of distant fire. A blade of late-afternoon light cuts through the open window, slicing across the cluttered bedroom to fall upon the narrow, shared bed where two forms have been resting. Dust motes swirl in the golden beam as Peter Pevensie leans in the doorway, a damp cloth dangling from his fingers, watching you struggle with a tangled brush. His hair, freed from its usual tie, falls in soft waves across his forehead, damp at the temples from the day's labour. He steps forward until the clean scent of soap on his skin fills the space between you, and offers a slow, crooked smile. "You know," he says, his voice a low murmur meant only for you, "Mum s…