Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I try to scream, but no sound escapes my throat as my head is shoved under the surface of the slimy, foul-smelling water of the Capitol’s underground tunnels. I thrash against the two sets of hands holding me down, but it’s no use as the eerie, smiling faces of Coin and Snow swim into my vision. I try desperately to shake them off, but I’m distracted as Snow points a crooked finger to something only a few yards away and I watch in horror as those horrible reptilian, rose-scented mutts tear into Finnick. Finnick’s cries of pain echo through the tunnel as three, four, five mutts rip into his flesh. But this time, there’s no holo. No explosion from above to relieve my friend from the agony of the razor-sharp claws and fangs that are shredding him into ribbons.

Coin turns to me, that same ghostly smile on her face. “You did this to him.”

No! I feel my heart race, its frantic beats echoing in my ears like a desperate plea for help.

“Yes, Miss. Everdeen,” says Snow as my lungs start to seize from the lack of oxygen. “He’d still be alive if it weren’t for you.” His breath is hot and rancid in my face as black spots dance in my vision. “It’s all your fault.”

My eyes flutter open and I’m gasping for air, only I find no relief in waking. An icy wave of panic runs through me, and I sit up with a start, accidentally shoving Buttercup to the floor from where he’d settled on my chest. On my chest!

He lets out an unhappy yowl as he hits the carpet with an unceremonious thud while I gulp in lungfuls of fresh air from the open windows. “I’m—I am going to kill you, you horrible beast!” I sneer at him between breaths.

He hisses in return before leaping onto the windowsill on Peeta’s side of the bed, where he starts mewling like a kitten, no doubt trying to win some affection from the friendlier of his owners.

I scowl, kicking the blankets to the side. I swing my legs out of bed and chase him to the window, but he jumps outside, out of reach before I can get to him. By the time I get to the windowsill, he’s no more than a streak of orange fur flashing across the green between Peeta’s house and mine. “Fine! Just go, then!” I yell after him, putting my hands on my hips in exasperation. “And stay gone!”

“What’s got you so riled up this early in the morning?” groans a deep, raspy voice from behind me.

I spin on my heel to find a very tired Peeta smiling sleepily, gazing softly at me from under those long, honey-colored eyelashes. The morning sun has just begun to break over the horizon, illuminating the room in warm, golden light.

“I’m going to murder that damn cat,” I say. “I’m not joking—the second you say you need a new pelt for the winter, I’m skinning him on sight.”

“Sure you are.” Peeta chuckles, pushing himself into a sitting position and stretching his muscled arms high above his head before bringing them down to rest behind his head. The blankets have slid down a bit with the movement, revealing the defined V-shape of his hips, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.

Peeta’s half-naked body is nothing new to me. After two trips to the arena and these last several months of us sleeping together, I’ve practically committed every inch of his body to memory.

It took awhile for us to get back to this, this easy closeness that had once been a second nature in our relationship. His first weeks back in Twelve, he wouldn’t even stay over too late at night, let alone crawl into bed with me, out of fear that he would relapse into his hijacked state and hurt me. But after almost a month of hearing my screams through the open windows, he’d finally relented. It must’ve been three or four o’clock in the morning when he appeared in my doorway, shirtless and out of breath from running to my room because he couldn’t bear to hear me in pain for another sleepless night. I didn’t say a word, just held my arms out for him—as I had done countless times before—and let him wrap himself around me, holding the darkness at bay.

We’ve been nearly inseparable since, but while we’ve managed to regain our friendship, there’s been no mention of the previous romance between us. At first, I’d backed off to give Peeta the space he needed to recover; I knew any attempt on my part to reignite our old feelings for each other would only confuse him, and I’d hurt him enough over the years. Any initiation of romance would have to be from his side. But days, weeks, and months went by, and I finally had to accept that any affections he once had for me must have faded away, dissolved by nightmares of tracker jacker venom. 

I suppose I had once wished for this, for our relationship to be no more than platonic, but I can’t help the pit that settles in my stomach at the thought. Can’t help the ache that I feel when I think back to those kisses on the beach in the arena and how very much I want him to make me feel that way again.

And it’s the same ache that ravages me now as I drag my eyes dangerously low across his hips, savoring the way the glittering morning light illuminates the planes of his sculpted torso, all the way down to—

I immediately avert my gaze, my face already turning hot with embarrassment—as well as another feeling I can’t quite place—at the sight of the slight protrusion of bunched up quilt just below his hips.

Peeta seems to sense my discomfort, his eyes darting down to where mine had lingered before scrambling to pull the quilt higher, dragging his legs up to hide the evidence of his arousal. His cheeks bloom with red as he bashfully rubs the back of his neck. “Shit, Katniss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“I—it’s okay. It’s only natural,” I say, though I can’t quite meet his eyes.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I suppose I should go take care of this.”

“I guess so.” 

We’re both silent for a moment. Unmoving.

I dare a glance back up to where he lays in the bed, only to find those sapphire blue eyes staring back at me and I’m once again struck by the sheer allure of his gaze, the glory of his body as golden sunlight kisses his skin. It was in moments like these where I could finally begin to fathom Peeta’s fascination with all things beautiful. I could never understand his artist’s eye, his fixation on detail unless I was looking at the artist himself.

His face, once too pale, too thin, is now smooth and tanned, a spray of freckles sprinkled across his nose from months spent outside, working to rebuild our town. Silvery scars dapple his chest, his neck, from the same fire that marred my own skin. The same marks that had always been so ugly on me are breathtaking, almost decorative whorls on his body.

I shift my eyes quickly down to that impressive bulge under the blanket, that no cleverly arranged quilt or tactical leg positioning could ever properly conceal, and that’s when I feel it. That thing I’d felt in the arena, that all-consuming heat and hunger that only Peeta can induce. 

And before I really know what I’m doing, before I can think about it too hard, I find myself saying, “Well, I could always help you. If you’d like.”

The effect of my words is instantaneous as Peeta’s mouth drops open in shock. I think of how in the past  few years that I’ve gotten to know him, how very rarely—if ever—he’s been rendered speechless. But with this offer… 

I’ve surprised even myself. I’d made a pact not to do anything to jeopardize our newly revived friendship, yet here I am, offering… well, I’m actually not quite sure what I’m offering. More than anything, I just want to keep our friendship. I lost him once and it nearly destroyed me; to lose him again would be unthinkable. But at the same time, I need him. In a way that’s visceral and tense and honestly terrifying. 

Peeta was the closest I’d ever come to having a boyfriend, and the most we’d ever done together was kiss. Other than the brief, strictly anatomical explanation I’d allowed my mother to describe to me (back when I was thirteen years old and a situation like this was unimaginable for my young mind), I know almost nothing about sex. I’d heard enough rumors at school to be able to piece together how it’s supposed to be, and what I’m expected to do, but in a practical sense, I have no idea what I’m doing. 

But who better to try it with than Peeta? From what he’s told me and what I’ve heard around school, he can’t be much more experienced than me. And even if the romance is gone, I know he still loves me. Maybe not in the same way he once did, but enough that I know he’d never condemn me to humiliation or pain, never take advantage of me. 

Besides, I know the frustration has built up for him, too. He tries to hide it, but I know him too well. The shift of his hips to a less conspicuous angle as I look up from where I’ve been bent over, tending to the herb garden in his backyard. The not-so-subtle ravenous look in his eyes as I strip down to my undergarments, even as it’s only for the sake of sleeping comfortably in the summer heat. I’ve pretended not to notice for both of our sakes, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet, muffled moans of pleasure that tend to escape from behind the closed bathroom door in the aftermath of these instances.

He needs the release as much as I do, only how do I propose it to him without pushing him into a romance that we’re not ready for?

“But it could just be simple,” I add quickly. “No strings attached.”

“No strings attached,” he echoes, frowning.

“Yeah. No feelings, just… friends who happen to be intimate with each other. Uncomplicated.”

He looks down, concealing a grin, and my heart drops into my stomach.  

“You’re laughing at me,” I say, unable to conceal the hurt in my voice.

“I would never laugh at you for something like this, Katniss, I’m laughing at the situation.” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “I just can’t believe that you’re the one suggesting we become friends with benefits. You can’t even say the word ‘sex’ without getting uncomfortable. You’ve always been the more innocent one. I’ve told you that before, too, real or not real?”

“Real,” I say. “Only not the part about me being innocent, just that you’ve told me I am.” Inexperienced, yes. Innocent, however…

Determined to prove him wrong, I stalk over to the bed, his eyes raking lazily over my body as he says, “Oh, really?”

“Really,” I breathe, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips. “So,” I lean in close, my lips nearly grazing his with every word, “do we have a deal?”

“No feelings, just sex?” he asks, and I nod in response. “Then yes. Of course, yes.”

“Good,” I say, tracing my lips down his throat, and back up until I’m right next to his ear, my voice no more than a whisper. “Because you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to fuck me.”

My words seem to snap whatever leash he’s had on himself as he grabs my waist and flips us around, kissing me deeply. He grinds his hips against mine as his lips find my neck, eliciting a small moan from me. I feel his cock twitch up against me and I hook my legs around his, bucking my hips to keep that infernal friction pressed against me. 

He huffs a ragged, breathy laugh, withdrawing his body, his lips from mine, and holding them just out of my grasp as he reaches out and pins me to the bed with one arm. “Someone’s greedy,” he says huskily, as I whimper for his touch.

“Please,” I say, a pleading note in my voice as I push against his grasp.

“No,” he says, keeping me pinned. He smiles fiendishly as he leans in, and I close my eyes as he presses his lips to a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, sending a shudder through my entire body. “You need to…” he pauses to kiss me softly, “warm up first.”

My eyes flutter open in confusion. Warm up? The spark in my belly, the one from the beach, is white hot, setting my body ablaze. Warmth doesn’t even begin to describe the sweltering heat inside me, burning for him.

He releases his hold on me before sliding an arm to my back, between my shoulderblades, and hovering his hand over my bra clasp. “This okay?” he asks, and I nod fervently, shifting enough to let him remove it. In one fluid motion, he unclasps it and blindly throws it somewhere on the floor. 

My breasts had never been all that extraordinary, or even very noticeable, but these past few months following the war have been kind to us. Particularly me. Living on the brink of starvation for so much of my life had robbed me of a soft, womanly body, leaving me instead with a lean, muscled form. But time and proper access to food had padded my body in all the places that were once sharp and angular from malnutrition. My hips are now curved, shapely. My breasts, still ample, but full and round. The emaciated hollows of my cheeks finally filled in with health. Life.

Peeta leans back, raking his eyes over me as he takes in the sight of my bare chest. It crosses my mind that I should be flustered, or maybe embarrassed, since this is the first time I’ve ever been topless around a boy, but there’s something about the look in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks that makes me feel okay about being so intimate with him. Safe, even.

His lips find mine again, this time accompanied by one hand reaching up to cup my breast while the other slides down to the base of my spine, pulling my hips against the spot where he’s now driven his knee in between my legs. I let out an unexpected moan against his mouth as I arch into his touch—the rough, calloused surface of his fingers brushing so tantalizingly against my nipple, the taunting pressure of his knee against the apex of my thighs as I writhe against his body.

He rocks my hips against him, again and again, and I feel that warmth rising inside me, heating my cheeks and extending out to the rest of my body. Good , I think, so fucking good. My breathing quickens and I grind against him with more urgency. I need him, oh, I need him so badly.

I pull my lips away from his and throw my head back, basking in elation as his idle lips travel down my throat and find their way to my other breast. He takes my nipple in his mouth and begins sucking, drawing my body closer to what I’m sure must be its breaking point with each swirl of his tongue.

But the sensation’s gone as quickly as it came. I lift my head, a bark of protest on my lips, only to see him retreating towards the foot of the bed, kissing down the valley of my stomach as he goes. He pauses just at the edge of my panties and looks up, meeting my gaze with a mischievous glint in his eyes. My breath hitches as he hooks his fingers through the waistband, sliding them off slowly— so slowly—before tossing them aside and resuming his previous position between my thighs, gently pushing my legs apart and laying them to rest on either side of his shoulders. I’d expected him to continue his trail of kisses, so I’m surprised when he shifts his head slightly to the side, focusing his attention on the inside of my thigh instead.

My confusion dissolves as he sucks on the sensitive skin there, no doubt leaving his mark. I let out a strangled cry—some half-feral, lustful sound, but I don’t care. I’m so beyond caring at this point. I need him—his tongue, his lips—higher. And he knows it. 

“ Please ,” I manage to choke out.

He looks up, grinning like a devil, and my breath catches in my throat. “With pleasure.”

The first touch of his tongue sets my body on fire. But he’s in no rush—no—as he swirls in tongue in slow, lazy strokes that leave me panting for air. The blazing pressure from before returns as molten desire pools in my core.

I gasp as he slips first one finger, then two inside me, hooking them towards himself and pumping them in time with each lick.

He withdraws his tongue for a moment, though his fingers don’t cease their wicked rhythm. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, Katniss,” he whispers into the inside of my thigh before burying his face between them again.

I moan loudly in return, unable to form any sort of coherent speech or thought. I reach out blindly, one hand drifting down and entangling itself in his curls, while the other clutches the sheet in some attempt to hold on to sanity, to reality as stars dance in front of my eyes. I feel that pressure building inside me, so close, so very close to exploding into a supernova of searing hot euphoria.

He pulls his free hand out from where it’s been cupping the back of my thigh. His fingers creep up my body, skimming over my ribs and sending a shiver down my spine before grazing a careful knuckle against my peaked nipple, eliciting a whimper from me. My sounds don’t seem to affect him, though, and he continues circling his fingertips around that sensitive spot at that same excruciatingly slow pace.

My heart races, my breaths coming faster and faster with each pump of his fingers inside me, with each unholy stroke of his tongue, the red hot touch of his skin against mine. “Fuck,” I breathe, bucking my hips and riding his fingers in time with his motions as that pressure within builds, builds, builds…

Until it finally erupts, ecstasy flowing through my entire body as I shudder against him, crying out in pleasure as he guides me through the thralls of my climax. But his tongue, his fingers don’t stop, even as I lie, trembling, limp with bliss in his arms.

My mouth can’t seem to form words, so I let my fingers flutter from his hair down the side of his cheek, and finally to his chin, which I grip tightly and lift upwards, forcing him to meet my eyes. 

And I nearly finish for a second time at the mere sight of it. Those gorgeous blue eyes are glazed over in some sort of fog of lust, his cheeks red from effort and obvious arousal. But it’s his mouth—dripping wet and curled into that devilish smile—that nearly sends me over the edge again.

I’ve suddenly regained the ability to talk, my lips seemingly moving on their own as I whisper, “I need more.” Then, more confidently, “I need you—your hot cock inside me.”

His eyes widen in surprise at my words. “What?”

“I need you to fuck me. Now .” He gives me a strange look. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, smirking. “Just didn’t expect you to say something like that.” He sits on his knees and leans back, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He turns his attention downwards, fingers shaking as he tries to undo the tie on his sweatpants, the only betrayal of his emotions—that he might not be as confident with this part as he’s led me to believe. 

I sit up, my own hands quivering as I reach out to help him with the knot. Whether it’s in anticipation, or anxiety, or lust, I don’t know. I just know that we’ll do this just as we’ve done everything else since that first Reaping—together.

With the knot finally undone, he slides his trousers off, struggling a bit as he maneuvers them around his amputated leg. 

My hand moves on its own when I see the stump where his leg used to be, my fingers unconsciously grazing lightly over the scars—now silver with time. The sight of it is a familiar one, but the touch… the touch is all new territory, and one that sends a shudder through his body.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Not at all,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s just… sensitive.”

I skim my traitorous, still-shaking fingers over it once more before they drift upward, toward the waistband of his undershorts, and stop. Hesitating.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Peeta grabs my wrists gently and I look up at him. 

And he’s so beautiful. 

The sun has fully broken over the horizon and shines brightly through the open window, illuminating the silhouette of him kneeling before me. The light casts a halo-like glow upon his hair, so pious, so angelic. So at odds with the ungodly actions this morning brings.

I reach a hand up to cup his cheek, brushing my lips against his before pulling back slightly and leaning my brow against his. “No,” I say. “I want this. I—I want you.” I slip my wrists out of his grasp and slide my fingers under the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down and freeing the full, considerable length of him.

I have to remind myself to breathe as I ease them the rest of the way off and throw them somewhere on the floor with the rest of our clothes.

How on earth is that supposed to fit inside of me?

But even through my doubts about the mechanics of the whole thing, one look into the eyes of the boy in front of me has any uncertainty flooding from my mind, replaced only by that same blazing heat burning through every vein in my body.

I pull him on top of me, kissing him deeply as he aligns his body with mine, nudging gently at my entrance. 

“You are such a tease, Mellark,” I say breathlessly between kisses, bucking my hips against him to no avail, desperate for his touch.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, smiling smugly against my lips. “What was it you wanted again?”

My cheeks flush. “You know exactly what I said.”

“Something about my cock…? I don’t remember exactly.”

Oh, I am going to eat him alive.

I press my lips to his ear and murmur, “I said I need your hot cock inside me. I need you to fuck me—” 

My words are cut off by the gasp that escapes my mouth as he pushes inside me. 

He moves slowly, letting me adjust to every impressive inch of him in turn before going farther, all the way until he’s buried to the hilt. 

“Oh, fuck, Katniss,” he groans into my neck.

It doesn’t hurt—not as so many girls in my class had said it would—it just feels… strange. Different. Not in a bad way, just not like any sensation I’d ever felt.

He withdraws just as slowly as he entered before pushing in again, that strange sensation gradually giving way to pleasure.

“Faster,” I whimper, and he obliges, earning a particularly loud moan from me in return.

He pulls out slightly, thrusting deeper, faster with every rock of his hips. “ Fuck ,” he breathes. “You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a shudder down my spine and I arch against him, but the answering moan building in my throat is muffled by his lips, his tongue against mine as he rests a hand against my lower back, angling my hips so he can thrust harder, deeper, sending me closer to the edge with each stroke.

“Oh, Peeta ,” I cry, panting heavily as that pressure builds in my core again.

Peeta’s own breaths are becoming faster, more labored. His curls fall to frame his face in damp ringlets, his cheeks growing redder by the moment as he pumps inside me. “Oh, Katniss ,” he says in return, his voice strained. He plants a hand against the headboard, hard enough to make the wood groan behind me.

We’re nose to nose, joined as one, as close as any person can be with another, but that’s not what makes this intimate; it’s the look in his eyes that makes me realize that he’s probably—no, definitely—the only other person I could’ve ever done this with. The only person I could really trust with everything that I am, not in spite of all that we’ve been through, but because of it. Because when he looks at me, he truly sees me .

It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous and kind and feels so fucking incredible when he’s inside me.

My heart pounds wildly. I’m close—so close—to that earth-shattering sensation again that I can barely breathe, barely focus on anything but the euphoric feeling of him . The feeling is apparently mutual as his eyebrows knit together, his mouth parted slightly as he moans my name over and over, gripping me tighter with each thrust.

And it’s that sound of my name on his lips, the rasp in his voice as his body moves as one with mine that sends me over the edge for the second time, my world exploding into a thousand fragments of dazzling stars around me. Peeta follows closely behind, finding his own release and working me through mine as buries himself inside me, swearing under his breath as his lips find mine.

He pulls back, panting heavily, and plants a light kiss on the tip of my nose, carefully withdrawing himself from between my legs before rolling to the side and laying on his back, opening his arms for me to nestle in. I happily oblige, pressing my face into his chest, close enough that I can hear his racing heartbeat as he rests his chin on the top of my head and holds me tightly.

“That was…” He trails off into a stunned silence.

“Amazing,” I breathe. I look up at him, allowing myself to stare at the golden hue of his eyelashes, the rosy curve of his lips for a moment. “I can’t believe we waited so long to do that. If I’d known it was going to be anything like that I’d have jumped you years ago.”

“That’s funny, because the way I remember it is that you were planning on killing me a couple years ago. Real or not real?”

My cheeks flush. “Real.” I bury my face in his chest again. “But I would never have even considered it if I knew you could do that ,” I mumble.

He chuckles, flashing a goofy grin that’s accompanied by a strange look that I think might be adoration before I remind myself that he doesn’t feel that way about me anymore. That whatever this is must just be some post-sex haze. Because this, this arrangement between us doesn’t work if emotions are involved. This is supposed to be casual. Simple. Friendly.

Even if the way my heart is pounding in my chest is anything but that.

Chapter Text

I feel a bead of sweat gathering at my brow and quickly wipe it away with my sleeve. 

This summer was already shaping up to be the hottest one to hit District 12 in all of my eighteen years of living here, and it’s only June. The heavy rains that came in the spring were a small blessing, washing away the worst of the ash, but they did nothing for the displaced population of Twelve and the fact that Victors’ Village were the only houses that remained untouched. 

Twelve homes. Twelve homes were all that survived in the firebombs that massacred our district. Only nine of which were unoccupied. While each home could easily shelter four Seam families, not a single soul dared to stay with any of us victors. We offered. Oh, Peeta made sure that we offered. He was prepared to move in with Haymitch and give up his home entirely if need be, but much to Haymitch’s and my relief, nobody came.

That is until about a month after Peeta returned from the Capitol when a miserable, albeit healthier-looking Johanna Mason arrived at the train station, fresh from the rehabilitation clinic in the bowels of 13. 

“They finally got bored of me in that hellhole, so I figured I’d come bother you guys for a while,” she said with a shrug. She stared at the duffel bag she’d dropped rather unceremoniously at her feet and toed it carefully. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

She’d gained back much of the weight she’d lost from the morphling. Her cheeks were no longer gaunt and angular, but rosy and filled out. She now sported a shaggy pixie cut rather than the barely-there layer of down that had been there the last time I saw her. Physically, she looked better than she had in all the time that I’d known her. But there was something off in her eyes. A look I knew all too well, as it was the same one I saw every time I looked in the mirror. We’d both been traumatized by our respective Games, but the war had broken us. Really, truly broken us. And I knew she needed me, just as I had needed Peeta. I was her person.

I felt the corners of my mouth turn up in amusement. “You thought you were gonna get rid of me so easily just because Coin threw you in rehab and me into the middle of a war? No wonder the head doctor wouldn’t properly let you out until now—you really are crazy.”

“Look who’s talking,” she said, a bite to her words. “At least I was never appointed a babysitter.” So she’d heard about Greasy Sae taking care of me those first few months. From Peeta or Haymitch, probably. “Seems like you’re projecting your own insanity, brainless.” She leaned down to pick up her bag, but I could swear the ghost of a smile played on her lips.

It was never a question of her becoming my roommate again, it just… was. She came home with me that day, and that was that.

Johanna took up residence in my old room upstairs. I hadn’t been up there myself since those first days that Peeta came back. I’d initially thought the smell of withered roses would fade with time, but it hit me full force every time I walked in, as if their essence had seeped into the very walls themselves. I made one final trip upstairs to move my wardrobe to one of the downstairs guest rooms to make space for Jo, and I haven’t been back up since. 

I still haven’t been able to enter my sister’s or mother’s abandoned rooms.

I thought my friendship with Madge would give me some basis of what to expect from Johanna, but how could it? I should’ve known that my relationship with Jo would be anything but conventional. Suddenly I had a friend who would unapologetically steal all of my clothes and eat the last of my cheese buns, but then tiptoe into my room and crawl into bed to hold my hand under the covers whenever it rains a little too hard. 

When Peeta and I began sleeping together again, it didn’t faze Jo one bit. She just shoved me in the middle and curled up beside me the same way she always did. She was never intruding, of course, since our sleeping arrangements were always platonic and we understood her need to not be alone.

Until yesterday. When we’d made the shift to something… less than platonic.

I’d spent the rest of the day distracted after our morning antics. I barely said two words to Jo at breakfast before spending the day in the woods, where all I managed to bring home was a fat pheasant that strolled leisurely in front of me. Even the most inexperienced of hunters would’ve managed to catch it, and it was probably the most measly game haul I’ve had all year, but I didn’t care one bit. I’d only just dropped the bird in my game bag and hauled it over my shoulder, making a beeline for Victors’ Village, when I took one look at the skies overhead and my stomach pooled with dread at the black clouds rolling in. A storm.

Normally I’d welcome warm summer rains. It always meant that the streams would swell over their banks and the haul of fish would be plentiful for weeks to come. But storms mean rain. And rainy days are hard in our house. Rainy days mean an extra person in my bed, and while I’d never minded it before, an overwhelming feeling of irritation settled over me. Not at Jo, never at Jo, not for this. But at what, I’m not really sure.

I’d stayed irritated throughout the evening, as—sure enough—Johanna crawled into my side of the bed, ensuring that nothing was going to happen between me and Peeta. I stayed awake the whole night, my frustration only festering further with Peeta curled around me.

I left at first light, claiming I wanted to make it to the lake today. Which was partially true, but mostly I just needed to get out of there.

But the hike has made zero improvement to my mood. The air is thick with moisture from the rain last night, and for a moment it’s so humid I have to look up at the open sky, take in the woods, my woods, and remind myself I’m not in the arena.

Sweat is pouring down my face by the time I emerge from the forest into the outskirts of the lake. I waste no time in stripping off my soaked clothing and diving into the lake, hoping that the cool water does something to dampen the day’s heat. I let myself float on the surface, letting the water drown out all the sounds of the woods around me. After my first Games, I’d hated the sensation of deafness of any kind, but this was a calming kind of silence. A welcome one. But even as I try to simply enjoy this muffled world, my brain won’t let me. That irritation from earlier won’t let me.

Because every second since Peeta and I had sex, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. To stop thinking of him. His hands. His tongue. His…

I dunk my head underwater before I can finish that thought, but it’s already in my mind. I snap my legs together, agonizingly conscious of the satisfying soreness that lingers between them from yesterday’s actions.

I resurface, but thoughts of Peeta still flood my mind. 

Maybe it’s a blessing that my mother never really explained sex properly, I think, or else I probably would’ve jumped Peeta a long time ago.

I swim a few laps, trying to remember the form that Finnick taught me, but it’s clear that I’m in no state to concentrate on the task at hand.

I was never one of those girls who obsessed over the boys in school. Sure, I’d found some of them attractive—at least I think so—but never acted on it, and never felt like I really needed to either. I’d certainly never let it consume my entire life as it did for many of them.

Madge and I had once ridiculed those girls, but the way the sheer thought of Peeta is driving me crazy has me thinking I might be becoming one of them. 

Maybe the head doctors took away my mentally disoriented bracelet too soon, because there’s no way any sane person would be thinking this way. All I know is that I need him. Need to see him. Talk to him. Feel him, preferably.

And the thought’s barely crossed my mind before I’m wading out of the lake and snatching my now-dry clothes off the dock. 

The walk back seems somehow longer than it did on the way uphill, but I make it back to town in what must be record time, my game bag filled with herbs and berries I’d plucked along the way in lieu of hunting. Just another excuse to stop by Peeta’s house, which is now doubling as the bakery while we wait for the old one to be rebuilt. 

Not that I really need an excuse to see him; he is my closest friend, after all. But I didn’t want it to seem like I was only coming to see him to cash in on our… something more.

I open the door without knocking when I arrive at his house, leaving my boots at the door as I burst into the kitchen and drop the contents of my game bag on the kitchen table. 

I find Peeta standing at his work table, hands and apron covered in flour as he kneads what smells like sourdough bread. 

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his muscled forearms, and his cheeks are flushed from standing in front of the oven all day. The summer humidity has turned his usual ashy blonde waves into full on curls that frame his face perfectly. 

He looks good. Really good.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d never come home.” He looks up at me and smiles without stopping his work on the dough.

“Here I am. And I brought souvenirs,” I say, gesturing at the array of herbs. 

“And you brought souvenirs. Remind me again how I ever got so lucky to have you in my life?”

I snort, but my cheeks burn and that thing in my stomach starts to flutter. “You’re a shameless flirt, y’know that, Mellark?”

“I am a proud flirt, I’ll have you know,” he says, “And incredibly grateful that you thought to bring me back something. Thank you.”

He seems satisfied with his dough and sets it in a covered bowl to rise before turning his full attention to me.

“I wasn’t sure how soon you’d be back. I thought maybe you’d gotten overwhelmed after yesterday and run off to spend some time alone in the woods,” he says. 

“I would never run away from you like that,” I say. 

He gives me a pointed look. 

“Or at least not anymore,” I grumble. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“I wouldn’t!”

He chuckles. “Good. Because I don’t think I’d know what to do with myself if I never got to fuck you again like I did yesterday.”

I’m sure my eyes are bugging out of my head as I open and close my mouth like a gaping fish. “Uh—”

“And speaking of, that’s actually that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t mean to kill the moment, but we can’t have kids. At least not for a good long while.”

Oh. 

My heart drops.

In the rush of everything that had happened between us, I’d nearly forgotten the actual consequences of what would happen if we kept up this arrangement without implementing some sort of protection.

“No, we definitely can’t.” Neither of us are well enough to deal with any potential children yet, and I’m honestly not sure that I’ll ever be. “I don’t really know about any of that stuff, though.”

“Well, when we got engaged, Portia got me some sort of contraceptive pills from the Capitol.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I obviously didn’t need them at the time, so they’ve been untouched in my medicine cabinet for ages. They don’t expire for at least a few years, so I figured I can just take those. That way there’s also nothing interfering with your body giving you physical proof every month that there’s no kid, too. We’ve already had one baby scandal, and I’d prefer to keep it untrue for a while still.”

“Well what about you?”

“What about me? The side effects are basically nothing, and I take a whole slew of pills every morning and night anyways—what’s one more?” he says nonchalantly.

I could kiss him. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do it for us . I already took the first one last night, but I don’t think they kick in fully for a couple days so we probably should not be so full on for the time being.”

“But we can do other stuff, right?” I ask.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Yeah, we can do other stuff, of course. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

I blush. “I—uh—I want to make you feel good the way you made me feel.”

“Oh, honey, you do not need to worry about that. Believe me, you did. You do.”

“I mean with my mouth.”

“Oh. Oh!” It’s his turn to blush. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to that. If that’s something you wanted to do.”

I nod shyly, walking over to him and leaning against the counter next to him. “I really do.”

He huffs a breath and gives me a slightly frazzled look. “As hot as you are and as much as I just want to bend you over that counter right now, it would breach so many food safety protocols that I really need you to move. Over to the dining table at the very least. Please.”

He picks me up, leaving floured handprints on the thighs of my tights and sets me down on the dining table. But before he can move away from where he stands between my legs, I grip his face between my hands and pull him in, bringing his lips to mine the way I’ve been wanting to since I walked in the door. Since the second they left mine yesterday morning, if I’m being completely honest.

He pulls back slightly and I let out a whine of protest that makes him laugh. “Katniss, I’ve got work to do,” he says, resting his brow on mine. “And you are not making it any easier.”

“Wasn’t trying to,” I breathe. “In fact, I plan on making it very, very difficult for you unless you lock the front door and take a break with me right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now, Peeta.”

“You really had to choose this exact moment to finally realize the effect you have on me, huh?” he says, making for the front door.

Actually, I still wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that; I was doing this purely for selfish reasons.

He’s barely returned to the dining room before his lips are on mine again. He hooks one hand under my leg, pulling me tightly against him, and braces the other on my lower back as he kisses me deeply. 

Fuck, I need him.

He slides the hand that had previously been on my back up the front of my shirt, lightly grazing his fingers over my already-peaked nipples, causing me to grind against him and let out an involuntary moan.

This time it’s me who pulls away before he can take it any further. “Hey, this isn’t about me. It’s my turn to make you feel good.”

I hop off the edge of the table, pushing him to lean against where I’d been previously sitting.

His eyes ravage me as I kneel in front of him and start unbuttoning his trousers. My fingers are trembling slightly, but whether it’s from anxiety or anticipation, I don’t know. My knuckles graze lightly against his considerable bulge as I slide off his trousers, leaving him in just those tight, fitted black boxer shorts.

I toy with the edge of his waistband, letting my hands travel across the planes of his lower abdomen, the deep V-shape of his hips. Playing. Waiting. Hesitating.

I cough somewhat awkwardly. “I’m not, uh, totally sure what I’m doing,” I admit shyly.

He gently lifts my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes. And I almost forget how to breathe for a couple of seconds as I take him in from this angle.

“I’ll talk you through it the whole way, Katniss. There’s no need to be nervous.”

He helps me with his boxers, his cock springing free as I tug them the rest of the way down. With one glance at the sheer size of him, the nervous feeling returns to my stomach. Surely it wasn’t this big yesterday, otherwise I have no idea how it had ever fit in me to begin with.

I look up at him, and he gives me a reassuring nod. “You can start by just using your hands, if you want. Get more comfortable with handling it.” His voice is soft and even, but his cheeks are red as the words leave his mouth.

I reach up and carefully wrap a hand around his cock, earning a sharp intake of breath from Peeta.

“Now if you just spit in your hand, and practice moving it forwards and backwards,” he breathes. “And whenever you’re ready, you can put your mouth— fuck , that’s right, baby.”

He laces his fingers loosely in my hair, pulling it back from my face as I bob my head, taking as much of him in my mouth as I can, to the point where it hits my gag reflex and my eyes start to water.

“You don’t have to take all of it, you know, and I don’t expect you to. You can grab it at the bottom and only go as far down as your hand, if you want. Maybe even use your hand like you did in the beginning to help you. I just want you to be comfortable, Katniss.”

“Like this?” I ask, twisting my hand up from the base of his cock as I take the rest of him in my mouth, swirling my tongue over the head as I suck in my cheeks.

He removes one hand from my hair to grip the edge of the dining table tightly, before answering in a strained voice, “Just like that. Oh fuck, you feel so good, Katniss.” He tips his head back, moaning loudly, and the sound of his pleasure alone is enough that I can feel my heartbeat between my legs as well as my chest.

I rock my head and my hand back and forth in time, quickly falling into a comfortable rhythm as Peeta’s moans grow louder, his breathing more labored with each stroke. I notice he seems to react more to my touch the more attention I pay to the tip, so I try pulling back slightly, sucking a bit harder on that sensitive area, eliciting a whimpering groan from him.

I lick the full length of his cock, from base to tip, looking up and making eye contact all the way as his cock twitches under my touch and he hisses in pleasure. 

“You tease,” he says breathlessly, narrowing his eyes at me.

I give him a wicked grin, high on the newfound power I seem to hold over him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, silencing whatever retort he was going to reply with by swirling my tongue over the head again, sending a shiver through his body.

“Fuck,” he moans, bucking his hips slightly.

I go back to thrusting my head back and forth, taking as much of him as I can down my throat. 

Peeta’s face burns redder and redder as the hand he’s using to brace himself against the table tightens its grip on the edge, the veins standing out prominently. “I’m so close, baby, you’re amazing,” he huffs.

I keep my pace, even as I can feel his body tensing up, his cock throbbing inside my mouth. 

“Oh, fuck , Katniss,” he rasps, closing his eyes and tipping his head back in pleasure as he spills inside my mouth and I swallow without another thought as he cradles my head gently, fingers tangling in my hair as he rides out his release.

His eyes widen as he seems to realize what I’ve just done, quickly withdrawing himself and still panting as he says, “Shit, I’m so sorry, baby, you didn’t have to swallow, I should’ve said something earlier.”

“It’s fine, Peeta, I wanted to,” I say, standing back up to my full height and resting my hand on his chest. 

I decide not to mention the fact that I didn’t know that there was another option. But I didn’t lie either. I did want to—I wanted to do anything to keep him whining at my touch, anything to make him feel good for as long as possible. Besides, it’s not like he tasted bad anyways.

“You’re incredible,” he says with a sultry smile as he pulls his boxers up and refastens his trousers. “And I really do have to get back to work, darlin’, but I swear I’m gonna make it up to you tonight.”

I shoot him a grumpy look and he reaches a hand out, cupping my face. “Hey. I promise you’ll get your turn.”

“Fine,” I say unhappily. “But you owe me, Mellark.”

The corners of his mouth turn upwards in a smirk. “Gladly. And, uh, I obviously don’t mind if you want to walk around the neighborhood like that, but you might wanna change before you go, if you’re still bent on keeping this casual and discreet. I’m the only one in the district with access to that kind of flour, after all.”

I must look as confused as I feel, because he laughs loudly, gesturing down at my outfit, which is now covered in handprints of flour. Between my thighs. On my ass. My chest.

“You’re impossible,” I grumble, glaring at him.

“And you’re cute when you’re mad.” He grins. “I’ll see you tonight, Katniss.”

Chapter Text

The night air carries a sharp chill that nips at my skin as I make my way across the lawn. The stars overhead shimmer like distant, icy jewels, bathing the world in silver. The familiar path feels almost otherworldly in the pale moonlight as I unlatch Peeta’s garden gate, letting myself into his backyard.

All four of us remaining victors in Twelve have taken to locking our front doors at the first sign of twilight. It’s funny, really, that it gives us any feeling of security when nobody knows better than us that there’s no lock in the world that can keep the darkness away. Besides, Peeta and I sleep with our windows wide open and leave our kitchen doors unlocked for each other; the front door is nothing more than ritualistic at this point. 

I’m met with a blast of heat as I open the door and look across the kitchen island to find Peeta knelt beside the fireplace in the living room, stoking the crackling flames. He looks up at the sound of the door opening, a few loose curls falling in his face and tangling in those long, golden eyelashes. As soon as he sees me, he smiles warmly, his eyes lighting up.

“I was beginning to think you’d never come,” he says. He removes the poker from the fire and replaces it carefully on the stand that sits beside him before bracing an arm on the side of the sofa to help himself up awkwardly.

I make my way over to the sofa, snatching some sort of berry pastry from a platter on the island as I walk past. “We sleep together every night,” I say, giving him a puzzled look and flop down on the couch before taking a large bite out of what turns out to be freshly baked strawberry tart, still warm in the middle.

“And I’m just as grateful every time,” he says lightly. “Jo give you a hard time?

“Yeah,” I say as I take another unbecomingly large bite of the tart, savoring the perfectly flaky and buttery pastry, the delightful tartness of the strawberries as they burst on my tongue. “She still doesn’t trust that us sharing a bed is purely platonic, can you believe it? These are amazing, by the way,” I say as I polish off my tart, licking the icing off my fingers. “I could almost kiss you.”

He chuckles and looks away, fiddling with a small scrap of his painting paper. “That good, huh?”

I nod.

“Well I, uh, wanted to give you something that may or may not upset you, so I just want you to remember how much you like me right now and how amazing my pastries are, okay?”

“Alright,” I say, unable to keep the note of suspicion out of my voice. What is he playing at?

He sits down next to me and takes my hand, placing in it a small, intricately painted square of parchment, and my heart stops.

My sister.

In the painting she wears a pretty pale pink frock that’s the same shade as the gentle flush of her cheeks, not those horrid grey jumpsuits or sterile white scrubs they gave her in 13. Her golden hair is half up, pulled back by two braids that fall into one at the back of her head. Her twinkling eyes are a bright crystal blue, her head tilted back with a beaming smile as if she’s been caught mid laugh. 

But she’s not alone. She’s side by side with Lady, her goat, hand outstretched toward the creature that kept her alive for so many years. And tied around Lady’s neck…

A small gasp escapes my throat as I register the significance of the pink ribbon. “You remembered?”

I could practically feel the miserable heat, smell the wet earth of the inside of our cave in that first arena as Peeta and I had sat in the shade and I’d told him about the happiest day I could remember—the day I got Prim her goat.

“How could I forget?” he says softly. “Don’t get me wrong, it was definitely a shinier memory for a while, but it was also the first time you really opened up to me and allowed yourself to be vulnerable.”

“To be fair, you weren’t exactly in the clearest of mental states at the time either, even without tracker jacker venom,” I point out. 

Images of Peeta with dry, cracked lips and inflamed red streaks crawling up his leg flash through my mind. I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss, even if my mother isn’t a healer . I would’ve been surprised at him remembering anything I said prior to the feast under normal circumstances, but remembering even through the hijacking? Perhaps more of the old Peeta remains than I’d initially thought.

“What was it I said back then? ‘I remember everything about you?’” he muses. “Yeah, I can’t say that’s changed much, even in spite of everything. I’m not really sure how to explain it, but it’s more like I remember the feeling I connected with the real memory, even if the memory itself was warped, and that helps me remember what was actually real.”

I feel a pang in my chest. 

“Anyways,” he says, nodding at the painting. “She’s the only one left, and I wanted her to be the happiest you can remember.”

He’s referring, of course, to our book of memories. Inspired by my family’s plant book, Peeta and I had taken to creating our own book, one to remember our fallen loved ones. It had taken up the majority of our time those first few months after Peeta returned to 12, but what had once seemed like an endless list had dwindled down over time, until only one remained.

Peeta’s family, Finnick, and Rue had been especially difficult, but we’d gotten through it together, with Peeta providing the art as I wrote down every little detail we could recall as neatly as I could. But no matter how hard I tried, I hadn’t yet been able to bring myself to write about Prim. Every time I thought I’d finally mustered the strength to do it, I just sat, hand poised above a blank page that I’d begun to lose hope would ever tell my sister’s story. I’d told Peeta to go ahead with her portrait, that my grief shouldn’t stop the catharsis of his, but I hadn’t expected this.

In painting the memory of my sister, he’d somehow managed to capture the very essence of her being. Her joy, her kindness, her selflessness, the way she radiated goodness. She’s pictured the same age as she was when she died, but without fear, without pain. The way she should’ve lived. Lady’s fully grown too, but with that same blush-colored ribbon that she’d had the day Prim rescued her.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until Peeta reaches out a hand to brush a few tears off my cheek.

“You don’t have to write anything yet, but maybe this will give you someplace to start,” he says quietly.

The words are barely out of his mouth before I’m throwing my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. 

“Peeta, I…” My words fail me. I don’t know how to thank him for this gift he’s given me.

“I know,” he says, rubbing my back soothingly.

If it was anyone else, I think I’d have been irritated by that response, but the truth is he really does know. He’s been with me through everything—he’s the only one who understands just how much I sacrificed for her in her life, and just how much I lost in her death. He knows what it means to me for her to be remembered this way.

I’m hyper aware of every inch of skin where our bodies touch; however it’s not the same heat that’s been dominating my feelings towards him the past couple days that floods through me, but rather a glowing warmth that brings comfort, security.

I pull my head slightly away from where it’s been pressed against his chest, and look into the eyes of the boy who might be the only person left in this world who truly knows me. My heart thunders in my chest and my breath catches in my throat as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

Dangerous, I think. This is dangerous territory.

I shouldn’t be doing this. This was the kind of thing that blurred the line between friends and something more. Though I suppose it had never been particularly clear for us. Either way, this feels… intimate. But not in the way I’d become accustomed to.

I lay my hand on his chest, gently pushing myself away from him, and set the painting carefully on the coffee table. “Thank you, Peeta. It’s incredible, really.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says. “It’s just how she deserves to be remembered. Forever experiencing the same happiness that she brought into everyone else’s lives.” His deep blue eyes bore into mine.

I can only form one singular thought: I don’t deserve this boy. Haymitch and I know it, and have for years. Jo probably sees it. Annie too. The only one who can’t seem to notice it is Peeta himself. 

I’ve dropped a nest of tracker jackers on him while he slept. My hands tied the tourniquet that cost him his leg. I held out the berries that put our lives and our families’ in danger. I feigned feelings for him in the arena and lied to him about it. I forced him to stay unhappily by my side for years with that charade, all the while it was breaking his heart. And when I was finally going to make it all up to him by sacrificing myself in the Quell, I failed. I let our allies separate us. I shot the arrow that felled the forcefield. I got him captured by Snow. I got him tortured and beaten and hijacked.

And yet he still stands by my side, my friend through every single nightmarish and horrific thing that’s happened to us. 

Maybe sans the romantic feelings, but not the caring ones. Not even Snow could take away his inherent goodness, even if it did take him a little while to find his way back to it. I really don’t deserve him, and he certainly deserves better than the pain and misery I’ve brought into his life. 

But I’m a selfish creature. Finnick was right—I love Peeta, even if I’m still not sure to what extent. I know I should push him away, into the arms of someone as sweet and generous and thoughtful as he is; he deserves someone beautiful, unmarred by physical and psychological scars that will never go away. But I can’t.

So here I sit in the crook of his arm, unable to repay the latest in what seems to be a never-ending list of kindnesses he’s shown me.

“You don’t owe me anything, Katniss,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. “You’re making that face that you do whenever you’re trying to figure out how to pay me back for me doing something nice for you.”

“But I do—”

“You do not .” He sighs in exasperation. “When are you ever going to get over your aversion to people showing you love?” His eyes widen slightly as he realizes the implication of his words, but he recovers quickly. “You’re my best friend, Katniss. We should be able to do things for each other without keeping score.” Peeta’s mouth twists into a smirk. “Though while we’re at it, I do owe you on one front, if I remember correctly.”

I frown. “No, that’s not how this works, you don’t get to pick and choose what we do or don’t owe each other for.”

The firelight casts a warm glow across the planes of his face. “Actually, I can, but that’s not the point. I can’t exactly go back on a promise now, can I?”

Oh. Oh.

“I suppose not.” I feel my face turn red as I shift my gaze down to his mouth. His lips.

Peeta leans in, but it’s not my mouth he kisses. A small groan escapes me as he presses his lips against my throat, causing him to pull back to slyly grin at my reaction.

“Keep going,” I say, scowling.

He moves back in, sending a shiver through my body as he whispers, “Whatever you want,” his warm breath tickling my neck. I lean my head back slightly, exposing my throat to him as he plants soft kisses down the bare expanse of sensitive skin. He pauses just above my collarbone, sucking lightly at a particularly tender bit, no doubt leaving his mark, but I don’t care. All I care about is the feeling of his lips on my skin and how I never want it to stop.

Suddenly his hands are at my waist, tugging up the hem of my shirt. I gladly oblige, lifting my arms as he slides my shirt off and tosses it aside, leaving my chest entirely bare. I’d considered wearing a bra, but I can’t sleep in the damned things. I knew it probably wouldn’t be on for long anyways.

Peeta doesn’t appear to mind either, as his eyes ravage my naked chest, my peaked nipples,  and the sight alone has enough effect that it suddenly becomes incredibly hard to keep my gaze off the impressive bulge in his trousers.

“You’re absolutely breathtaking , Katniss,” he says, climbing slowly off the sofa and kneeling between my legs.

My breath hitches as he reaches for my trousers, and I lift my hips slightly, allowing him to pull them off.

His eyes widen in surprise as he tugs down my waistband. “Those are new,” he says, huffing a lustful laugh.

“I’m just behind on laundry,” I say. A lie. A blatant lie.

As much as Portia had meddled in Peeta’s sex life by getting him contraception in preparation for our impending nuptials, Cinna had interfered on a far more intimate level. Peeta never knew, but for every wedding dress that my stylist designed, each one had an equally extravagant set of bridal and honeymoon lingerie to go with it. Cinna himself would never have proposed such an idea, the orders came from much higher up, but it was still mortifying to think of my friend designing me clothes that were meant to be taken off more than anything.

At the time, I’d flat out refused to so much as try any of it on. But now…

When I got home this afternoon, I dug them out of a crate in the downstairs closet that I’d all but forgotten about. The undergarments themselves are no more than scraps of lace and satin; the panties do nothing to cover my backside, the bras are almost entirely sheer, leaving nothing up to the imagination. They’re all incredibly impractical.

And trying them on in my room today was the closest thing I’d ever felt to sexy.

I’d selected an olive green number for tonight, one of the more modest scraps of lace from my extensive collection, though in no way would it be considered modest under any other circumstances. That didn’t matter though, as I’d specifically selected it in the hopes that its duration of wear would be exceptionally short.

Peeta grins at me fiendishly. “I hope you never catch up then, if this is the result,” he says, pulling them down without another word.

I have to remind myself to breathe for a moment at the sight of him kneeling before my naked body.

He leans up, grabbing my face and pulling me in for a deep kiss, but his lips are gone as quickly as they came, trailing down my body, agonizingly slow. My neck. My collarbone. Between my breasts. The valley of my stomach. All the way down to the apex of my thighs.

I gasp at the first swirling stroke of his tongue, arching my back into the immediate rush of pleasure from his touch. He sucks lightly where his tongue had been only a moment before, eliciting a whining moan from me. My body burns white hot as my heartbeat flutters rapidly between my legs.  

He pauses, staring up at me with a sultry gaze, the sudden absence of his mouth leaving me utterly irritated and throbbing, desperate for his tongue. 

Such a tease. I narrow my eyes at him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you like this.”

“Then don’t stop,” I say through gritted teeth, even as I feel a sudden warmth in my chest at his words. I’d had enough of this game. I need him. Now.

“Gladly,” he says with a smirk before burying his face between my legs once again.

“ Fuck ,” I groan, clutching at the blanket beneath me in some effort to cling to my sanity as he slides his ring and middle fingers inside me. He hooks them towards himself, working them in time with each infernal stroke of his tongue.

The hunger I’ve grown to feel for Peeta—for his touch—ever since the Quell has plagued me daily for almost a year now, and has only become more excruciatingly all-consuming since he moved back to Twelve. Even worse since we’ve become friends with benefits. But the way he worships my body… he eats me out as if he’s a man starved .

I feel that familiar molten pressure building in my core, sending me closer to the edge with every lick, every thrust of his fingers. He quickens his pace, earning a loud moan from me, each breath I take no more than a shuddering gasp now.

“Oh, Peeta,” I whine, breathing unevenly. I’m getting close now, so damned close. I instinctively buck my hips, riding his face, but he uses his free hand to pin my hips to the sofa as he continues to devour me, sucking particularly hard at a particularly sensitive spot as he meets my gaze.

Fuck.

I cry out as release finds me, leaning my head back in euphoria as ecstasy barrels through my body, down my spine, setting my entire being ablaze. I’m quivering at this point, but Peeta just moves the hand he was using to pin my hip and instead hooks it around my thigh, pulling me even closer and holding me against his mouth, never ceasing those wicked strokes of his tongue, the rhythmic pump of his fingers as I ride out my climax.

He only slows down as I reach the end, carefully withdrawing his fingers as the last spasms wrack my body, and—only after I’m well and truly finished—plants one final kiss between my thighs, leaving me trembling in his arms.

My heart races and I’m panting as he pulls away, the lower half of his face glistening.

“You taste incredible,” he breathes.

I feel somewhat proud, even as my cheeks burn red. I close my knees, pulling them in towards my chest. “Thanks?” I say, not quite sure how to respond to his compliment. “Peeta, I l—” I have to stop myself before I say the one thing that can’t be taken back. “I liked that. A lot.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I did too, and I plan on doing it again. And again. And again.”

I clench my legs together at the thought, even as my stomach churns with anxiety at the realization of the words that almost left my throat: I am in love with Peeta Mellark. 

And whatever’s between us is officially no longer uncomplicated.

Chapter Text

Jo’s sitting at the kitchen table when I get home after hunting the next day, holding something in her hand that’s got her looking a bit uncharacteristically misty-eyed. 

“What’s that?” I ask, coming up beside her. 

She hands me the photo of a chubby newborn with green eyes. “Annie’s had the baby. His name is Ronan.”

I put my hand on her shoulder and she rests hers on top of mine. “Ronan,” I repeat, studying the tiny, alien-looking child. I’d never quite understood when people saw babies and said they look like their parents. To be honest, they usually barely look human when they’re as young as Ronan is, let alone have any resemblance to anyone in their family. But Ronan is the spitting image of his father, from the sea green eyes, to the bronze fluff on his head, down to the smile—as gummy and toothless it may be right now. “He looks just like him.”

“He really does,” she says with a sad smile. “Finnick would’ve loved to meet him.” She wipes away a tear, and I pretend not to notice. “Anyways, we’re invited to his naming ceremony in a few days.”

I give her a puzzled look. “I thought his name was Ronan.”

“It is, brainless,” she snorts. “It’s just tradition in Four to hold an official ceremony for it.”

“Then we’ll be there,” I say. “We owe that much to Finnick, and it will be nice to see Annie too.”

I take the photo of Ronan and stick it on the fridge with a magnet before sitting myself next to Jo and reading the attached card that came in the envelope. I scan quickly through Annie’s note, but to my surprise find no mention of my name anywhere, only Johanna’s. 

To Auntie Jo.

I grab the envelope to double check that it wasn’t a typo, but sure enough, I’m not listed anywhere on that either .

Johanna Mason

Victory Way 4

Victors’ Village, District 12

  My heart sinks. 

Not Johanna Mason and Katniss Everdeen. Just Jo. Addressed to my house. 

“What’s up?” asks Jo, noting my shift in mood. 

“I don’t think I’m invited,” I say in slight shock. I mean, I can’t say it doesn’t make sense. I don’t really know Annie other than what Finnick told me, nor does she really know me for that matter, other than what Peeta’s told her. I have no relationship with her or her son other than my friendship with Finnick. 

But it still hurts. 

“I’m sure you are. Annie would’ve never sent one to the house and not meant to include the both of us,” Jo says matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “She knows how close you were with Finnick and she would never not want you to be a part of his son’s life. Plus, she probably just knows we live together and didn’t write both names since she knew it’d get to you no matter what.”

“Maybe,” I say, but something tells me that’s not the case. 

“Definitely,” she says. She suddenly looks me up and down and makes a weird face. “Is that Peeta’s shirt?”

There was no point in denying it; I was practically swimming in the borrowed t-shirt. In my hurry to dress a bit more provocatively last night, I’d forgotten a top to change into for this morning. “Yeah, I’m just behind on laundry, so I stole one of his,” I say, repeating the same lie I’d told to Peeta the night before for lack of a more creative reason.

She stares at me suspiciously. “Oh, really? Because — ”

We’re interrupted by the loud bang! of the front door opening abruptly, followed by a man’s voice yelling, “He’s here!” A moment later, Peeta appears around the corner, grinning from ear to ear.

“If you’re going to start announcing yourself in the third person whenever you enter the room, I’m moving back to Seven, I don’t care if I’m alone,” drawls Johanna.

“You know what I’m talking about.” Peeta flicks her ear and she swats at him as he passes her, taking a seat and dropping his own photo of Ronan on the table, his excitement palpable. “I can’t wait to meet him. He really is a dead ringer for Finnick.”

“That’s what we said!” says Jo.

“Too bad I’m not invited,” I mumble dejectedly. 

“What do you mean?” Peeta asks. 

Jo sighs. “Katniss, I told you Annie meant for all of us to go.”

“Well then why isn’t my name your invitation?”

“Because it’s on mine,” Peeta says, as if the answer’s obvious. 

I stare at him dumbfoundedly. “What?”

He pulls out the card, and — sure enough — written in neat, loopy script, there’s my name written at the top. 

To Auntie Katniss and Uncle Peeta. 

Auntie Katniss. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to be called that. 

I blink away the tears rising up in my eyes as relief floods through me, but it’s mixed with confusion. “Why would she put my name on yours and not Jo’s, the one addressed to my own house?”

Peeta shrugs. “She knows how close we are. And everyone is so used to us being presented as a pair, it was probably just out of habit.”

“But she knows we’re not together, right?” I ask worriedly. Peeta still hadn’t mentioned so much of a whisper of his previous feelings for me since he’s been back, and I don’t want the old assumptions of us being a couple to interfere with our current friendship, even if my own feelings were turning into a threat of their own.

“Of course,” he quickly responds. “And, I mean, it’s your name listed first on the invitation, it could have just as easily been meant for you, but sent to me by accident.”

I doubt it. “Yeah. I’m sure it’s something like that,” I agree. 

“Please, you two have been joined at the hip since I moved here,” Jo says, her lips twitching upwards in a slight smirk. “I’m sure Annie’s aware of how much time you spend together and just thought it was easier to send one card.”

I’m not sure why, but I feel heat rise to my cheeks. 

I turn to Peeta, changing the subject. “I thought you were working late tonight.” Once a week, Peeta volunteers his morning to rebuilding efforts, shifting his bakery duties to the afternoon instead.

“I was supposed to,” he says, “But I closed early when I opened my mail to hear about Annie and Ronan. We’ve got a trip to plan!”

“Kill me now.” Johanna rolls her eyes at his excitement, but she’s clearly just as happy. 

“Right, so I’ll call the head doctor in the morning to clear us to travel between districts,” says Peeta. “I’m assuming Haymitch is coming too, so it should be easy considering we have a ‘chaperone’ looking after us.”

We all burst immediately into laughter. The idea of Haymitch having any sort of chaperoning role in our lives is frankly ridiculous, as the man has spent the better part of the months following the war drowning himself in white liquor (and more recently raising geese for some odd reason.) But he was still considered to be more responsible than us, or at least enough to not be labelled as a security risk due to mental instability, unlike Johanna, Peeta, and me. If you ask me, he’s just as messed up as the rest of us, he just presents himself better. And refrains from assassinating presidents. 

Regardless, Haymitch’s accompaniment would provide the “sane” presence needed for us to get approved to travel, so I’m not complaining. It’ll be good to see him too, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him leave his house.  

I feel something warm glowing in my chest as I watch Peeta cracking up at Haymitch’s expense like this. I remember when we were in 13 and I thought I’d never see this side of him again. We’d been seated at this very table the first time I’d heard it again, when I’d made some stupid joke about the mystery meat in Greasy Sae’s stew, and I remember feeling as if an icy weight was lifting off my shoulders as his deep laugh rang through the room. I’d known he was okay, or as okay as any of us could be, otherwise he’d never have been allowed to come home in the first place, but it was the first glimpse I’d really seen of him in months. Of my Peeta.

Well not my anything, I remind myself. 

But it had made me unbelievably happy to see him returning to his old self after everything Snow had put him through.

Jo too, actually. She’d been in a truly pathetic state the last time I saw her, but was now healthy. Healing. She’s still just as big of a pain in the ass as she used to be, but less bitter now that she’s surrounded by people who love her.

Our laughs slowly die down, but a single glance between Jo and Peeta has all of us doubling over in another bout of near silent wheezes.

“Okay, okay, but seriously, after that we’ve just got to book our train tickets and be on our way,” Peeta says, still wiping away tears from his eyes. “I’ll go call Annie right now to ask about where we’ll stay. I’ve been meaning to catch up with her anyways.”

I know if I even try to respond I’m going to start laughing again, so I just smile and nod while both Jo and I try to stop ourselves from giggling.

“Y’all better quit that while I’m on the phone,” Peeta says, a false sternness to his voice as he wags a finger at us and gets up to go to the living room.

Jo slams her fist on the table, roaring with laughter, which is immediately met by Peeta shushing her from the other room and just sends us wheezing again. 

“It’s not even that funny,” I chuckle.

“I can’t even remember what we were laughing at,” she snickers. 

I release a long breath, trying to regain my composure. “You wanna help me prep for dinner while he talks to Annie?” I ask.

“Yes, Katniss, I will make dinner while you stay far away from the actual food and watch me do everything.”

“I can boil the water,” I offer.

“That’s plenty,” snorts Jo.

If I was bad at making food before, I’ve only gotten worse as first Greasy Sae, then Peeta, then Peeta and Johanna have all but commandeered my kitchen since the war. I’m not complaining, though. I catch the food, and they cook it. It’s the perfect balance. 

Peeta may be a neat freak in his kitchen, but Jo and I have no such qualms as long as I stay out of her way, so after I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, I hop up on the counter as she starts pulling various vegetables out of the fridge.

“So, you got kinda weird at the mere suggestion of you guys being together back there. Wanna tell me what that’s all about?”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean? No I didn’t.”

“‘What do you mean?’ Really?” Jo scoffs. “You haven’t been this insufferable since tribute training last year. I thought we were past this whole ‘will they, won’t they’ drama.”

“We are! It’s ‘won’t they.’ Definitely ‘won’t they,’” I protest.

“I thought we were past the ‘you and I lying to each other’ part too,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at me as she skins some potatoes.

I really hate how quickly she sees through my words sometimes. “It’s nothing, I swear,” I say. “Peeta’s still in somewhat of a fragile state after the hijacking, I just don’t want him getting uncomfortable and letting our history affect our current friendship.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jo smiles to herself and suddenly seems very interested in the potatoes. “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” she croons. “Grab me some rosemary from the back garden, would ya?”

I jump down from the counter, backing out of the kitchen and making for the sliding glass door in the dining room. “It’s not what you think, Jo,” I call.

“I’m sure it’s not, Katniss,” she responds in a singsong voice.

I roll my eyes, even though she’s not there to see it as I comb through the small herb garden Peeta has set up in the backyard. When I’ve plucked what feels like a sufficient amount of the herb, I go back inside and slide the door shut quietly behind me.

All of the houses in Victors’ Village have the same layout. The same two story, five bedroom, six bathroom, cookie cutter houses. And I’d imagine it’s exactly the same in other districts. The thing about them is that they’re all no doubt designed by some Capitolite who had zero regard for function, but rather formality. Hence why the official dining room sits adjacent to both the kitchen and living room. And leaves me in all too convenient of a position to hear everything Peeta is saying to Annie when I step back inside.

I try not to eavesdrop, I really do. But then I hear my name and I’m suddenly stopped in my tracks.

“Katniss doesn’t seem to think so,” Peeta says in a hushed tone.

“No, no she doesn’t know yet.”

“Not gonna happen, Annie.”

“Can you put Ronan on, please? I wanna talk to him.”

I immediately regret listening in on the conversation. She doesn’t know yet ? Not gonna happen ? All I can think of is him confronting her for naming us together on the invitation, and getting upset that she’d still consider us a couple. He did seem rather agitated right now, other than when he asked to speak to Ronan, of course. 

What don’t I know yet? Is everything between us just him humoring me, waiting to let me down gently? As far as the “not gonna happen,” well, I knew that already; after all, I’m the one who suggested we keep things casual.

What I’m not sure of is why it rubs me the wrong way. 

I unclench the fists I didn’t realize I was making, revealing the crushed rosemary in one hand and nail marks on the other. I’d better go. Jo will be wondering what’s taking so long anyways.

I creep silently across the dining room, back to the side with the kitchen door and reenter to find Jo waiting with her arms crossed, knife in hand.

“Fucking finally,” she says in exasperation as I dump the contents of my hand onto the cutting board. “Took you long enough. And what happened to it? You have a fight with the bush or somethin’?”

I resume my spot perched on the counter. “Somethin,’” I mutter, right as Peeta walks in again. 

“Annie and Ronan are both doing great!” Peeta says, beaming. “They’ll be there to meet us at the station, and we’ll be staying at Annie’s while we’re there. And you,” he says, finally seeming to register my position on the counter as he approaches and rests a hand just above my knee. It’s somewhat of a bold move considering the fact that we have an audience, but it’s far enough down that it could just as easily be read as a friendly touch. “No matter how many times I ask you, you just won’t keep off of these, huh?”

“It’s my house,” I point out, but I can’t quite meet his eyes when I speak.

Jo pretends to gag. “Peeta, I swear if you don’t take that hand off of Katniss, wash it, and use it to make some garlic bread right now, I will be kicking you out of said house.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says jokingly, holding his hands up in surrender.

With the two of them working together on dinner, it’s done in no time and it’s not long before we’re all sitting around the dining table having what Jo lovingly refers to as family dinner. I should be excited. It’s one of my favorites: roasted potatoes with rosemary, grilled chicken with a lemon and garlic sauce, baked broccoli with parmesan, and garlic bread — quite possibly the only one of Peeta’s creations that comes even close to my love for cheese buns.

But my stomach is twisting in knots, and I only manage to get a few bites in before I can’t eat anymore. I fall back into my old habit of letting Peeta do all the talking for the both of us, but if either of them notice, they don’t say anything. 

Peeta tries to make eye contact with me and invite me into the conversation more than once, but I avoid his gaze.

I stay silent even as I wash the dishes, staring blankly out the window at the setting sun as I wash each one without really paying attention to what I’m doing.

Jo and I have developed a weekly tradition of watching Plutarch’s horribly cheesy singing competition and making fun of every single contestant that appears on screen. Better people than us could probably manage to find something positive to focus on, but the two of us prefer picking apart every little thing we hate about it. Peeta is banned for that exact reason, actually — he’s not nearly mean enough. It normally lines up with the one day a week when he works late and goes to bed early anyways, so Jo and I have a designated girls’ night, where Peeta gets kicked out and we get to be as terrible as we want. And this week, it just so happens to be tonight.

I walk Peeta out the door, shutting it behind us, as Jo opens a bottle of wine for us in the kitchen. The sun’s just dipped beneath the horizon, and there’s a small part of me that’s grateful for clear skies as the stars start appearing one by one. 

“So, uh, will I still see you later?” he asks.

“Probably,” I say, turning to go back inside with no further explanation.

“Katniss?” When his words don’t stop me, his hand does. He grabs my hand and pulls me back. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just run away any time you’re angry or sad or feeling something anymore.” So he had noticed my sour mood.

I don’t even know how to begin to explain to him precisely how miserable I’m feeling. I was the one who suggested the whole friends with benefits thing, but now it’s just making me feel sick to my stomach.

I don’t know how to tell him that this thing that is no more than casual for him is becoming so much more than that for me. So I don’t.

“I guess I’m just getting tired of having to remind people that we’re just friends, that there isn’t anything more between us,” I say. Not entirely a lie.

“Isn’t there?” His response sends a shudder through me.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I guess so, but that part’s none of their business. I mean, nothing’s going to come of it anyways, right? It’s never gonna happen,” I say.

I could’ve sworn he flinched.

“No, you’re right, I suppose. I’ll talk to the girls, tell them to back off a bit,” he says lightheartedly, though his eyes look a bit darker than they did a moment ago. “But you’ll still come over tonight? Arrangement or no, you know I need you.”

I sigh. How am I supposed to say no to that?

I raise myself up on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, and my lips feel warm and tingly when I pull away from him. “I’ll be there. Now get out of here before Johanna chases you off with a kitchen knife or something.”

“I think it might be too late for that,” he says, looking over my shoulder. 

I turn around to find Jo giving Peeta a death stare out the kitchen window, which she now shoves open one-handed, her other hand occupied with an already half empty wine glass.

“Girls’ night means girls’ night, Mellark — don’t make me come out there!” Jo yells across the lawn.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender as he says, “Alright, alright, I’m out of here.” 

See you later , he mouths to me with an apologetic smile before turning and crossing the lawn back to his house.

I linger for a moment before going back inside, where a very heavily poured glass of red wine is shoved into my hand and Jo immediately descends upon me. 

“So, what was that ?” she asks, sipping her wine.

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

“You liar . Oh my days, how have I not noticed this before? Have I gotten so used to your weird little flirtatious we’re-together-but-we’re-not thing that I’ve been blind to it unfolding before my very eyes?”

“We really are just friends, Jo.” I swirl the wine in my glass contemplatively before taking a large gulp of the drink and making a face. I still hate the flavor of alcohol, but I’ve grown to enjoy the feeling, at least when I’m with Peeta and Johanna. I used to hate the way it dulled my senses, but when I tried it again after the war, I found it dulled the grief and pain too. If it weren’t for the abhorrent taste, I could almost understand why Haymitch has chosen to spend the better part of his life hiding behind its effect. Almost.

Johanna raises both eyebrows and stares at me as if I’m the stupidest creature she’s ever seen. 

If this is the way she reacts to us under relatively normal circumstances, I’d hate to see how she’d respond if she actually found out the truth.

“So are we watching this thing or not?” I ask. I don’t wait for an answer before lunging for the remote and flicking on Plutarch’s show.

“Yes, but—”

I gasp, pointing at the screen. “Look, they’re actually showing him!” It’s not often we get glimpses of the producer himself, but whenever he’s shown, we lay into him with all we’ve got. Besides, I could use the distraction.

She reluctantly turns away from me to see what I’m pointing at, incapable of missing the opportunity to make fun of Plutarch. “I thought the camera was only supposed to add ten pounds, not forty-five,” she snorts.

“He’s really let go of himself, for sure,” I say.

We go back and forth like this for the full hour of the show, and I’m grateful for the distraction, for both me and Jo. 

“I’m rather tired, I think I’ll turn in early tonight,” I say.

Jo narrows her eyes at me. “Rushing off to Peeta already?”

“Jo, please stop making this out to be more than it is. We’ve been sleeping together forever,” I huff.

“I’m sure you have,” she says.

I shoot her a warning look. Maybe this whole female friendship thing was overrated after all. “Right. I’m leaving,” I say, making a beeline for the door. 

“Have fun with Lover Boy!” She blows me an overly dramatic kiss.

I flash her a vulgar gesture as I shut the door behind me.

If only she knew how wrong she was. And how much it was killing me.

Chapter Text

Four rooms. I nearly had to stifle a laugh at the idea when Peeta confirmed with Haymitch how many rooms to book us for the train ride to Four.

I don’t know why we even pretend anymore, especially since we’ve been sleeping together since long before we started, well, sleeping together . 

I mean, I guess I kind of know. There’s no doubt that Haymitch knew about our sleeping arrangements prior to the Quell, but he’s never said anything about it. Neither have we, for that matter. It was always pretty irrelevant as far as our strategy to stay alive was concerned. It definitely didn’t hurt the star-crossed lovers' romance to generate some hushed rumors among our prep teams and the Capitol attendants, but it was never a part of any plan thought up as a ploy to survive. And that’s sort of where Haymitch’s jurisdiction ended, I suppose. 

We could’ve told him. He’ll always have half a mind to listen to us and a bottle to share if we wanted, but he’d never pry if we didn’t bring it up first. Not that our sleeping together is a secret, but I’d prefer to avoid the topic altogether. Maybe it’s the Seam side of us that makes us reluctant to open up, but whatever it is, I’m grateful.

Besides, there’s no more emotion in it this time than there was prior to the Games, at least from Peeta’s side. No reason to alert him to something that’s of no consequence to any of us.

It’s a bit strange, I’ll admit, boarding the same train that we used to. We’ve even been granted our same rooms, thanks to Paylor. It’s jarring to think that the last time we rode this train, we were being forced at gunpoint by Peacekeepers, to be carted off to our impending deaths, each of us prepared to sacrifice ourselves for the other.

This time’s different, though , I remind myself as Peeta leans out the carriage door, offering a hand to help me up the steps. I accept it gratefully, though I don’t really need it. The warmth of his hand in mine and the playful smile on his face are just one more reminder that he’s here, and he’s alive, and he’s him. That I am too. That this trip is not one of condemnation, but rather a celebration of our lives going on after the Games.

The train itself is different now too. Where we once had the entire train to ourselves, save for a few Capitol attendants, it is now bustling with life. Where we once shared isolated dinners in an extravagantly decorated dining room, there was now a galley with an array of booths lining both sides of the train car. The windowed car where Peeta and I had once spent much of our travel time now a public lounge. Instead of cars full of empty rooms and unused storage, they now held sleeping quarters and – for shorter inter-district trips – rows of seats.

In fact, I might not have recognized it if it hadn’t been for the familiar way it dominated Twelve’s station, so large that only one carriage is able to fit at our tiny platform. There were suggestions to expand the platform, but they were abandoned when the district planning committee quickly realized that the construction crew’s talents were far more sorely needed for housing rather than transportation. So we were left with our pitiful, single carriage platform. I guess it doesn’t matter too much, since it works well enough for trade and transport — there’s so few of us left here anyways, and those of us that stayed don’t tend to leave very often.

Despite my protests, Peeta insists on carrying my small duffel, and I’m almost swept with a feeling of nostalgia as my feet automatically carry me to my old room. Almost.

Haymitch has been assigned the room next to Peeta’s, with Peeta’s next to mine and Johanna on my other side. She’s already there, leaning lazily against the door to her room and smirking as Peeta leads me into mine. I flash her a look of annoyance at the suggestive nature of her expression as I walk past her, but she just raises an eyebrow and turns her face away, grinning at my reaction.

“I’ve gotta admit,” Peeta says. He drops my bag on the foot of the bed before taking a seat next to it as I click the door shut behind us. “It’ll be nice to travel somewhere without somebody somewhere wanting me dead.” He looks up at me with those piercing blue eyes and smiles. “Or you, for that matter.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I say, approaching where he sits on the bed. I lean forward a bit from where I stand between his legs, resting my forearms against his shoulders and clasping my hands loosely behind his neck. “As much as I was ready to — and still would — die for you, I am so glad I didn’t have to.”

Peeta’s hands move instinctively to cup the back of my thighs, tugging me closer. “I’m so glad you didn’t have to either.”

I swat at him playfully, both of us knowing full well he never would’ve let me, nor I him, but my heart thunders in my chest as he moves one hand up to cup my face and closes the distance between us, pressing his lips softly against mine.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle. Tender. So different from the ravenous, lustful ones we’ve been sharing as of late. Something in my chest aches at the sensation, yearning for a time when this type of affection from him was fueled by feelings that encompassed more than attraction.

The train suddenly lurches forward and I fall against his chest, accidentally pushing him backwards into the mattress. 

Peeta huffs a lighthearted laugh. “You know, if you wanted to get me into bed, all you had to do was ask.” 

My cheeks flush. “Wasn’t my fault,” I mumble, as I climb up and plant a knee on either side of him, hovering my lips only millimeters above his. “Though I can’t say I’m complaining.” I watch as his gaze flits quickly down to my mouth and back up to my eyes. I’m scared, so scared of breaking whatever’s prompted this delicate closeness.

Whatever it is, though, I’m saved from worrying about it as someone starts banging their fist loudly and obnoxiously against the door, causing us to turn reluctantly away from each other.

“Come on, lovebirds,” Johanna yells through the door. “Put your pants back on and get out here.”

“I’ll have you know we are both fully clothed,” Peeta calls back.

“Eugh that’s somehow almost worse,” Jo snorts in disgust. “That means you’ll both be weird at dinner.”

“We’ll be right out!” I say. I brush my lips against Peeta’s one last time, but I know as soon as I sit up and shift back against his hips that he’s not going anywhere for at least a few minutes, judging by the prominent bulge in his trousers.

I scramble off and give him a minute to, uh, calm down a bit before I head over to answer the door, cracking it open just enough so that I’m in view, but Peeta’s fully shielded from Jo’s prying eyes.

“Yes?” I say, trying to sound as innocent as possible. 

Jo shoots me an irritated look and crosses her arms over her chest. “Really?”

“What?” I ask innocuously.

Peeta suddenly appears behind me. “I was just helping her unpack.”

She rolls her eyes. “You guys are fucking liars . It’s an overnight train ride. Overnight as in, you know, one night,” Jo says. “How much could you possibly have to unpack?”

“Enough to take a few minutes,” Peeta says before I have time to think of a feeble lie. “What’s that you were saying earlier about dinner?”

Jo nods her head in the direction of the bar car. “Well, first off, Haymitch has been busy familiarizing himself with the new bartender, so we gotta go round him up and I’m not sure I want to brave that alone.” She glances at us up and down judgmentally, taking in Peeta’s mussed hair and my wrinkled pants. “Though on second thought, that might’ve been better than witnessing whatever this is.”

“We’re just friends, Jo,” I grumble, striding for the bar carriage. I’m not sure why her teasing is getting to me so much — this is no different from how she always acts. Maybe part of it is my irritation at having been on the train for all of ten minutes and already having to go searching for my drunk mentor. Maybe part of it is just annoyance at the continued implication that there’s something more going on between Peeta and me, when in reality it’s purely physical. Right?

Well, there was that sudden gentle, casual intimacy out of nowhere . . .  but I guess that’s nothing out of the norm for us. No more meaningful than when he caught my hand and kissed it in the first arena while sky high on fever dreams, grateful for me saving him from the riverbank. Same for the day we spent on the roof before the Quell, when he — a seasoned baker with good knowledge of plaits and knots — spent the day playing with my hair under the guise of practicing his knots. Not necessarily romantic, just . . .  close. Not even we could deny that there was an unmistakable closeness between us.

Maybe I’m annoyed with myself too, for even thinking this way, and Johanna’s taunts just remind me further that it’s not my place anymore.

The sight I’m greeted with upon finding the bar car does nothing to help my sour mood, as a near-incoherent Haymitch chooses that exact moment to careen sideways off of his barstool, thumping unceremoniously onto the plush carpeting. Peeta rushes forward to help him up, revealing a very inebriated Haymitch with a whisky-stained shirtfront. That’s when the fumes hit — absolutely putrid and strong enough to intoxicate a small crowd.

“How much have you had, Haymitch?” Peeta asks, anger creeping into his voice.

Haymitch holds up two fingers, and the bartender rolls her eyes.

“More like ten,” she says as she polishes some sort of fancy fluted glasses. “This guy came in with two private hip flasks.” She nods at Haymitch. “I told him he couldn’t drink anything on the premises that hadn’t been purchased here, so he stood in the hallway and chugged both of them before anyone could stop him. He’s been sitting here trying to convince me to serve him ever since.”

Haymitch points a wobbly finger at her. “Looh ah mee . . . ” he slurs. “I’m fine.”

I can’t say his behavior surprises me, but it’s clearly upsetting Peeta.

“Really, Haymitch? You said you’d keep it together this trip. It’s not about you, it’s about Annie and Ronan.” Peeta’s voice starts to rise.

Haymitch suddenly turns that wobbly finger on Peeta, jabbing it into his chest, and surprisingly lucidly says, “This train means death, boy. I’ll shape up when we get to Four. For now I’m just trying to make it through the night.” He laughs darkly. “When you herd forty-six kids to their execution, then you can lay into me about how I cope with the memories this place brings up. Not before.”

All three of us young victors suddenly freeze in shock. He’s played the one card that none of us could ever get mad at him for using. Not while the wounds were still fresh. Not when it wasn’t so long ago that we were the ones he was meant to lose. Twice. Not while the man responsible for this trauma has been in his grave for less than a year. As much as I hated seeing him this way, I can’t deny that he deserves to anesthetize his way through our travels. 

Jo breaks the silence, clapping a hand on Haymitch’s shoulder. “Can’t say I blame ya. I’ve lost six, old man, I could use a glass of wine myself. But that also means I feel perfectly within my rights to tell you to — at the very least — get your ass to the galley and find something to soak all that liquor up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Haymitch slings an arm drunkenly around Johanna’s shoulder, struggling to stay upright. “You know, you’re not very nice,” he says slowly, sounding out every syllable. 

“No, but I’m right,” she says pointedly, taking hold of his arm and leading him into the hallway. “C’mon, you idiot, move your damn feet.”

Peeta and I linger for a moment in the bar carriage after they disappear down the corridor.

“He promised ,” Peeta says, leaning against the bar and clenching his hands into fists, his frustration evident.

I tentatively reach out to lay a hand on his arm. “He’s never been good at keeping his promises to us.”

“He has with me,” he mutters. “But apparently that’s only true when it already aligns with his own personal agenda.”

Right. I’d nearly forgotten that the two of them had schemed together on more than one occasion. Haymitch and I may have an unspoken understanding of each other that Peeta will never really understand, but Peeta’s were the only wishes he ever truly heeded, at least when they dovetailed with his plans to keep me alive.

 “He’s got his own nightmares to live with, he just has a worse way of coping with it,” I remind him.

He turns toward me, running a hand through his hair in obvious annoyance. “I know, Katniss, but that’s the problem. I can’t even be mad at him for it when it’s not his fault.” There’s a deeper sadness in Peeta’s eyes that tells me there’s something more to this than simply anger at a broken promise. 

But I can tell that now isn’t the time to ask him about it, as more passengers slowly begin to stream into the bar for an evening tipple. So instead I take his hand gently in mine and lead him to the galley, where Johanna is slowly coaxing small bites of some sort of pasta into our drunk mentor.

The food’s as delicious as always. A creamy parmesan sauce with linguini and tiny, crispy cubes of something that’s listed on the menu as pancetta, but just tastes like bacon. It’s hard to fully enjoy it though, as Jo continues to feed Haymitch as if he’s a child and Peeta keeps shooting irritated glances at the intoxicated man.

We decide to call it a night as soon as we’re done eating, as none of us particularly have the energy to put up with each others’ drama. With Peeta’s help, we heave Haymitch into his bed, tucking him in for the night. I have half a mind to roll him on his side and move the room’s trash bin to the side of his bed, but that’s where my goodwill for my mentor stops.

Peeta’s goodwill, however, seems to be in short supply, and he’s seething by the time we get back to my room. “I cannot believe he has the nerve to behave this way. So much for him being our chaperone.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him pace the room. “Peeta, it’s just how he always is.”

“But he knows he has a problem with it, and he still won't put it aside even for the kid,” he says, sounding oddly distressed. “I don’t want to lose him too.” Upon seeing the puzzled look on my face, he takes a deep breath. “My mother was a drunk. A mean one. My father never did anything to stop it.” I can feel my heart shattering with every word. “I know Haymitch would never hurt Ronan like she hurt us, or anyone for that matter, but Annie’s kid doesn’t deserve to be surrounded by whatever that was.”

I choose my next words carefully. “Was that why you were always walking around with bruises at school?” I ask softly.

He stops pacing for a moment. “You noticed?”

How could I not? “You’re not the only one who kept tabs all these years.”

He smiles sadly. “But it’s not just that. I actually care about the old bastard, and I don’t want to lose any more family to Snow.”

Ouch. That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind, that Haymitch would be one more casualty at the hands of Snow if he ever truly lost himself in his liquor. “Have you tried telling him any of this?”

“I told him what I wanted, but not totally why,” he says.

“Peeta, he loves you. I saw the way he reacted when we thought we’d lost you forever. If he knew you were worried about the liquor taking him in the same way, I’m sure he’d tone it down a bit. Just be open with him.” It’s ironic, really. Me giving advice on being open about feelings, when I was doing a damn good job of doing anything but that.

“When did you become the reasonable one in our group?” Peeta asks, sitting down on the bed beside me.

“Well, someone has to be,” I say matter-of-factly.

“What would I do without you, Everdeen?” he asks, leaning in close, smiling impishly.

My heart races. “Let’s hope we never find out, hmm?”

It’s then that we’re interrupted by a particularly thunderous sneeze from Johanna’s side of the wall, the sound loud and clear enough that it could’ve been in this very room

“These walls are rather thin, aren’t they?” Peeta says, leaning back with a laugh. “I never noticed that before.”

“Oh dear,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “If only we had an attached room with a way of drowning out any potential sounds.” I nod my head innocently in the direction of the open bathroom door, even as my intentions are anything but innocent.

Peeta grins wickedly. “Are you suggesting shower sex?”

“Maybe.” My cheeks flush. “Plus it’s only your room on the other side, so we’re less likely to have eavesdroppers.”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” he says. “I’m just not sure how we’d do it, logistically speaking.” I give him a confused look, and he gestures down at his prosthesis. “I never wear this thing when I shower, and it’s a little hard to stand without it, let alone do half the things I’d like to do with you.”

“You’ve never done this before?” I ask.

“Never,” he confirms. “You’re my first.”

“First shower sex?”

“First everything,” he says as if his answer is obvious. “I’ve never even kissed anyone else, unless you count Finnick.”

“You’ve never kissed anyone other than me?” I ask dubiously.

“No. I mean, I’ve had opportunities, but my affections were always, um, preoccupied elsewhere. Why do you think I got so jealous when you told me you’d kissed Gale?”

I blush. “I dunno. I just assumed. You seem so experienced.”

“Katniss, I had two older brothers with zero concept of boundaries or filters. And you’re not the only one Johanna hounds about us being together, she’s just a lot more explicit — and vaguely threatening — with me. Trust me, I’ve been talked through way more than I’d ever even want to do myself.” He rubs the back of his neck bashfully.

“I’m your first?” I repeat.

“How many times do you need to hear it?” He cups my face in both of his hands and stares intensely into my eyes. “You’re the only one I’ve ever been with. In any capacity.”

I should probably be embarrassed by the weight of my assumptions, but all I feel is relief. Maybe a bit of pride. 

I’ve been grateful for Peeta’s know-how and confidence through everything, but have been afraid to let myself consider exactly how he learned it all. The mere thought of him experiencing it with someone else turns my stomach. But if it was all just advice from his brothers and Jo . . .

“Well maybe this is just one of those things that we have to figure out together. I doubt any of them ever stopped to consider what it’s actually like for you to have to work around your leg.”

Peeta chuckles. “No, they didn’t. My brothers specifically assured me I’d be fine since I didn’t lose any of the parts that really mattered. Shows what they knew.”

“But you haven’t lost the important parts,” I say. I think of the shower layout, with its built-in bench lining two of the walls, replacing the old bathtub that once stood there. The bench wasn’t adapted for disabled victors, no — its Capitol designers would've never had such forethought — but rather vain, meant for ensuring the most convenient access for the acrobatics required to shave every inch of hair from the neck down. It had never really crossed my mind, but it made sense that Peeta would have to detach his prosthesis to shower. The bench was probably a blessing. For both of us now.

“Katniss, I —” Peeta starts to protest.

I pull him in the direction of the bathroom. “Just follow me.”

I undress quickly, though I make sure Peeta gets a flash of what I’m wearing underneath my clothes — another one of the lingerie sets from what was meant to be my bridal trove. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to try on some of the more risqué pieces, but, to Peeta’s delight, I’d been slowly incorporating more and more of the sheer scraps of fabric into my wardrobe.

Tonight’s is a strappy, dark red set of the softest lace, the sheerness of it instantly negating any coverage it might offer. I’d been saving it for tonight. We hadn’t had proper sex since that first time, confining ourselves strictly to variations that couldn’t result in a child until the day we were certain Peeta’s contraception had had enough time to take full effect. Which happened to be today.

The only issue with the elegant undergarments arises when I try to sort through the straps on the top half to find the ones that clasp together, ensnaring me in the thing. I approach the mirror, squirming to see the back, when I suddenly feel warm hands moving my own aside. 

I watch Peeta’s now-shirtless reflection in the mirror with bated breath as he expertly undoes the clasps on my bra and slides it off my arms, letting it fall to the floor. I watch in the mirror as he curls his arms around my waist and pulls me closer, hugging me from behind. He leans his mouth up against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine as he whispers, “You look absolutely stunning.” He shifts his attention then to my cheek, where he plants a light kiss, before withdrawing to work on the rest of his clothing.

He perches on the edge of the shower bench, the lower half of his body hanging out of the shower. I watch as he slowly draws up his pant leg above the knee on his left leg, awkwardly detaching the prosthesis and leaning it against the wall outside the shower door. He then slides off some sort of silicon socket covering what’s left of his leg, leaving that outside too, exposing his silver-scarred stump. Peeta looks up at me apologetically. “Doesn’t exactly set the mood, huh? I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, leaning against the vanity as I watch him. I'd been rather enjoying the view. “It’s just a scar.”

“It’s a missing limb, Katniss,” he says pessimistically. 

“Only half of one.”

He gives me a look that says he’s not amused by my positive spin on things.

“What do you want me to say? That I find you attractive?” I’m getting slightly irritated now. “All right, I think you’re ridiculously gorgeous and beautiful and attractive and it genuinely makes no difference to me whether or not you have the bottom half of your leg. I’m the reason you lost it anyways — how could I ever hold that against you?”

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

I roll my eyes. Of course that’s all he got from that, but I don’t offer an explanation for my words. “Just shut up and take off your clothes already,” I say, turning up my nose as I slip past him and turn on the faucet. I block him from the sudden rush of warm water, letting it rain over my body as he finally maneuvers himself out of his trousers and undershorts, tossing them outside and sliding the shower door shut behind us.

I pretend to suddenly be very interested in choosing a shampoo for myself, lingering just out of reach of Peeta, who resigns to crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re such a tease,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “And I have yet to hear of this genius idea you have to accommodate my lack of leg.”

“You’ll see,” I say chastely, selecting a sweet, lavender-scented soap, relishing the way his gaze seems utterly fixed on my chest as I raise my arms to lather it into my hair.

I tip my head back under the stream of hot water, rinsing out the soap as steam floods the air around me. I risk a glance at Peeta, only to find him leaning back against the wall, a devious smile on his face. His stance is just wide enough that he’s completely bared to me, the full length of him at attention, of which he’s made no attempt to conceal.

I smile to myself, pleased with his reaction. “Aren’t you gonna wash up?” I ask playfully.

“I would if someone wasn’t hogging the shower all to herself,” he says, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Though I can’t say I’m complaining.”

Before he can move to stop me, I quickly grab the shower head off its stand and give him a quick spray in the face. 

“Hey!” 

I hold the shower head against my chest, unable to contain my laughter as he scrunches up his nose, shaking the excess water off of his now-wet curls.

“You’re an absolute menace, you,” he says, huffing a laugh as a few strands of golden hair fall into his face, slowly shedding water droplets.

In my delight at the success of my attack, I’d accidentally moved into range of Peeta’s hands, which I’m alerted to as he suddenly grabs my waist and pulls me into his lap. The shower head clatters to the ground, its previously steady rain now weakened to a warm mist that showers over us from its new home on the floor. I let out a small gasp at the abrupt movement and wriggle to get out of his grip, but his hands hold me fast against his body. He snakes his arms around me, securing his hold on me with one arm encircling my chest and the other around my waist, his hand splayed dangerously low on my abdomen.

“And where,” he whispers into my ear, “do you think you’re going?”

I grind my hips back against him, where he's already hard against my backside, arching my back slightly as I tilt my head back and meet his eyes.

He lets out a shuddering breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” I say. If it was anything close to how he makes me feel, well . . .  may fate be kind.

In one sweeping motion, Peeta shifts his good leg between mine, spreading them apart and exposing me fully to him and his mercy. The hand that he’d been holding my chest with slides up to my jaw, forcing me to hold my gaze on his face, even as his other hand creeps lower still.

He shifts his concentration to tracing swirling patterns on my abdomen, across my thighs, brushing closer and closer with every swipe of his fingers, but never where I actually want them.

“Quit playing,” I hiss.

His fingers pause and his eyes flick back up to meet mine with wicked amusement. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you not like being teased?”

I scowl. “It’s not funny —”

“Actually, I find it to be very enjoyable,” he muses. “But if you insist . . . ” he says, plunging a finger into me and grinning at the slickness he finds awaiting him, causing me to gasp and arch into him again. “I’m not one to deny you.” A second finger quickly follows the first, and I groan loudly.

But they’re gone as quickly as they entered. No, not gone. He merely slides them up to a particularly sensitive spot, stroking it in a gentle, circular motion that makes me writhe against him. “Fuck,” I breathe. His other hand still holds my face, forcing me to look at him as I squirm under his touch, giving me an up close view of the sculpted planes of his face, the light spray of freckles across his perfect nose, those gorgeous honey-colored eyelashes lining ocean blue eyes, and smooth, soft pink lips. 

And it’s those lips I’m after as I reach my own arm up to bring his face to mine. Two can play at that game.

A look of surprise flashes in his eyes as I force his attention away from his work, but his hand stays busy as I press my lips to his. He deepens the kiss instantly, causing me to feel that familiar warmth in my chest, slightly different, but equally as tantalizing as the heat pooling in my core.

He increases the pressure under his fingers as we kiss, still swirling them ever so slowly, causing me to moan softly against his lips. I was already starting to get close, and he knew that.

He pulls back slightly and murmurs, “You are so fucking hot when I get you off.” He leans in again, but ignores my lips entirely this time, going instead for the side of my throat, eliciting a gasp from me at the sudden added sensitivity. I’m panting now, my chest heaving as he changes up the position of his fingers, once again pumping them inside of me, hooking them away from himself. “And so wet, honey,” he purrs.

“Oh, Peeta ,” I groan, sliding my hand down from his face to the back of his neck, eager to hold onto something — anything, really — to keep me grounded to reality as I start to see stars.

A curse slips out of my mouth as he moves his fingers back to the front — why can’t he just focus on one position? But one glance at the smirk on his face tells me he’s doing it on purpose, delaying my climax as long as possible.

His fingers glide against my skin, slick with the evidence of my own desire, the pressure ever building in my core. My breaths come quicker and more uneven with each one I take, my body quivering in pleasure.

Until I cry out in euphoria, bucking my hips as I shudder against his bare body, those fiendish fingers never ceasing until I’m panting, limp in his arms. Peeta loosens his grip on me just enough to allow me to lean my head back against his shoulder, but maintains a hold tight enough to keep me upright.

“Now what was it you had on your mind? ‘Cause as much as I’d love to bend you over right here, right now, I’m a bit limited as far as movement goes,” says Peeta.

I twist around in his arms, turning to face him. “Who said you had to do anything?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peeta at such a loss for words as I push him gently against the wall and climb onto the bench myself, fully straddling him. I grab his hands, placing them on my waist, but it’s not until I’ve lined him up at my entrance, teasing him a bit that he seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s in.

“Katniss, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, really,” he says, his voice is strained.

“Believe me,” I say, kissing him lightly and then pressing my forehead against his, “I want to.”

I brace one hand against his chest and the other against the wall behind his head as I lower myself onto him agonizingly slowly, letting myself adjust to every inch as I bury him inside me. I watch with delicious satisfaction as he grips my waist tightly and I sink down onto him fully; this time it’s his turn to shudder in ecstasy, though I can’t deny the pleasure it brings me too.

I clench the hand that rests on his scar-dappled chest, leaving scratch marks on his skin as I rhythmically rock my hips back and forth unhurriedly, slowly getting used to the full length and weight of him filling me up.

Peeta slides his hands down to grab my ass as I ride him, gradually quickening my pace. “Oh, fuck, baby, I don’t think I can last long like this,” he admits, his cheeks already blooming red, his breathing becoming more and more uneven with each stroke.

Wet curls stick to his forehead as his whining moans grow louder. I pause my rocking hips for a moment, leaning in to kiss him. “Y’know, if you're not careful, someone’s gonna hear us. There’s only so much noise the walls and running water can hide,” I say, but I can’t help but smile at the effect I have on him.

“Let them,” he says breathlessly. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Fair enough, I think as I resume riding him, letting out a few involuntary groans myself. I should probably care more about the possibility of being found out, but I can’t bring myself to think about anything other than the beautiful boy underneath me and how fucking good he feels inside me.

Peeta moves his hands back up to my waist, guiding my hips with a vise-like grip to move in time with his, causing me to gasp as he somehow plunges even deeper than I thought possible. Suddenly, his whole body tenses up and my name’s on his lips as he cries out in elation, holding my hips tightly against his as he finds his release.

He drops one of his hands, using it to push back the curls that have fallen in his face, while the other one stays resting lightly on my waist. He pants deeply, trying to catch his breath as he looks up at me, offering me an awe-filled grin.

I’m not sure why, but I instinctively lean forward, throwing my arms around his neck in a hug. He embraces me without hesitation, and I melt against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slows back to a resting rate. The circumstances are utterly absurd and I’m genuinely confused as to why I’m doing this, but it just feels right. Like the answer to a question I’d been searching for all my life.

I’m not sure how long we lay like this, but it’s only when I finally feel the water start to go cold that I lift my head from his chest, only to find him already staring at me.

“I —” he starts, before cutting himself off. “We should probably actually shower now.”

“Yeah, probably,” I say meekly.

Neither of us move.

“Thank you, by the way,” he says shyly. Since when did Peeta get shy?

“Whatever for?” I ask.

“I wasn’t totally sure I’d ever get to do that after our first Games. I know it might not seem like that big of a deal, but it’s just nice to still be able to be normal in some ways, y’know? Even if it’s slightly different than I imagined. Better, really.”

I brush my lips softly against his. “We’ll never be normal, Peeta. Not really. But I know what you mean, and I’m glad I could be a part of that for you. As long as you know that it was just as much for me as it was for you.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re incredible,” he sighs.

My heart flutters in my chest and I urge it to calm, but it does no good. So instead, I push off of him, finally withdrawing from his touch and snatching the abandoned shower head off the floor before I can say something stupid like how pretty his eyes are right now.

But I dug myself and my feelings into a hole the day I agreed to be friends with benefits with Peeta, and I’m only burying myself alive more every time we’re together. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Chapter Text

I’d never really understood when people talk about the glow of motherhood. Personally, I always thought mothers look a bit worse for the wear after the birth of their child. Unwashed hair. Sunken eyes from sleep deprivation. A lackluster version of their earlier selves as the exhaustion of taking care of another human seeps into their bones.

But Annie . . . Annie looks absolutely ethereal as we roll into the train station at District 4. She wears her chestnut hair swept over her shoulder, long enough to skim her waist. Her smooth, sunkissed skin is speckled with freckles. She wears an olive green frock that falls to her ankles, bringing out her eyes beautifully. And propped on her hip, an adorable little boy with sea green eyes and chubby cheeks.

Despite waking up particularly grumpy this morning, Haymitch has actually managed to stay true to his promise to Peeta to sober up for Ronan’s sake. That is, save for the daily glasses of wine he’s negotiated into having with his dinner to stave off the withdrawal, to which Peeta begrudgingly agreed.

He’s dug out a too-big pair of prima donna sunglasses that I didn’t even know he owned and now sits in the car with all the windows that Peeta and I used to frequent, staring dejectedly out the window while trying to look as miserable as he possibly can.

Meanwhile, Peeta has been standing near the closest exit door since the previous stop, both of our bags in hand, as he practically bounces up and down in excitement. I can’t blame him. Him and Annie understand each other in the same way Jo and I do (and Finnick used to), except where we’re cynical and mean, they’re caring and kind. It’s good for him to talk to her anyways. She’s the only one other than him who knows what it’s like to feel a bit out of her head, the only one of our friends who can remotely relate to what he went through.

As soon as the train doors slide open, Peeta practically leaps out in his haste, dropping our bags at Annie’s feet before wrapping her and Ronan in what is quite possibly the gentlest hug I’ve ever seen at that velocity. 

Both Annie and her son break out in laughter. Peeta sticks out a hand, letting Ronan curl his tiny fingers around one of his and pretending to shake his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir. Ronan, is it? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Ronan flashes a gummy grin, letting out a squealing laugh and wiggling his arms up and down like he wants to be held by the silly stranger in front of him.

“You wanna hold him?” Annie asks.

Peeta’s eyes go wide. “Can I?”

Annie nods, and after a brief demonstration on how to hold him, Peeta’s pacing around us in circles, gently rocking Ronan from side to side while chatting to him in hushed tones.

Then it’s Jo’s turn to greet her old friend, squeezing her tightly before taking a few steps back to look her up and down. “You look amazing, Annie, really. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she says, smiling over at the boys. “But it’s wonderful. I don’t know how I ever managed without him.”

“You know I hate to admit it, but he’s pretty damn cute,” Jo says. “I might just have to make an exception to my ‘hating all kids’ rule.”

“Wow, I’m honored,” says Annie, matching Johanna’s sarcasm. 

“She’s downplaying it, she’s been talking about coming to see him for days,” I tattle.

“Shut up!” Jo hisses.

Annie finally turns to me, but before I can say anything, she throws her arms around me, enveloping me in warmth, and I’m hit with the sweet scent of orange blossoms and sea breeze. “Thank you,” she whispers into my hair.

“Whatever for?” I ask.

She pulls back. “For bringing Finnick back to me. For keeping him sane until then. Even if it was just for a little while.”

My cheeks go red. “I didn’t do that. If anything he was the one keeping me sane.” Besides, I’m the one who got him killed in the first place. I did a hell of a lot more harm than good as far as their future together was concerned.

She grabs my hand, staring intensely into my eyes. “No, Katniss. You helped him to hang on just as much as he did you. I don’t think you get that, and I want you to know that I’m grateful. Without you, I’d never have that little guy.”  She finally breaks her gaze away, nodding her head over to where Peeta continues to cradle and coo at her admittedly adorable son. She pauses, taking a moment to watch the boys together. "He’s good with him," Annie says lightly.

She’s right, of course. He’s got Ronan nestled in the crook of his arm so as to support his neck, while playing with and letting the baby grab onto the fingers of his other hand. I can’t help but smile as I watch him interact with the boy. He really does have a natural affinity for kids, I think.

But the thought is coupled with a wave of guilt, knowing that I can never give him that life. I try to push it away, to remind myself that it’s not actually my problem. That I’m simply a placeholder of sorts until he finds someone who will.

It kind of works. But any guilt I manage to dissuade simply turns into a pit in my stomach.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Annie fixate her green stare on me in that intense way of hers as I watch Peeta with Ronan, but I can’t quite tell if she’s actually looking at me, or if she’s in her own little world again. I hope it’s the latter. I don’t meet her gaze to find out. 

It’s a short walk from the train station to Victors Village, where we find an older woman with the same cinnamon colored hair as Annie’s (only hers is lightly streaked with silver) sitting on a porch swing at Annie’s beachfront house, a young girl who can’t be more than fifteen at her side. There’s something familiar about the girl, I think as they stand to greet us, but I can’t quite place it.

The older woman greets us with a warm smile. “Well, hello there. You must be Peeta and Katniss,” she says. I stick out my hand to introduce myself, but she ignores it, pulling us each in for a crushing hug instead. “Johanna, honey, I remember you, of course.” 

Johanna begrudgingly lets herself be heartily embraced by the woman, giving her a weak pat on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again, Maeve.”

“You three must think I'm so rude! I’m Maeve, Annie’s mother,” she says, beaming warmly at us. She pulls the young girl forward. “And this here is Eilidh Odair.”

I have to remind myself to breathe as I register her tanned skin, bronze waves, and cyan eyes. Her cocky demeanor and slightly crooked smile. 

“Odair?” Peeta says.

“Yeah. I’m Finnick’s sister.” She turns to me, extending a hand to shake, which I gladly accept. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Katniss. It’s about time we met.”

I don't know what surprises me more — that Finnick had a sister, or that he never once mentioned her. Not even in passing. Maybe it was protection. Maybe it was shame. Maybe she was too sacred to touch with all the baggage he carried. But the thought of Eilidh out there all this time — younger, alone — makes something heavy settle in my chest. I didn’t just lose a friend in Finnick; she lost a brother.

“I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” I say. “Finnick never mentioned he had a sister.”

“He wouldn’t’ve. Not even to you. Annie and Johanna are the only other ones who knew I existed.”

“Let the poor kids settle in before you drop any more life-altering secrets, Eilidh,” says Maeve, putting a hand on my shoulder and lightly pushing me toward the door, where Annie waits for us. 

“Right, well it’ll be a bit tight with so many people, but we’ll make it work. Johanna, you’ve got my room upstairs and down the hall to the left. Haymitch, you’ve got the pullout couch in the attic.” The two victors take off with their bags as Annie lists off their names, trudging up the groaning staircase. “I’m sleeping in the nursery with Ronan, so that leaves the downstairs guest room for you two,” Annie says with a smile, clearly pleased with herself for assigning the rooms so well.

Peeta’s cheeks go pink. “Together?” he asks.

Annie pauses a moment. “Why wouldn’t you be? I thought —” 

“It’s fine, Annie,” Peeta says quickly. “We just weren’t expecting it, that’s all, but it’s no trouble — we are friends after all.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. But, Katniss, you’re welcome to sleep in my room with Jo if you’d rather,” Annie says to me, but her gaze is locked on Peeta's, whose eyes are wide with warning.

“Oh, no, it’s no worries, really,” I say. “I really don’t mind.”

“All right. Let me know if you change your mind.” Annie awkwardly shifts Ronan from one hip to another. “I’ve gotta put this guy down,” she says, flitting her stare between us, her tone some strange cross between suspicion, confusion, and knowing. “I’ll let you two get settled.”

“That was weird,” I say to Peeta after she disappears upstairs.

He chuckles awkwardly. “I’m not quite sure what that was either. Oh well. Shall we?” he asks, gesturing for the hallway that leads to the downstairs guest room.

The first thing I notice is that Annie’s house has the exact same layout as ours do. The second thing I notice is how starkly different they are in spite of their identical floorplans.

When my mother left and my sister died, the life slowly leached out of my house. Any personalization it used to have was purged, save for Prim’s room — which remains untouched — and a few things that Peeta had given me over the years — the locket and pearl, a couple of paintings. My mother took the photo of my father with her. The rest of her healing supplies she asked me to send. It was almost as if nobody had ever lived there, as if I’d never even existed while its Capitol design stood unchanged.

It’d regained the warmth and heart it once had when first Peeta came back, and then Johanna, but it still felt so . . . impersonal.

Peeta’s home was different. He breathed life into his house. Industrial commercial ovens and a massive workbench of butcher block for his kitchen island. Paintings that bring beauty and vibrancy into every room in the house. One of the unused bedrooms upstairs converted into an art studio. He’d even torn apart a couple old pillows and resewn them into a cat bed for Buttercup.

But if Peeta’s made mine look reserved, Annie’s made it look utterly dispassionate and cold. Intricately woven and bright colored tapestries cover every wall, concealing all but a whisper of the stuffy wallpaper underneath. Pictures of Ronan and Finnick and Annie and Maeve and Eilidh are littered throughout the house, in various mismatched frames. Tastefully placed driftwood sculptures distract from any hint of Capitol influence. But it isn't just the decor itself — it’s the actual design of the house. Something about it is so distinctly Four.

The guest bedroom turns out to be a corner room with two large windows above the bed and double glass doors that open out to a wraparound porch leading directly into the sand. The walls are light blue, the floors a warm, rich oak with a soft, woven, cream-colored rug. The bed frame is made from some sort of light rattan, a plush-looking duvet draped over it, complete with what appears to be a handknit teal blanket and homemade quilts.

The bathroom is even prettier somehow, with high ceilings and a mosaic floor of green and blue seaglass that matches the stained glass window above the bathtub. A half-wall of wavy glass bricks separates the bath from a rain shower in the corner with golden fixtures that glisten in the colorful fragments of refracted sunlight.

I go back into the bedroom, pushing open the double doors and walking out onto the porch. 

I’d only seen the real sea once in my life. Twice if you count the flashes of sailboats on whitecapped waves I saw when Finnick died. Either way, I’d never been in a frame of mind to actually appreciate the soft breeze coming off the water and sun on my skin. 

I sense Peeta’s presence behind me before I feel his hand on me, sweeping my hair to the side as his other arm snakes around my waist and he leans in to press his lips to the side of my neck. His breath tickles the shell of my ear, and I feel my cheeks heat as a shiver runs down my spine. He pulls away slightly and steps to the side, grinning broadly.

“You’re blushing,” he says.

“Am not,” I say defensively, though I can feel my cheeks grower redder by the minute.

Peeta chuckles. “You so are. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were getting a bit flustered.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, maybe you’re the one who doesn’t realize the effect you have on me.”

He smiles wryly, leaning in until our lips are just millimeters apart. “I think I’m starting to get an idea.”

But before he can kiss me, there’s a gentle knock at the door followed by Annie’s voice calling us to lunch.

“Mmm to be continued,” promises Peeta, giving me a soft, lingering kiss.

I push him away gently, “C’mon, we should go before someone starts wondering why we’re taking so long.”

“You say like they don’t already suspect.” Peeta gives me a sly grin.

Annie’s mom has made a selection of food that I’ve never seen before, including some sort of marinated meat called birria, orange rice, an herb that I don’t recognize that Maeve refers to as cilantro, some sort of cream sauce, a second sauce made up of tomatoes and peppers, and beans, but not in a way I’ve ever seen them prepared. Annie piles a little bit of everything high on some sort of wrap, squeezing some fresh lime juice on top before rolling it expertly and passing me a plate. 

I’m starving, and looking at the food, a bit disappointed at the serving size. The wrap takes up probably a third of the plate, and that’s being generous. Oh well, I can always go for seconds, I suppose. 

But I never do.

As a matter of fact, despite the fact that I take pride in having an above-average appetite for someone of my stature, I only get a little more than halfway through the wrap before I’m slumping back in my seat and taking deep breaths in an effort to brace myself to finish the meal. It’s absolutely delicious, and I’ve never had anything like it; the citrus of the lime combining with the heat from the tomato sauce, the savory orange rice complimenting the perfectly seasoned meat, the cream bringing a lovely richness to the flavor . . . forget the Capitol and their lamb stew, Four’s food is by far the best I’ve ever had.

It’s not long until everyone’s stuffed themselves to the point of not being able to eat another bite and we all sit back in our chairs, sighing heavily.

“So, what’s next on the agenda?” asks Jo, kicking her feet up on the empty chair opposite her.

“I wasn’t sure how tired you’d all be, but we could go for a walk into town if you’d like?” suggests Annie. “Maybe a swim after that?”

“A swim?” I blurt out.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of water now, Everdeen.” Jo gives me an odd look. “You had no problem swimming in the Quell. Matter of fact, I seem to remember you being the only one other than Finnick who actually enjoyed it.”

At the mention of the Quell and her husband, Annie shifts uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes going a bit unfocused.

It’s ironic, really, that Jo of all people would tease me about being scared of water, but I don’t bring it up. “I did—I do enjoy swimming. I’d love to, I just don’t have a swimsuit,” I say.

“So go in your underwear,” says Johanna. 

I think back to my suitcase, to the lingerie packed there for Peeta’s and my eyes only. “I’d really rather not.”

Jo stares at me suspiciously.

“It’s no worries, you can just buy one when we’re in town,” says Annie with a small smile. “There’s a nice little shop there; they’ve got some stuff I’m sure you’d look lovely in, Katniss.”

The walk to town is much shorter than I thought it would be. Where Twelve is nestled into the mountains surrounding the area, Four seems to be as desperate to be as close to the sea and as far away from the nearby mountains as they possibly can. Unlike Twelve, it’s not the town square that’s the center for life, but rather the harbor. All sorts of shops line the waterfront, from stores specializing in lures and lines, to a man with a foldout table selling a small array of wicked-looking fillet knives, all the way down to Annie’s swimsuit boutique at the end of the boardwalk.

It seems like an odd little place to have situated so closely to the man with the knives, but then again, maybe it’s just a Four thing.

We stop just outside the storefront, where Haymitch happily uses the clothes shopping as an excuse to ditch us to go find himself a nice bottle of white wine (something about it pairing particularly well with seafood). Although he assures us he’ll only get one bottle, Peeta insists on accompanying him anyways. 

So much for Haymitch being our chaperone.

Annie left Ronan with her mother at home, leaving just us girls to shop together, and leaving me feeling a bit awkward in the wake of the boys’ disappearance. Jo is my first close girl friend other than Madge, and we don’t do this kind of thing. Ever. Not that there’s much opportunity in Twelve to begin with, but it’s just never been a reality for me. Growing up the way I did didn’t leave much room for femininity in the typical sense. It’s not that I didn’t want it, I just never had the luxury to.

I eye the mannequins in the display window warily. As reluctant as I am to swim in my underwear, I’m beginning to think the fashion here might not allow for much more coverage than I already have.

“Well, go on then,” says Eilidh, giving me a small shove into the shop.

The shopkeeper is a short, curvy woman with dark skin the color of caramel, speckled all over with tiny sun spots. I initially assume that she’s somewhere around Annie’s age, but the deep laugh lines etched beside her eyes hint at decades of generous smiles and sun-drenched days.

“Mija!” she calls out upon seeing Annie.

“Marisol!” Annie steps forward, embracing the petite woman in a tight hug.

The woman, who I assume to be named Marisol, smiles widely. “Where’s the little one?”

“He’s at home with Mama while I show my friends around,” says Annie. “Mari, this is Jo and Katniss, and of course you already know Eilidh.”

Marisol hugs each of us in turn, taking me by surprise. I’m starting to think it must be customary to hug strangers in Four, what with all the sudden involuntary affection I’m being exposed to here. “Welcome, mijas.” She lingers a little longer with Eilidh. “And welcome back to you.”

Her warmth is disarming in a way — something about the way she says it, like it’s a blessing, not just a greeting. I can’t help but return her smile, even though part of me doesn’t quite know what to do with this kind of friendliness.

“Katniss here needs a swimsuit,” says Annie.

“Well then Katniss here is in the right place,” says Marisol. “You want help finding something in particular or d’you just wanna look on your own?”

“On my own is fine, thank you,” I say quickly. 

“No worries, just let me know if you need anything,” she says, giving me a friendly wink before propping herself up on a stool behind the counter and cracking open a book with an overly doctored photo of a kissing couple on the cover.

I approach a nearby rack of swimsuits that appears to offer the most practical of all the options in the store, running my hand down the smooth fabric. They’ve got a sleek, sporty look to them as opposed to some of the more impractical-looking ones with all sorts of frills and complicated ties.

“Nuh uh, this section isn’t for you.” Jo pushes me out of the way, urging me toward the aforementioned impractical suits, where Eilidh waits for me, a sly grin on her face. 

“Seeing as you’re not here to become a pro surfer, you don’t need a grandma suit; you want one of these,” says Eilidh, holding up two scraps of red that I assume are meant to be a swimsuit.

“I’m not sure that’s quite . . . me,” I say.

Eilidh waves off my doubt. “C’mon, Peeta will love it.”

My cheeks flush. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re such a little shit, Eilidh,” says Jo, barking a laugh. “Your brother would be proud.”

“No,” I say, emphasizing the word for both of them. “That is not the point.”

“Whatever you say,” says Johanna in singsongy disbelief.

“Well what about you, what are you wearing?” I ask her. 

“Sports bra and shorts,” she says, as if the answer’s obvious.

I shake my head. “No way, if I’m buying one, then you are too.”

“Fine,” she says with a mischievous grin. “You have something special in mind?”

I move down to another rack, flicking through our options. Marisol really did stock styles for all sorts of purpose and personal taste. “How ‘bout this one?” I ask, holding up a neon pink micro bikini with bows on it.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” says Jo, snatching it out of my hand and disappearing behind the changing curtain in the corner. 

I suddenly feel a light tap on my shoulder, and turn on my heel to find Annie standing behind me, holding a few more muted suits with a bit more fabric to them. “Thought you might want some slightly more modest options than what I’m guessing those two have picked out for you.”

Although all three of the suits Annie’s brought for me are also two-pieces (it’s for convenience, not showiness, she assures me), the bottoms are cheeky, but not thongs, the tops look like they’ll cover more than a third of my breasts, and the patterns are simple. Pretty. A sage green number with white floral details. A pale blue and white striped suit. A golden-orangey color with no pattern, but a subtle pastel yellow trim.

“Thank you, Annie,” I say softly.

She shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “I just want you to feel good in whatever you choose. Whether it’s something like these, or a few tiny triangles sewn together with straps.”

Jo bursts out from behind the curtain, turning and admiring her backside in a nearby mirror. “Hey, don’t go dissing the tiny triangles,” she says. “I look hot!”

Annie looks her up and down. “Well, this is a surprisingly modest look for you.”

The four of us burst out in laughter, and I’m struck by how fun this actually is, being girly. It’s not something I’ve ever really let myself enjoy before, not like this. But here, surrounded by bright colors and women who love me in their own odd little ways, I feel lighter. Warmer. It’s strange how easily I let myself laugh with them. How naturally it comes to me. 

There’s no one way girlhood is supposed to look, I decide, as I take in Jo’s unapologetic confidence and sharp tongue, Eilidh’s chaotic Odair charisma, Annie’s gentle steadiness. No, girlhood is loud and teasing, gentle and kind, strong and soft all at once. 

And for a moment, I feel a pang — for the girlhood I might’ve had with Prim, if we’d been given more time. If we’d been allowed this kind of softness together. But even in that ache, there’s something comforting here. Something healing. This — whatever it is — feels strangely like a home I didn’t know I’d missed.

We don’t linger in the shop long. To Eilidh and Johanna’s chagrin, I land unsurprisingly on the sage green swimsuit. To my absolute and utter surprise, Jo chooses the obnoxious pink one, bows and all, though I highly suspect it’s just to spite me.

As we step back out into the late afternoon sun, I spot Peeta rounding the corner with Haymitch trailing behind, a wine bottle swinging in a brown paper bag at his side. Peeta’s eyes scan the group before settling on me, and he greets me with a grin.

“He behave himself?” I ask, nodding at Haymitch.

“I was a perfect angel,” cuts in Haymitch grumpily. 

Peeta claps him on the shoulder. “That you were. I appreciate it.” He turns to me. “Did you find something you like?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” says Jo, strutting past us, Eilidh in tow.

Peeta looks at me, his eyebrows raised.

“You heard her,” I say smugly. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Will I?” 

Chapter Text

Back at the house, Peeta quickly shifts into a new pair of light blue swim shorts that he must’ve also picked up while we were out shopping. He takes a seat on the bench at the end of the bed, stretching his arms up above his head in a way that makes it nearly impossible to ignore the toned planes of his body. 

I turn away, deciding to change in the bathroom, giving him some stupid excuse about needing the mirror for braiding my hair back, but mostly just because I want a moment to collect myself. Even after choosing one of the suits with more coverage, it still feels incredibly revealing, despite the fact I’ve been around Peeta in a lot less.

It’s worse after I pull on the bottoms and immediately realize I need his help tying the top.

I open the door with a sigh. “I need a favor.”

Peeta turns. Sees me. Blinks. “Anything.”

“The ties on the top. I can’t reach.” I step into the bedroom, my hands awkwardly squishing the fabric up against my breasts to keep the top in place.

Peeta smirks as he gets to his feet, but to his credit, he doesn’t make a joke right away.  “Turn around,” he says softly, his voice almost too gentle.

I do as I’m told, still holding the cups in place, and his fingers brush lightly at the bare skin at the nape of my neck, between my shoulder blades.

“There,” he breathes.

“Done?” I ask.

“Done,” he says. “Though I’ve gotta say, I’d much rather be untying it.”

I feel a rush in my chest, a flush in my cheeks. “Maybe later.”

“‘Maybe?’” he echoes, like the word personally offends him. 

“Okay, later. Definitely later. Happy?” 

He smiles smugly, sitting back down on the bench and letting his hands run down my waist, my hips, the back of my thighs, sending a shiver through my body. “Never been happier,” he says. 

I snag a couple of beach towels from the bathroom and push open the door to the porch, the warm air and the scent of salt rushing in like a wave. Laughter carries from down the beach, a splash followed by Jo yelling something obscene.

“C’mon, they’ve already started without us,” I say.

“Let them.” Peeta grabs my hand and pulls me flush against him. “We can have our own fun,” he says lowly.

“Peeta, the door is open and there are children around.”

He sighs dramatically. “There are always children around here.”

“That’s what happens when your best friends have babies,” I point out. “Don’t pretend you don’t love the little guy.”

He mock-pouts. “ I guess we better go be the fun aunt and uncle then.”

“Race you to the water,” I say, flinging the towels at him before bolting toward the shore.

“Oh, that is so not fair!”

I break into a sprint when I hit the sand, past where Annie and a fast-asleep Haymitch are laid out in the sun, past Johanna and Ronan and a shoddy-looking sandcastle, before hurdling through the shallows and diving beneath a wave. 

I look back to shore, expecting to see Peeta right behind me, but he’s barely made it past the sand dunes and hasn’t so much as broken into a jog. Instead, he’s walking leisurely over to Annie and Haymitch, laying out our towels neatly in the sand.

I wade back to shore, jogging lightly back to them.

“You didn’t even try!” I accuse Peeta. 

He laughs, sitting back on his towel. “Why would I? I knew you’d beat me.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” I say in indignation.

“And how many more legs do you have than me?” he asks. I look away sheepishly. “That’s what I thought.”

Annie whacks him on the chest with the weathered paperback in her hand. “Leave her alone!”

“I just forgot,” I say as guilt starts to creep into my chest.

Peeta sees my evident discomfort and his eyes widen. “Katniss, I’m kidding. I don’t care.”

“I know,” I mumble. And I do. I know he doesn’t care. But I do. I forgot. And that feels . . . wrong. My mother used to say familiarity breeds contempt, but with Peeta, it’s the opposite — the closer I get, the more I see of him, and the more I want of him. I’ve learned the little things that make him him — the way he runs his fingers along the grain of wood of his workbench when he’s thinking, how he can’t go to bed without a cup of tea, the softness in his voice when he says my name. I’ve memorized the constellation of scars across his skin, the way his hands still shake sometimes when he’s tired and thinks no one’s watching.

I know him so well it feels like breathing.

And maybe that’s the problem. I’ve gotten to know him so closely, so carefully, that I’ve stopped seeing what’s right in front of me. Not because I don’t care, but because it’s all so familiar now, I forget to look twice. But I never want to overlook any part of him. Not because I need to see him as broken — but because I know what it cost him to be whole again.

Just as the silence starts to stretch out a little too long for comfort, Annie interjects, “You look beautiful, Katniss. I love that color on you.”

“Doesn’t she?” says Peeta, almost too quickly. 

Annie raises an eyebrow but lets it slide, offering me a soft smile. “You really do, Katniss. The shape suits you well, too.” She leans back on her elbows, looking over at Peeta pointedly. “Can you go check on Ronan and Jo?” she asks sweetly. “It looks like she might be shirking her babysitting duties and letting him shove sand in his mouth.”

“Yeah, of course!” says Peeta, glancing over to where Ronan is, indeed, eating sand, unbeknownst to Johanna, who’s down by the water collecting wet sand in a plastic, green pail. “I’ll be right back.”

I plop myself down on a towel, laying out in the sand beside Annie. We sit quietly for a moment, listening to the squawks of the seagulls and crash of the waves, to Ronan’s squealing laugh as Peeta scoops him up in his arms and to Haymitch’s incessant snoring from a few yards away.

“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” Annie finally says.

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

“You present yourself as this cold, unfeeling person. Let other people think that of you. But it’s not true, not by a longshot.” She adjusts the sunglasses on the bridge of her nose, setting her book aside. “You’re a warm person, Katniss. You don’t love widely, but you love deeply. Peeta especially.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Finnick,” I say jokingly.

“Am I?” she asks thoughtfully before falling silent again. “You know he loved you too.”

“Peeta?” I ask. Tell me something I don’t know — I don’t need it rubbed in now.

“No, Finnick.” Oh. “You reminded him of Eilidh. Of himself . . .” Annie trails off in that way she does.

I blink away tears, my throat growing tight. “He kept me alive.”

“And you gave him something to hold on to. He always said the Capitol broke people differently. You . . . you reminded him of something pure. I think Peeta sees the same thing.”

I almost laugh. “Believe me, I don’t feel pure.”

“You don’t have to,” she says gently. “You just have to keep being real. That’s why we love you.”

“I . . .” Dangerous. This was dangerous to admit to Peeta’s best friend, but everything about Annie makes me feel like I can trust her. It’s infuriating. “I can’t be real. Not in every way I’d like to be.” 

Her sea green eyes study my face. “Then just keep trying. You’d be surprised how far that’ll get you.”

We fall back into our comfortable silence, and I can’t help glancing over at my newfound friend. She really is gorgeous, but in a quiet way. A way that creeps up on you, I think. 

I’m mesmerized by the scars on her body. Not fire mutt scars like Peeta and I, but silver-and-pink waves along her abdomen, her breasts, dappled across her skin like the sun shining through a water current. Marks from bringing life into the world.

Annie catches me staring and smiles. “Now we match,” she says, rubbing a hand over her still slightly pudgy belly. 

I feel my cheeks heat. “Mine aren’t so pretty,” I say.

“Nonsense,” Annie says, waving away my embarrassment. “Any scars we get from loving someone are beautiful. Wouldn’t you feel worse if you didn’t have them? If you hadn’t run after your sister?”

I want to scrunch up into a ball, to cover my body in some way. To hide away. I don’t know how to respond to her. Because yes — I would feel worse. I already do. Every scar I have is a reminder of what I was willing to fight for, and what I couldn’t save. But if I hadn’t even tried? I don’t think I could live with myself.

My dreary train of thought is interrupted by Peeta carrying Ronan back over, holding him away from his body and making zooming sounds as if the baby is flying to his mother. 

Annie grins widely as Peeta passes her giggling son to her outstretched arms. “Hey, baby! You having fun with all your aunties and uncle around?”

Ronan just shrieks, bouncing himself up and down in her arms as if in response to her question. Peeta and Annie laugh, and even I can’t help but smile. Annie was right to send Peeta to retrieve him from his Auntie Jo — he has a ring of sand around his mouth from where he’d been sampling Johanna’s crooked sandcastle. His bronze curls flutter in the breeze, reflecting coppery light where the sun hits it just right, and for a moment, he looks so much like his father that I can’t bear it.

I feel a pang in my heart, and suddenly feel the need to get away, to escape back to the sea. “I’m going back in the water,” I say to nobody in particular, not waiting for a response before marching back down to the shore.

The sea here is different from the still lakes of Twelve. Different from the sea in the arena, even. The water here is alive, pushing and pulling in an foreign, ancient dance.

I hadn’t gone deep enough with my first plunge to encounter any waves much higher than my knees, but this time I’m determined to go deep enough to actually swim. Problem is, I’ve never encountered waves like these, and though I’m able to easily step over the waves in the shallows, I start struggling when I get to be about waist deep. I’m not used to the rhythm of the sets, the sudden drops underfoot, and when a larger wave rises before I’m ready, I’m slammed into the water. Salt burns in my throat and nose as I’m tossed back toward the shore like a ragdoll before coming up sputtering and coughing.

But still I go back. Even if it takes me a few more near-drownings to understand that the only way to really evade the waves is to dive beneath them.

Eventually I reach what I think is beyond the break, out where I can no longer touch the bottom, and I let myself float gently with the ebb and flow of the current. I close my eyes, letting the water cocoon around me with its soothing movements. Here, I am weightless. Light.

I’m not sure what alerts me to it, but after a few minutes of floating like this, I suddenly feel eyes on me, and I turn upright to find Peeta standing a short distance away, watching me with that soft, half-smiling look he wears when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

“What are you looking at?” I say defensively.

“Just you,” he says. He ducks under a wave, resurfacing a few feet away from me before shaking his head and showering me with water droplets.

I scrunch my nose and turn away, shielding myself from him. “What about me?”

“You just seem relaxed. Happy.” He flicks some water at me. “It’s nice.”

“I’m a very relaxed person, I’ll have you know,” I say, splashing him back playfully.

“Maybe when I’m through with you, sure,” he says with a sly grin. “But not normally, you’re not.”

I feel my cheeks go red, and I dip beneath the surface in an attempt to play it off. “You’re insufferable,” I mumble as I wipe water from my eyes.

“Katniss,” Peeta says, a note of warning in his voice.

“What? You are.” 

Suddenly, I’m being tackled into the water with Peeta’s arm wrapped tightly around my waist. He holds us underwater for a few seconds as the tug of a wave rolls over our heads before pushing us back up to the surface. My sinuses burn and I’m coughing up salt water when we resurface, but otherwise unscathed by the set waves. 

“You okay?” he asks me, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Fine, yeah,” I say with a light laugh. I realize I’m still pressed against his chest and let the current drift us gently apart. But still he holds on, his fingers splayed across my ribs, and suddenly it’s not as funny anymore. There’s something about the way his touch lingers that feels like we’re playing with fire. “Peeta, I —”

“Have you two forgotten there are children present?” calls Johanna loudly from the shore.

Peeta rolls his eyes, releasing me from his grasp. “It’s all anyone will remind me of, apparently,” he mutters as he starts to wade back to shore, me swimming alongside him.

“Please, you’re the one who’s taken to fondling me in public,” I say teasingly.

“Fondling?” he says in bewilderment, but there's a spark of humor behind his eyes. “I think you mean ‘saving your life.’”

I reach the point where I can touch the ocean floor and continue walking beside him. “Saving me from a wave, maybe, but not saving my life. You know I’m a strong swimmer,” I say. “Matter of fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were just looking for an excuse to feel me up, Mellark.”

“And if I was?” he asks as we wade through the shallows together.

I step around a particularly large patch of seaweed, lowering my voice as we start to come within earshot of the rest of the group. “I’d say you didn’t need an excuse. I’m all yours.”

Peeta’s steps slow for a moment, and I stare back at him. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Katniss. It’s not fair to either of us.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Eilidh chooses that precise moment to run up to us with a giant eucalyptus leaf-shaped board tucked under her arm with a long cord running from the board to her ankle.

“How was the water, land-dwellers?” she asks cheerfully. “Katniss, it looked like you got pounded pretty hard out there.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?”

“You wiped out a bunch of times,” Eilidh says, as if her meaning was obvious.

Peeta coughs in an attempt to conceal his laughter. 

“Oh, yeah, I guess I did,” I say uncomfortably. “It was nice other than that, though.”

“Why, what did you think I meant?” she asks, cocking her head a little too innocently.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Was just confused by what you meant by it, that’s all.”

Eilidh giggles. “Whatever you say,” she says, passing by us to jog the rest of the way up to the sand dunes.

I turn to see Peeta still chuckling to himself. “I don’t wanna hear it,” I tell him.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, flashing me an angelic grin as we finally reach our friends. 

I hadn’t realized how long we were in the water until now, when I look up to see the sky quickly turning molten. 

We head back to the house for showers and dinner, and even though I’m fully capable of this part on my own, I stay true to my promise to allow Peeta to untangle me from the ties of my swimsuit.

But to my surprise — and minor disappointment — he manages to behave himself. No lingering, loaded touches. No suggestive comments. He simply makes quick work of the ties before disappearing back out the bathroom door and leaving me alone to shower and pull on a pretty yellow sundress.

If he had done this a couple weeks ago, I wouldn’t have questioned it. But now? It’s not like him.

Dinner with our friends — our family — is relaxed and cozy. A soft ending to a long, sun-drenched day. Haymitch enthusiastically shows off his singular glass of wine. Nobody escapes Johanna’s biting comments, and Eilidh snorts loudly at every insult that comes out of her mouth. 

As we wrap up, Annie scoops up a sleepy Ronan. “All right, it’s time for this guy to have his dinner too, and then bedtime for both of us.” 

Peeta stands with her, lifting Ronan out of his high chair. “Good night, little man.” He holds the baby out for me. “Say ‘goodnight’ to your Auntie Katniss too.”

I lean in to give Ronan a little bedtime hug, but am instead attacked with a slobbery smooch to the cheek and an uncoordinated smack to the shoulder. There’s a chorus of “awwww,” and Annie gives me a warm smile. 

I brush my fingers gently through the little tufts of curls on his head. “Goodnight, sweet boy.”

Ronan yawns widely, his eyelids fluttering closed against Peeta’s shoulder, and I feel it again — that quiet tug in my chest I still don’t have a name for. Peeta chuckles before passing him off to Annie, who holds his tiny fist up to wave a quick goodnight to everyone else before finally disappearing upstairs, Maeve trailing behind her to help settle the baby in for the night.

Haymitch is the next to go, stretching with a groan and muttering something about his back and being banished to the damn attic before disappearing into his room without much else to say. Eilidh doesn’t last long after that — one final, dramatic yawn before she mumbles a goodnight and climbs the stairs, her long curls swinging behind her.

Jo stretches her arms in front of her, yawning loudly. “Well, that’s my cue to leave. It’s my vacation too, and I am not going to third wheel any more than I have to.” She walks over to the stairs, pausing at the bottom. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, lovebirds.” She takes a few steps before stopping again, peeking at us through the banister. “Actually scratch that — just try not to wake the whole house by being such great friends.”

“Jo!” I protest, but she just grins gleefully and scurries off upstairs.

When she’s disappeared down the upstairs hallway, Peeta turns to me. “I think she’s onto us.”

“You think?” I say sarcastically, slumping back in my chair and covering my face with my hands. All this pretending is getting tiring, especially when it seems like we aren’t fooling anyone either. Problem is, I’d have no idea how to explain it to anyone else, seeing as I don’t even think I fully understand what we are. 

I try to imagine what I’d say to Finnick if he were alive. 

Yeah, so Peeta and I are together in the way that we bedshare and fuck on the regular, but we’re still just friends, even though I definitely have more-than-friends feelings for him, and sometimes I think he might have more-than-friends feelings for me too, but I don’t want to pressure him into something more if I’m not sure that’s want he wants because Snow fucked us both up so badly.

Okay so maybe it’s not hard to put into words, but it’s certainly difficult to navigate, and I don’t want to complicate it more by putting a label on it, or worse — telling Johanna.

Suddenly the big house starts to feel claustrophobic, like I can’t draw in a full breath, especially not with the way Peeta’s looking at me.

“I think I need to get out of here for a bit,” I say. 

“Want company?” he asks. 

Part of me wants to say no. It would certainly be easier if I could. But nothing between us is easy, so why would I pretend now? “Yeah,” I say softly. “That’d be nice.”

We leave through the back door to our room, grabbing some quilts from the foot of the bed to bring with us. We walk back down to the dunes where we’d been earlier today, laying out one blanket over the sand and pulling the other one around our shoulders as we stare out at the open water, with only the stars and the moon for company.

I rest my head against Peeta’s chest and he snakes an arm around my shoulders. It’s weird sitting like this with him again. The last time we sat on a beach under the night sky was in the arena, both desperate to save each other, desperate to say goodbye in body and soul. Believing that that night would be our last. But here we are, nearly a year later, and though we didn’t make it out unscathed, we made it out together, which is more than most people could hope for. More than we had hoped for.

Back then, it was survival. We hadn’t said anything out loud — no declarations, no promises — but everything was charged. Honest. Raw. We weren’t planning on anything happening, not really. But the closeness, the need, the way he looked at me like I was his entire world . . . it was leading somewhere. We both knew it. If Finnick hadn’t shown up, maybe —

My stomach twists.

We never talked about it afterward. Just like we never talk about a lot of things.

But this time, we’re not in an arena. No cameras. No end looming in the morning. Just . . . us.

Peeta shifts beside, as if he’s gathering himself to say something. “Did you mean it?”

I give him a puzzled look.

He stares directly out at the silvery reflection of the stars over the water, as if trying to evade eye contact. “What you said earlier — that you’re all mine.”

Now it’s my turn to evade his gaze. Apparently I wouldn’t be able to escape the charged emotions from the last beach after all. “I didn’t not mean it.”

He shakes his head. “I just don’t understand what you want sometimes.”

“I want you,” I say. 

He meets my gaze. “Yes, but how much of me? Sex and friendship? Is that all I am to you?”

“You have never been just anything to me,” I say. 

He sighs. “Katniss, I —”

I cut him off the same way I did on that last beach: by leaning in and pressing my mouth to his — soft, slow, steady.

But this isn’t the beach from the arena, and we’re not the same people we were back then. So when I kiss him, he doesn’t so much as try to protest. He just kisses me back. Hard.

I plant my palm on the center of his chest, pushing him back into the sand as I straddle his hips, pulling the spare quilt over us as I climb on top of him.

“The others,” he breathes.

“Are fast asleep,” I say, glancing over the dunes at the darkened beach house. While I’m at it, I do a quick scan of the shoreline to double check what I already know — that we are entirely alone on this beach. 

I return my lips to his, kissing him roughly, heatedly. The way I’ve been wanting to all day. For all the teasing we’d indulged in all day long, there’d been far too little release in the midst of it all, and it’s all built up to now.

I trail my hand down from his chest to the button of his trousers. I need him. Oh my days, it’s almost embarrassing how much I need him.

But then I feel his fingers around my wrist, his lips pulling away from mine. I whine in protest, but he just gives me an incredulous look.

“Did you really think I was gonna fuck you with zero foreplay? Who do you think I am?” he asks.

My cheeks heat, but I’m not sure if it’s from his words, or the desire coursing through my veins. “Please, Peeta. I need you,” I whisper.

“Not a chance,” he says. “Not until I taste you.”

My stomach does a somersault. “We don’t have time — what if they wake up?”

“Well, just don’t wake them up and it won’t be a problem,” he says, his hands already bunching up my skirt to grip my waist. But instead of flipping me over to my back, he just shimmies beneath me, pausing when only his nose and eyes are still visible. He slides a finger along the flimsy lace of the waistband to my panties, the only barrier left between us. “How attached are we to these?” he asks.

“Not very.”

“And you’ve got more back at the house?”

“Lots.”

“Good,” he says, meeting my eyes as he grabs them with both hands and tears them off my body with a low Rrrrriiiiippppp!

“Peeta!” I try to chastise him, but really I couldn’t care less. No, scratch that. I care a lot . Just not about the panties. Especially when he’s already lowering his mouth between my legs like a man starved.

The first stroke of his tongue has me writhing against him, and he’s forced to wrap his arms around each of my thighs to hold me stable, spreading me to him further as he holds me tightly against him. 

I brace a hand on the quilt behind his head, desperate for something to hold onto as I hover somewhere between pure bliss and white hot inferno.

Peeta pulls away for a moment. “Stop hovering,” he commands. “Just relax with your full weight.”

“But you won’t be able to breathe,” I say.

He shakes his head slightly. “I do not care.”

He pulls me back toward him, and this time I allow myself to settle my full weight against him, gasping as he puts his mouth to me a second time, drawing me back in with slow, infernal strokes.

I tangle my fingers lightly in his curls, tossing my head back in pleasure as I bite my lip to keep from crying out, from screaming to the world how good he feels against me.

The stars blur above me. The waves crash somewhere far away. All I know is his mouth, the press of his arms holding me steady while everything else slips out from under me. I feel myself unraveling, my thighs trembling against the firm grip of his arms, my breath stuttering with every flick of his tongue. 

The pleasure rises fast and sharp, stealing my breath. It shouldn’t be this easy, this fast. But his name is on my lips, a shuddering gasp into the night, and I’m forced to clap a hand over my mouth in an effort to keep our secret rendezvous a, well, secret.

Peeta finally withdraws, planting a light kiss on the inside of my thigh as he pushes himself out from under me and props himself up on his elbows. “You have no idea what it does to me to see you fall apart like this,” he says, his eyes ravaging me up and down.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say, inching back to straddle his hips with my own.

“Oh?” he says.

I sit back, grinding against the full length of him, rock hard beneath me. “I think I have some idea.”

He barks a low, sultry laugh. “You’re an absolute menace, Everdeen.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” I say. I give him a deep, lingering kiss as I unfasten his trousers, sliding them down to mid-thigh, taking his boxers with them, the full length of him springing free from the fabric.

I trace my fingertips up the side of the smooth skin of his cock, causing it to twitch as Peeta inhales sharply through gritted teeth at my touch. I smile smugly, a small part of me high on the fact that I have such an effect on him, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. We could play later — I need him now .

I place a hand on his chest to stabilize myself as I push my hips up and lower myself slowly onto him, gasping as I take every delicious inch of him inside me. Peeta braces his hands on my waist, gripping my skin hard enough to bruise, but I don’t feel it — I’m not conscious of any feeling other than the ecstasy of him filling me up.

I rock my hips back and forth slowly, savoring the stretch and heat of him as I adjust to the sheer size. Desire and pleasure burn through my body, coupled with the rush of where we are, what we’re doing. My hands splay across his chest as I try to keep the pace slow, controlled, but every rolling buck of my hips sends another jolt of electricity up my spine. 

Peeta groans softly beneath me, and I clap a hand over his mouth, never ceasing my movements as I glance up at the beach house. Still dark.

Good.

“Can’t you at least try to behave?” I ask breathlessly, returning my hand to his chest as I continue to ride him.

“Like this? Not a chance,” he says, his voice noticeably strained. “ Fuck , Katniss, you’re so tight.”

Hearing him whisper my name like a prayer as the heat coiling low in my core grows sharper, tighter with the grinding of my hips. I’m close. So close.

Peeta feels it too. He shifts his hips upward against mine, driving himself deeper, harder with each stroke, and it’s not long before release finds me for a second time. 

“Fuck!” I cry out, my words muffled against his lips as my entire body shudders in pleasure. The rock of my hips slows to an uneven, disconnected rhythm as I tighten around him, trying to ride through my climax.

It’s this that tips Peeta over the edge too. He moans loudly, his fingers digging into my hips as he thrusts inside me one last time, unable to hold back any longer.

“Katniss — fuck —” he gasps, and I feel him release inside me, hips bucking wildly beneath mine, no longer careful, no longer quiet.

The moonlight catches on the edge of his open shirt, casting soft light across the slope of his collarbone, the flushed skin just beneath. His hands rest loosely at my hips now, his breathing still uneven, chest rising against mine in an attempt to recover in the quiet afterglow. It’s stupid, probably, the way just looking at him makes something tighten in my chest.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to his. Gently this time. No heat behind it, just . . . something bigger I can’t quite put a name to. 

But I don’t want to think about what it means. Not here. Not now.

So I let the ocean fill the silence. Let the stars hang heavy above us. Let myself breathe him in for just a little while longer before the world starts asking questions again.

Chapter Text

I barely see Peeta the entire day.

But then again, I’d planned it that way.

The events of last night had left me feeling rather skittish. Not the sex itself, just . . . everything we said before it. Maybe the feelings that came after too.

I’d been reckless yesterday. Careless and stupid. I’d very nearly revealed my feelings not just to Annie, but to Peeta himself. Multiple times. Maybe it was something in the salty sea air, or maybe it was just the culmination of years of uncertainty, but something was shifting between us that was making it harder and harder to keep my feelings a secret.

So I woke up early. Tiptoed out to the porch at sunrise to find Annie cradling Ronan in her lap while watching Eilidh surf from afar. Asked if there was anything I could do to help her prepare for the ceremony. And made myself as busy as possible for the rest of the day. 

There isn’t much we can do to prepare the actual site of the naming-ceremony, as it apparently takes place in a rocky tide pool area that’s only accessible during low tide, but the small celebration following the ceremony would be at Annie’s house, and there was no shortage of small details to attend to. I take on the tedious job of sweeping up the loose granules of sand that seemed to track their way back into the house no matter how many times I brush over the wooden floors, setting up mint green streamers over every doorway, window, and archway, and generally doing a very good job of ensuring that wherever Peeta is, I am not.

I catch him staring at me across the room a few times from where he’s been recruited by Jo to make a hand painted banner, but I pretend not to notice. For both of our sakes.

But the tide rolls out further with each passing minute, the sun dipping lower in the sky. It’s nearly sunset, nearly the start of the ceremony, and I can’t avoid him anymore. 

Not for a lack of trying, but because my dress has multiple ties on the back, and I can’t fasten them myself. 

It’s irritating — as independent as I am in every other aspect of my life, fastening myself into feminine clothing was the one thing I’d never really figured out. Mostly because I’ve never had to; I’ve always had Prim or my mother. Then Cinna and my prep team, and now Peeta. Or Johanna. But I prefer Peeta. 

I think I always will.

Besides, I’ve never been one to wear dresses. They’re wildly impractical for someone who’s spent so much of their life just struggling to survive. Long, flowy skirts aren’t exactly ideal for sliding under barbed wire fences to climb trees and hunt in the woods.

But for walking on the beach and basking in the sun . . . they were growing on me. Not to mention the feeling it gives me to see the way wearing them makes Peeta look at me. 

I find Peeta already in our room, fastening the buttons on his shirt when I walk in. “I’ve been looking for you,” I say, slowly walking over and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Have you?” he asks, turning to face me as he secures the last few buttons. 

I nod, crossing to the closet where a pretty blue frock hangs on its own. “Assuming your tying services don’t end at swimsuits.”

“For you? Never,” says Peeta, a teasing smile playing on his lips. 

I slip off my clothes from the day, pulling on the dress in their place, and brush my hair to the side, baring my exposed back to him. 

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you today,” says Peeta quietly, his fingers making quick work of the ties.

“I was just so busy helping Annie, you know,” I say lightly.

“I know.” He finishes tying the last knot before grabbing my hand to spin me around. “At least I get to see you now.”

“And what do you think?” I ask, smoothing out my skirt.

“You look lovely,” he says softly. “Truly.”

My cheeks heat. “Oh, please,” I say.

“I’m serious,” he says, bringing my hand to his mouth and pressing his lips to it. “I’ll have the prettiest girl at the party by far.”

I swat at him playfully. “Better not let the others hear you say that. Not sure Jo’s ego would ever recover.” I glance out the window at the water, at the sun that’s drawing ever closer to the horizon. “We should probably go,” I say.

“Probably,” he echoes. But we hold on to each other a moment longer.

Finally, I tug his hand toward the porch door, pulling him out into the fading sunlight. The sky isn’t quite Peeta’s orange yet. More of a sunflower yellow, bathing everything in warm, golden light.

I try not to stare at the way it illuminates Peeta’s face so beautifully, the way the sun glints off his honey-colored hair. Especially not as the others begin to file out of the house one-by-one.

Jo and Eilidh join us first, followed by Maeve, Haymitch, and finally Annie, with Ronan perched on her hip. We’re a small sea of green and blue as we make our way down the coastline, dressed in the colors of the coast, as is District 4 tradition. 

We finally arrive at a rocky outcropping, where Maeve simply ducks underneath a half-formed arch of weathered rock, leading us into a narrow cove filled with tidal pools, a short strip of sandy beach lining the largest of them. It’s here that we find a small group of people dressed in similar colors to us already gathered, sitting out on the sand. 

The gray-and-white jagged rock is black and slippery where the tide has only recently receded, leaving it damp and slick with algae. Even though we’re barefoot, I briefly worry about Peeta losing his footing on the uneven ground with his prosthesis. 

But it’s this very worry that makes me a little too careless about my own path and causes me to slip on a stray patch of seaweed, banging my knee on the rock and sending me sliding directly into a patch of barnacles that scrape up the side of my calf.

“Fffffffuuuu —” I grit my teeth, hissing the rest of the word. I know Ronan can’t understand a word I’m saying, but it still doesn’t feel quite right cursing in front of the baby either.

Annie whips her head around at the commotion, only to be met with the sight of me bleeding on the ground. “Oh, Katniss!”

“Great job, sweetheart,” murmurs Haymitch sarcastically. “Way to make things about you.”

“C’mon, you.” Peeta scoops me up from where I’ve fallen and carries me the last few feet to the sand, setting me down gently. I don’t need to look down at my leg to know it’s bleeding.

“Soak your legs in the water, dear,” says Maeve. “It’ll sting, but it’ll help.”

I follow her instructions, scooting to the edge of a smaller tide pool, off to the side of the main pool, and sticking my legs in up to my knees. Sure enough, searing pain stings the cuts, but soon gives way to cool, soothing comfort. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” asks Annie anxiously.

“I swear I’m fine,” I wave her away. “Don’t you worry about me. Hurt my pride more than anything.”

“I’ll look after her, Annie,” says Peeta, settling in the sand next to me. “She’ll be all right.”

“If you say so,” Annie says skeptically. Her eyes linger on me a moment longer before she turns to greet her other guests. 

It’s not a large gathering by any means, but it’s clear Ronan has no shortage of loved ones to fawn over him as she shows him off to the small crowd.

In the commotion, Peeta's hand finds my lower back, rubbing it comfortingly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I lean into his touch. “I will be. But it doesn’t matter — today’s about Ronan.”

“Of course it matters,” he says. 

I turn to meet his eyes. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m fine. You can go sit with everyone else if you’d rather.”

He smiles, brushing a loose bit of seaweed off my leg. “Oh, you’re not getting rid of me so easily, Everdeen. I’m good right here.”

It’s then that Maeve calls for our attention to start the ceremony. The auburn areas of her silver-streaked hair glisten an almost red color in the sun, and with her arms open in welcome, framing the ocean view behind her, she looks as if she could be some sort of sea goddess from an ancient myth. 

“Much like the tides, our lives ebb and flow with the days. Although his father’s time with us has ebbed, his son’s is only starting. Today, we gather to honor that beginning — to speak Ronan’s name into the world, to mark his place in it, and to surround him with the people who will help carry him forward,” she starts. 

Annie hands Ronan off to her mother, accepting Eilidh’s hand for stability as she lowers herself into the largest tide pool, her pale green dress floating out around her like a cloud. Maeve passes the chubby infant back to her daughter, who cradles him in her arms, just above the surface of the water.

“We name you Ronan, son of Finnick and Andromeda Odair, child of the sea. Mac na mara. ”

At this, Annie dips him into the sun-warmed pool, eliciting a squealing giggle from the baby as he wriggles around excitedly, slapping his tiny hands against the water and splashing Annie in the face.

Annie laughs lightly and the guests follow in suit. Even Haymitch cracks a smile at the sweet moment.

“I think he likes the water,” says Annie, staring at her son in blatant adoration. She lingers with him in the pool a moment longer before passing him back to Maeve, who waits for him with her arms outstretched. Ronan’s mamaw embraces the boy warmly, immediately wrapping him in a soft-looking, handwoven blanket of some sort.

Eilidh helps Annie back out of the pool, offering her a blanket of her own as Maeve continues, cradling Ronan in one arm while gesturing at the red and orange streaked horizon with the other. “Where the setting sun meets the sea, I speak your name into the wind and water, Ronan. Welcome to the world, my sweet grandson. May the tides guide you, the winds protect you, and the sea always bring you home.”

All around us, the District 4 natives repeat the final blessing in one unified chorus: “May the tides guide you, the winds protect you, and the sea always bring you home.”

Maeve finally hands Ronan back to Annie, who sports a massive grin on her face. 

“Thank you to everyone for coming, and a special thank you to my dear friends who traveled all the way across the country to be here today,” says Annie, beaming over at us. “It means the world to me, and it would to Finnick too if he were here.” She reaches her hand out to Eilidh’s, giving it a squeeze. “Anyways, as you all know, we’re having a small party back at our house for anyone who wants to come celebrate this little guy, and you’re all more than welcome to come.” She bounces Ronan on her hip to emphasize her words, before leading the way back across the rocks and out of the cove. Just in time too, as the tide is already starting to come in again, washing into some of the outer tide pools. 

People don’t linger long after that, eager to get to the food and festivities. I finally withdraw my feet from the water as my friends start rising to leave, but I hesitate a moment, inspecting the scratches across my calf. 

“How’s that leg?” asks Peeta, who still sits unwaveringly beside me.

“The cuts are shallow,” I decide after studying them for a few moments. “They’re not as bad as they initially looked, and the bleeding stopped. They just sting a bit ‘cause of the salt.” I move to stand up, but almost immediately wince as I step down on my bad leg. The cuts were one thing — those I can handle. But the bruise blooming on my knee from landing on solid rock was turning out to be a bit more sore than I’d initially thought. I take another step, and it almost immediately buckles underneath me. 

But Peeta’s there, holding me upright, letting me brace myself against him.

“Not so bad, huh?” asks Peeta teasingly.

“Shut up,” I say, but I don’t push away. I can’t. He knows as well as I do that I’m not getting back to the house on my own.

Peeta shifts slightly, kneeling down with his back to me. “Hop on. You’re not walking all the way to Annie’s like that.”

“I’ll be fine—” 

“Yes, because you’re doing such a good job at acting as such,” he says sarcastically. “Katniss, be serious.” 

I huff an annoyed breath. “Fine.” I link my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist. His hands immediately encircle my thighs and he stands easily, even with my extra weight. I rest my cheek against his shoulder, my lips nearly close enough to graze his ear. “There, are you happy now?”

“Can’t you ever just let me take care of you without being grumpy about it?”

“Can’t you ever just take care of me without making a big fuss over nothing?” I retort. 

He turns his head to meet my eyes. “I’m allowed to make a fuss when you’re literally falling over in pain. Hell, I’m allowed to make a fuss regardless — you know how I feel about you.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “I’m aware,” I mumble against his shoulder. I wrap my arms around him a bit tighter.

Because I am aware. He loves me. 

Just not in the way I want him to.

He steps carefully out of the cove, skirting around the slippery patch where I fell down, and I feel him loose a small, relieved sigh as we touch down in the soft sand on the other side. 

Neither of us say anything during the rest of the walk back to the house. After all, what can we say after that last exchange? So I just cling to him in the quiet, and he holds onto me right back.

We can already see Annie’s house from down the shoreline — a shining beacon of light and life in the fading light — but I smell the food before I see the people. When we arrive, everyone’s out on the beachside yard of Annie’s house, where a table has been set up with an array of food like the burritos we had when we arrived, seafood, desserts, and drinks. The scent of grilled fish and sweet corn mingle with the salt of the ocean breeze, making my mouth water as Peeta sets me down in a chair on the porch before leaving to pile up a plate for each of us.

In the time it takes for him to leave me, Annie descends on me, sans Ronan this time and in a fresh set of dry clothing. She hands me an ice pack to hold against my knee and gives my shoulder a comforting squeeze before taking up the chair opposite mine. “How’re you doing?”

“A little banged up,” I say with a laugh. I hold the ice pack to my knee, and the relief is almost instantaneous. “But really, I’ll be fine. I’ve got Peeta looking out for me.” I glance over at where he stands at the food table. He seems to debate choosing between two different dishes before piling a bit of both on my plate. Making sure I get the chance to sample a little of everything, as is my usual goal.

“I know you do.” She follows my gaze, smiling softly. I try to ignore the way she studies the growing smile on my own face as Peeta returns with the food. 

“Annie!” he says warmly as he sets the plates down, pulling up a third chair. “Where’s the man of the hour?”

“He’s down for the night. Not the biggest party animal at his age, oddly enough,” she replies.

“How strange,” he chuckles. “You eaten yet?”

She shakes her head no. 

“Here,” Peeta says, nudging his own plate across the table, “take mine, I’ll just grab another.”

“You don’t have to —”

“You’re the one still eating for two — I want to,” he says simply before disappearing without another word, leaving us to start without him.

I start picking at the food. Someone’s made that birria stuff again and it’s good — really good — but my appetite’s already fading, and I can’t tell if it’s from my sore knee or the party or just everything piling on.

Annie stares blankly at her plate for a moment, her eyes taking on a wistful quality. “I still miss that sometimes. Having someone who knows you so wholly and is willing to do anything for you, even when it’s just little things. You’re lucky, y’know?”

Suddenly the music sounds a little too loud, the lights too bright, the air too hot and humid on my skin. I know there’s more behind her words. An implication that whatever we have is reminiscent of what she had with Finnick, at least to her. But I’m tired and hurting and I just can’t bring myself to unpack everything that could mean right now. 

“I know,” I say. “Peeta’s a good friend.”

She smiles. “I suppose I can second that.” She turns to her food, but right as she lifts a spoonful of orange rice to take her first bite, a shrill scream sounds from upstairs and echoes through a small, walkie-talkie-looking device resting on her lap. She sighs. “I’ll be right back.”

“I can get him,” I say, surprising even myself as I push away from the table. 

Annie gives me a look. “On that leg? Katniss, you should really stay off of it.”

“It’s fine,” I say, already removing the ice pack and rising to stand. A flash of pain jolts through my knee, but it’s not nearly as bad as before, not after sitting with the ice pack for a few minutes. No danger of falling over at least. “I think I just need to walk it off.” Not totally true. I know it’s smarter to rest and ice it, but given the circumstances . . .

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“I’ve got it,” I assure her, already making my way into the house. I’m left with a noticeable limp, but I manage my way through the sea of guests and up the stairs to the nursery. 

I’m not totally sure why I offered. I haven’t even held the boy yet. 

Maybe it has something to do with missing Finnick, needing to know his son. 

Or maybe it’s just because I can’t cope with any more commentary on Peeta and me for the time being, however innocent.

Ronan screams louder when I finally reach him and pick him up, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s better if I just take him straight down to Annie. But I’m sure she’s had enough meals interrupted by the squealing child — the least I can do is try to soothe him. “It’s okay, Ronan,” I say, bouncing him lightly on my hip. “Shhh, baby, it’s all right.” 

But he’s an infant, and I may as well be speaking another language for all he understands of what I’m saying. I’m on the verge of at the very least trying to find Peeta to pass him off to, when the lyrics come to me.

Deep in the meadow

Under the willow

Ronan begins to ease up on his sobs, stopping to turn his gigantic green eyes to stare at me as I lower us into the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

A bed of grass

A soft green pillow

He’s quiet now, resting his still-red face against my chest and grabbing loosely onto a lock of my hair with his chubby fist.

Lay down your head

And close your eyes

And when you wake

The sun will rise

“See? You sing lovely enough that birds and babies go silent to listen.” Peeta’s voice rings out from behind me.

“You heard that?” I ask, my cheeks reddening.

“I did,” he says.

“Well it was for Ronan, not you.”

“Well you disappeared from dinner without a trace — and here I come to find you with another man?” Peeta saunters over, wagging his finger as a joking threat in Ronan’s face. “Are you trying to steal my girl, Ronan?”

Ronan turns away with a giggle, burying his face further into my chest.

“Hey, only I’m allowed to do that,” says Peeta.

“Peeta,” I say, a note of warning in my voice.

“Only you’re allowed to do what?” asks a voice from behind me.

I turn to see Eilidh leaning against the doorframe. “Nothing,” I say quickly, shifting Ronan to my other hip.

She nods at the baby, who’s now starting to drool on my shoulder. “I’m surprised you got him to calm down. He’s got a big personality, that one. Just like his dad. Not too fond of new people, either.”

I smile. “Well he likes Peeta. Maybe he knows I’m friends with him.”

“Or he just knows you’re family,” says Eilidh, looking me up and down. “Though I can’t say I ever took you for the maternal type.”

“Probably because I’m not,” I say quickly. “Just a big sister type. Though I suppose I’m not even that anymore.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Eilidh seems embarrassed by her own bluntness for a moment. Like she too has a very large personality that hasn’t quite grown into her teenaged form. “I just mean that Finnick spoke rather highly of you in what little correspondence we got from him. Said you would’ve fit right in with the Odairs in another world.”

“I’d say the same would be true for him and the Everdeens,” I say, “except I don’t think he’d be able to stand the constant coal dust in his nail beds. Or the lack of ocean in Twelve.”

Eilidh huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that would’ve driven him mad.” 

“We made a halfway decent team, though,” I admit sadly, cradling Ronan a little tighter.

“Yeah, we did too,” says Eilidh quietly. “Right, I’ll leave you two to it. Gotta go finish my food before Jo finishes it for me.” She gives us one final knowing glance before making her way back down the stairs. 

“Shall we rejoin the others?” asks Peeta. “I’m sure Annie’s done by now and can take him off your hands.”

“Can we wait just a second?” I ask.

“What for?” he asks.

“I just want to hold him a little longer,” I say, clinging to the boy. I press my face against the crown of his head, breathing in the strangely intoxicating scent of the baby. “Plus he’s calming down — I think I can get him back to sleep on my own.”

Peeta presses his lips softly against my temple. “Take as long as you need.”

I hug Ronan close, swaying him slightly. “Can you open the window a bit?”

Peeta nods and walks toward the window, cracking it open and letting a rush of sea breeze into the room. 

I take a deep breath of the salty air. I’m a bit too embarrassed to sing now that I have an audience, but I hum lightly to the boy, holding him close.

“You’re a natural,” says Peeta.

My attention snaps up to him. “What?”

“With him, I mean. This stuff comes easily to you,” he says, gazing at me softly.

“It’s just ‘cause of Prim. I’ve done it before.”

Peeta smiles and shakes his head. “No, you’re just good with him.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, trying my best not to recoil at his words.

Peeta looks at me confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

“It’s just not true,” I say, my voice cracking a bit. I hold out the baby in a silent request for him to take over for me. 

Peeta looks worried, but he doesn’t push, he just silently accepts Ronan, transferring him expertly to his own chest. 

I stand shakily and approach the window, bracing my palms against the windowsill. “I’m not scared of kids, you know.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“I just can’t bear the thought of losing one,” I say, and I realize this is the first time I’ve said it out loud. I’ve voiced before that I wouldn’t have kids, but never why. Certainly never to someone it was actually a possibility with.

Peeta’s silent for a moment, the quiet only interrupted by Ronan’s tiny little squeals and coos. “Well it’s a good thing we’re not serious, then, I suppose.”

I look up at him, but it’s an effort to keep the hurt out of my voice when I say, “Yes. I suppose it is.”

He winces slightly. “Katniss,  I didn’t mean—” 

“No, I know what you meant. It’s fine, Peeta really. That’s just not us. Not with each other, at least,” I say lightly, giving him a forced smile. “I’m the opener for someone else’s happy ending — it’s as simple as that, and I’m okay with it.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Anyways, everyone’s probably wondering where we are, and this guy’s probably hungry or something too,” I say. I nod at Ronan and hobble to the door. It’s a poor excuse, especially when I can see the boy’s breathing slowing, his chubby cheek squishing against Peeta’s chest as sleep claims him once more. I was right — we were fine on our own. But I just can’t be here anymore.

“Katniss—”

“Peeta, please.” My voice is on the edge of breaking, and I don’t know how much more of this I can take before I lose myself entirely. I turn to go downstairs, but his voice stops me dead in my tracks.

“We can stop, if you want.”

“What?” I blink in confusion.

“Drop the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing and just go back to being friends,” he offers.

No . “Why would I want to do that?”

He sighs, cradling Ronan closer to his chest. “I dunno, Katniss. Maybe because it kinda seems like you feel like I’m using you when that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

My throat feels tight as I respond, “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Then why are you acting like I would? Is it because of Ronan? Is that it? You think that I’ll suddenly get baby fever at eighteen and break things off? As if you have no worth to me other than physical? As if I’m not the one who insisted on using contraceptives in the first place?”

“Maybe something along those lines,” I admit. It sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that. That’s not who he is. That’s not who we are. But still . . .

He gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “I can’t tell you how to feel, but—” Ronan stirs, letting out a sleepy sigh, and Peeta lowers his voice. “Katniss, I could never . . .” he trails off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at such a loss for words.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I brace a hand on his forearm, stand on my tiptoes, and — gently, so as not to disturb Ronan — plant a featherlight kiss on his cheek, praying my lips can convey everything I can’t say. “I know,” I whisper. It’s small of me. And so desperately cowardly. But it’s all I can offer him right now.

Chapter Text

I wake up alone to the sight of mid-morning sunlight filtering through the too-sheer curtains of our bedroom, and I’m only able to register two feelings: exhaustion and pain. 

The soreness in my knee has lessened to a dull ache, but between my lack of sleep and the turmoil in my mind, my head is throbbing, and the ever-brightening sunlight is doing little to relieve my pounding headache.

My conversation with Peeta last night should’ve been somewhat reassuring — we’re both happy where we are, with neither of us wanting a change. It’s good. We’re good. 

It’s what I should want.

But something about it has left me uneasy.

I’m still not sure why I reacted the way that I did. I know I can be grouchy when I’m hurting, but to panic over the kid thing was unprompted and undeserved on his part. He was just trying to compliment my ability to soothe Ronan, something I’d done a thousand times before with Prim when we were little, something I knew I was capable of. 

And I let it get to me.

What was I thinking? 

I hear muffled, lowered voices from the dining room, and I know I’ve probably already slept through the majority of breakfast. I mentally pick through the voices — Eilidh’s, Jo’s, Annie’s, Haymitch’s, Maeve’s — until I find Peeta’s, focusing on the soothing, low cadence of his voice, still a trace of the gruff quality it typically takes on first thing in the morning. 

I roll over to the center of the bed, hugging my arms around a pillow. The bed feels too vast, too empty without Peeta beside me.

It’s not long afterward that I hear his footsteps down the hallway, the uneven alternation between prosthesis and limb easily giving away his approach.

The door opens quietly and I lift my head just enough to let him know I’m awake, but careful enough so as to not strain my sore head. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says jokingly, sitting down on the bed beside me. “I missed you at breakfast.” He brushes a loose strand of hair out of my face.

“I don’t feel so good,” I admit, clutching a bit tighter around the pillow in my arms. “My knee hurts.”

My words to Peeta ring true — my knee does hurt. He doesn’t need to know that it's the heaviness in my chest that’s really weighing me down, that the real reason I can’t bring myself to get out of bed is all mental.

“I thought it might,” he says, giving me a small smile. He tugs back the covers to reveal my blue-and-purple dappled leg before pulling out an ice pack that I hadn’t noticed before, and pressing it to my bruised skin.

I nearly yelp at the sudden, biting cold, but quickly relax into the relieving chill.

I glance up to find his eyes already on me, and I’m suddenly feeling very exposed in only my underwear and a borrowed shirt of his; I’m no longer totally sure the goosebumps on my skin are entirely from the ice.

Peeta clears his throat awkwardly, breaking off our eye contact. “Annie’s called the hospital for you, by the way.” I shoot him a half-annoyed, half-worried glance. “Not for anything serious,” he assures me. “Their non-emergent division is just gonna send someone over with some salve for you or something.”

I lift an eyebrow in disbelief, a small part of me doubting that between him and his friend, they’ve managed to minimize the fuss.

“I swear,” he says, chuckling at my obvious discomfort. “It’s no big deal. Plus, the others have all gone out to enjoy our last day on the beach, so nobody else will be here to witness you being babied. We have the house to ourselves.”

I wait for the ensuing flirting, but it never comes. There’s nothing suggestive in his voice, no hinting at the implications of an empty house. He just looks tired. Maybe a bit concerned. But above all, oddly content. 

I quickly find out that the lack of people at the house in no way lessens the fuss around my injury, however. Peeta insists on finding me something to eat (to the point where he gently pushes me back down into the pillows when I try to get up to make something myself), and after a quick trip to the kitchen, returns with a bacon and egg sandwich on sourdough bread and a cup of fruity black tea. 

A short while later, there’s a timid knock at the door. The hospital worker, no doubt. Peeta rises to answer the door, assuring me he’ll be right back.

But the person waiting on the other side of the door isn’t just any hospital worker.

“Asterid,” says Peeta, his words taking on a cold, monotone quality. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard such distaste in his voice, not even toward me at the worst of his hijacking.

“Hello, Peeta,” my mother replies. They’re both quiet for a beat. “May I come in?”

My hand trembles slightly, splashing a few drops of tea into the saucer.

No. Please, No.

Peeta hesitates. “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.” More quiet. “I’ll have to ask Katniss first.”

My mother mumbles something I don’t quite catch, and suddenly I hear Peeta’s uneven footsteps coming down the hallway. He shuts the door behind him as he enters our room, walking over to my side of the bed and sitting down softly at my side. He takes one of my hands in both of his. “Katniss . . .” He must know I’ve caught at least part of what they were saying, seeing as those beautiful blue eyes are staring at me with such sorrow and empathy that I could almost cry.

The words don’t find my lips, but I manage to shake my head side to side. No.

I’m not ready to see her, much less think about my issues with her. Not yet. Not after everything. And especially not now, not when I already have such a loose grasp on my emotions as it is.

Before the first tear can even spill from my eyes, Peeta’s already gathering me in his arms, threading his fingers through my hair as I bury my face in his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s all right, Katniss.”

“No, it’s not,” I whimper. I already have too few family members as it is. To push away my last living relative because of my own issues . . . it’s inexcusable.

“ Yes it is ,” he insists. He extracts himself from me gently, planting the whisper of a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll just let her know you’re not feeling up to it right now.”

My fingers remain clinging loosely to his as he rises, my hand dropping lifelessly onto the bed as he pulls out of reach and disappears into the hallway, careful to close the bedroom door behind him this time. 

I can’t help but feel as if he’s worried he’ll say something I shouldn’t hear. Or might even be planning on it.

“She’s not feeling too well right now, Asterid. Now’s not a good time,” says Peeta diplomatically, his voice now muted further by the door between us.

“That’s silly — I can help her,” my mother responds.

“You’re not listening to me,” Peeta says, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Now is not a good time.”

“She’s my daughter .”

Peeta sighs. “I think it’s best if you leave your daughter alone for a while, Asterid,” he says. “Not that you seemed to have any problem with it before,” he adds. 

“What do you mean?”

“Is that a genuine question?” Peeta asks in disbelief. 

“Peeta, I’ve tried reaching out  — she just pushes me away.”

“Can you blame her?” he asks. “Really?”

“Peeta, dear—”

“You don’t get it, do you? She almost died . Multiple times. She needed you, and you chose to leave her.”

“Well I was dealing with my own grief. Besides, it’s not like she would’ve accepted my support if I had been there. She’s just so stubborn. You know how she can be.”

“I do know. Hell, if I left every time Katniss tried to push me away, neither of us would be alive today. You have no idea how special your daughter is, do you?” he asks incredulously. “Yes, she’s strong, and independent, and insanely stubborn.” His voice softens. “But she’s also fiercely loyal, and kind, and sweet, and selfless. She’s incredible. I don’t know how anyone could ever pick up and abandon her, especially not after everything she’s gone through, and especially not her own mother.”

“She already has someone who loves her looking out for her.” My mother’s voice is unnervingly icy. Defensive. “She doesn’t need me. She never really did.”

I wait for Peeta to refute my mother’s claim that he loves me, but he never does. 

Instead, he focuses on the second half of her statement:

“I—” He stops himself, lowering his voice to the point where I can hardly hear him. “I’ve held my tongue for years. But I can’t defend you anymore. I tried not to judge — I really did — and I have empathy for your grief; I understand what it is to lose your family. I know you’ve suffered a lot. But so has Katniss. More than you could ever imagine. And this is how you treat her?” Peeta scoffs. “She doesn’t need you because she didn’t have the choice. That doesn’t mean she didn’t need a parent, it just means she had to adapt to the fact that she didn’t have one. So please — now is not a good time .”

“All right,” my mother finally relents with a sigh. “At least she’s got you. I suppose I can’t ask for much more than that.”

“Finally something we can agree on.” 

I hear the front door shut firmly after that, but where I expect footsteps to follow, I hear only deafening silence. As if he’s steeling himself to return to me.

Peeta trudges back down the hallway, entering our room sheepishly. He grimaces slightly at the tears flowing freely down my cheeks, and I know he knows I overheard.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Any of it, really. Your relationship with your mother is none of my business, and I shouldn’t have pushed her like that—”

“No,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “It was perfect.”

Because it was. Once again, where words and feelings failed me, Peeta was there to protect me. To make everything okay — or as okay as it can be given the circumstances.

My chest feels surprisingly warm, but it’s not the familiar heat I’d grown used to him eliciting. No, this is different. A quiet, warm glow. Soft. Comforting.

Dangerous.

But right now, I can’t be bothered to reinforce that boundary between us. It’s weak and selfish of me, but I’m hurting. Between my knee and my head and my heart, I crave his comfort. Need it.

Because underneath everything, I still want to be cared for.

I open my arms wordlessly, and Peeta crosses to me immediately, curling around me and enveloping me in his own arms.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, whispering the words into my hair.

I turn my head to face him, leaving us nose to nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Peeta.”

“Not for me. For you. I know a thing or two about having a neglectful mother — I’m sorry that yours doesn’t see how incredible you are,” he says.

My heart skips a beat, and I turn back around, burying my face in the pillow as I pull his arm tighter around me and press my backside flush against him. I don’t know how to respond to his words; all I know is that I’m desperate for the physical closeness.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re perfect,” he breathes. 

Oh, Peeta. If only that were true.

We lay like this for some time. At some point, I doze off and wake up to find Peeta gone, but the room lingers with the trace of his care. The dishes from breakfast are cleared from my nightstand, the ice pack likely returned to the freezer, a fresh set of clothes sit at the foot of the bed. The rest of my belongings already packed neatly into my duffel for the train ride home this evening.

The salve has worked nothing short of a miracle on my knee as I slept, to the point where the swelling and pain has gone down to a mild tenderness that I can comfortably walk on. After dressing, I smear another thick layer of the poultice over my injury, and make my final debut for our time in Four. 

The house remains empty, however, and it takes me a moment to locate the note on the kitchen counter in Peeta’s neat, slanted handwriting:

Katniss,

You looked so peaceful in your sleep, I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be down at the water if you’re feeling up to joining.

— Peeta

My heartbeat briefly quickens for some reason as I read his words, and I fold the note up neatly and pocket it. For what, I’m unsure. 

When I reach the grass-dotted dunes lining the edge of the sand, I see them. 

I spot Peeta before the others. Stretched out on a beach towel, his shirt abandoned next to him in the sand. It feels almost illicit to stare, but I can’t help but admire him from afar. 

His normally pale skin has deepened to a slight tan during our time in Four, the sun burning a delicate flush across his nose and cheeks, resurfacing freckles that I hadn’t seen for a year. 

Kisses from the sun, I had heard Maeve call them. Yes, that sounds right. A gentle caress from the daylight upon his fair skin.

He sits on the shore, laughing with Jo and Haymitch, a smiling Ronan lying on his tummy on a towel between the three of them. Annie, Maeve, and Eilidh are out in the water, taking turns catching waves as the other dives beneath the sets like a duck. Eilidh’s a natural — that much has been clear since I first saw her take to the sea. Maeve too. But Annie’s better. She’s one with the water as she cuts across the smooth face of the waves. It’s more than the confidence of someone who’s spent their whole life on the beach. Maybe this was her woods, I think. Her place of quiet solitude when the nightmares become too real.

As if sensing my stare, Peeta turns back toward the house, grinning widely when he sees me walking down the path. Johanna follows his gaze, her face lighting up when she sees me in a way hers so rarely does before she jumps up and saunters over to my side. “Here I was, thinking you were gonna sleep all day.”

I smile. “Careful, you, or I might reconsider.”

“And miss the chance to watch the last sunset in Four with Lover Boy?” she laughs. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Whatever.” I glance over at Peeta, who I find already turned toward me, grinning widely as Johanna and I make our way down to the group.

“Oh, yay,” says Haymitch. “That’s all we were missing, was your teenage melodrama.”

“Haymitch,” says Peeta, a note of warning in his voice.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You guys are friends . We should all be grateful.”

I scowl at him, but he just smiles smugly.

“Shut up, old man,” says Jo, and for a moment, I’m touched by the fact she’d stand up for us, even if it’s in her own prickly way. “You’re not telling anyone anything we don’t already know.”

And there it is.

I scowl at her too, shoving her slightly, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

“Ignore them,” says Peeta, pulling me closer. “They’re just bitter old hags.”

“Old?” sputters Haymitch.

“Hag? I’m hot!”

Peeta grins. “Like I said.”

I give him a small smile, but turn my attention to the baby to avoid further discussion of the subject. “All of your aunties and uncles are absolute wrecks, huh, Ronan?” I say in a sing-songy voice, scooping up the giggling child in my arms.

I’m a bit apprehensive to hold the boy after my moment of weakness the night before, but he’s a welcome distraction now. Besides, I had enjoyed bonding with my friends’ son. Having someone to take care of again, even if it’s just for a short while. 

At least until my own insecurities ruined it for me.

This feels different though, sitting out on the beach with my family. Less pressure, somehow, even with more people watching me with the boy. Necessary, in a way, after the turmoil my mother’s visit had stirred up. I needed this normalcy — Annie, Maeve, and Eilidh in the water, Haymitch and Jo on the beach, Ronan in my arms, and not a single one of them aware of the tears I’d shed earlier in the day. 

Save for Peeta, of course. But I don’t mind him knowing.

The sun dips lower, painting the sky in the colors of a crackling hearth. I cradle Ronan against my chest, leaning my own head against Peeta’s shoulder. It’s bittersweet, knowing this is the last sunset I’ll watch over the sea for awhile, but delighting in the fact that we’ll be home by this time tomorrow.

I breathe in the salty air, listen to the crash of the waves.

Home .

I’m still figuring out what that means for me now. But I know for certain that these people are a part of it. Even the ones I won’t see for a while.

As Jo and Haymitch are distracted by Eilidh wiping out on a particularly powerful wave, I shift my gaze upward to the boy beside me. And against my better judgement, before the others can notice, I crane my neck to plant a quick, gentle kiss on his cheek.

I could swear that Peeta’s face flushes darker beneath his sunburn for a moment as he smiles, turning his attention to me. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” I say, my own cheeks heating. “I just . . . thank you. For today.”

He doesn’t risk kissing me back, not given our present company, and especially not now that Haymitch is looking at us again. But he reaches out a hand, squeezing my fingers tightly. “Anytime,” he says softly.

And he says it so genuinely, I actually believe him. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

“I don’t wanna go.”

Haymitch sighs. “Tough luck, sweetheart. You have to.”

I stubbornly cross my arms over my chest. “Says who?”

“Says me,” Haymitch grumbles. “All four of us are expected to be there. So we’ll be there.”

I scowl at him, but I know he’s right.

About a week ago, the same morning we returned from Four, Delly had shown up at our doors with a fancy-looking scrap of paper inviting us to a “Celebration of Life” at the Justice Building on July 4th.

Reaping Day.

Or at least, what used to be Reaping Day.

Initially,  I wasn’t planning on making an appearance. I’ve had the misfortune of climbing the steps of the Justice Building on more than one Reaping Day, and I’m not particularly keen on ever doing it again.

But it’s not just in Twelve — every district across Panem would be hosting a memorial celebration of sorts to commemorate the children lost to 75 years of the Hunger Games and the civilians, soldiers, and medics lost in the war (separate — I’m told — from the independence celebration being planned for the winter). Upon further inspection, I saw that President Paylor herself had signed our invitations too, making it feel far less like a choice and more of a command. Though I’m not sure she’d actually punish us for skipping out on something like this, I’m certain she wouldn’t be thrilled by it. And as the person responsible for my pardon, as well as determining our eligibility to travel between districts, I don’t particularly want to get on her bad side. 

Besides, it’s not the Justice Building where I said goodbye to my friends and family. Not the Justice Building that overlooked my friend’s whipping. That hosted countless Reapings. Was the site where devastated families gathered to receive medals of sacrifice, medals that could never fill their starving bellies.

No, this Justice Building was something new, built upon the ashes of the ancient cruelty etched into every fiber of the old one. Somewhere for real justice to be carried out.

I don’t yet dare to hope it will be all right. But I know I have to be in attendance. All of the victors do.

But that doesn’t stop me from pushing the matter one final time on the morning of the party.

All four of us had gathered for breakfast at Haymitch’s house after an unexpected phone call from Effie the night before had informed us about his birthday the next day. 

For some reason, in my mind, Haymitch just didn’t have a birthday. I’d never considered there was a day we were meant to celebrate him growing a year older. To me, he was just Haymitch. He doesn’t age, he just exists. But now that I know, I understand why he never told us. It must’ve been a special kind of hell to first be Reaped on his birthday, and then proceed to be forced to watch 25 years worth of tributes be Reaped into his care, only for everyone other than us to be promptly murdered for sport. It’s no wonder he’s never been in the mood for celebrating. Why he’s always blacked out by noon that day.

We hadn’t bothered asking if it was all right for us to come over — we just did. And for once, we didn’t find Haymitch passed out at the table, bottle in hand. Instead, he sat in his backyard, watching his geese graze with a sorrowful look on his face. He acted annoyed by our sudden presence, but — although he’d never admit it — brightened considerably when we started to set his patio table for breakfast. 

Peeta brought baking ingredients and a special pan to make something called aebleskiver (he’s tried to explain them to me several times over, but all I can gather is that they’re essentially a pancake but with cardamom and in ball form), and although I’m hopeless at helping him in the kitchen, I’d done my fair share of collecting raspberries for a jam to go with them. 

By the time breakfast is through, we’ve actually managed to coax a smile or two out of our mentor, as well as gotten him to admit that he preferred our intimate morning celebration over an actual party. Something about bad experiences in the past with a cake on the train. 

I couldn’t imagine having issues with any of the cakes I’d been served on the train over the past couple years, but that’s just me. I’m just relieved that I’d been able to talk Peeta down to fancy pancakes instead of real cake now. 

Nevermind the fact that I simply hadn’t wanted him to stay up late working in the kitchen when we could spend the time in his bedroom instead.

So now I sit in Haymitch’s backyard, pleading my case in vain one final time.

“Haymitch, please.”

“Katniss, no,” he says, mimicking my childish tone.

Peeta pauses from clearing the dishes from the table. “So you’d just leave me to attend by myself?”

“Yeah, Katniss!” Jo chimes in. “You’re just gonna leave Lover Boy here to go by himself? With all those beautiful women in their most gorgeous dresses? It’s like you’re trying to find him a new girl. Unless that’s something the two of you are into . . .” Her eyes glitter with mischievous glee.

I glare at her. “Obviously I’m coming. I just don’t want to. But Peeta is welcome to any girl he wants — we’re just friends .”

Something indistinguishable flickers across Peeta’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. “Too bad I’m stuck with you as my date,” he says, his voice taking on a weak, joking quality, “seeing as I’m apparently on the market now.”

I force a short laugh. “Hey, I can be quite the wingwoman if I want to be.”

“But you don’t want to,” says Johanna.

She’s right, of course. The mere thought of Peeta flirting with another woman brings me immeasurable sadness and all-consuming anger all at once, let alone kissing her. Bedding her. It’s not jealousy. It’s something stronger. Something I’m not quite ready to put a name to. Not until I absolutely have to. 

So I don’t.

Instead, I busy myself with helping Peeta finish with tidying up before heading home with Jo to get ready for the party.

I still don’t totally understand why we need to start getting ready a full five hours before the party starts, but then again, I’m used to a team of people making me over for every event. And while I manage just fine showering and drying my hair on my own, Johanna is utterly dissatisfied with my dress choice and — in her words — my lack of style.

“What do you mean you’re wearing a sundress? It’s a black tie dinner!” She tosses my dress  of choice back into the closet, not even bothering to hang it up.

“So what?” I ask sheepishly.

Johanna shakes her head in disappointment. “Oh my days, you are hopeless.”

She proceeds to spend about forty-five minutes going through my closet of dresses from Cinna before finally holding up a small stretch of black fabric, a wide grin spreading across her face. 

“Oh, this’ll do nicely,” she says, holding it up against my chest.

I smile nervously. “I don’t think I can wear that.”

“Bullshit,” says Jo, throwing it at me. “At least put it on.”

I sigh, eyeing the dress with apprehension. It wasn’t technically something Cinna made for me — it’s one of the dresses he sewed that I was supposed to have designed as part of my talent. Far sexier than anything he’d ever put me in, save for the wedding trove.

It’s fitted. Very fitted, to the point where Jo has to ask me to suck in to zip it up all the way. And the fabric allows anyone nearby to see everything. The silhouette hugs every single curve, pushing my breasts together to look larger than they actually are, and sporting a slit up the side of the leg that lands about mid-thigh.

I grimace, looking at myself in the mirror. “I can’t wear this. I don’t look like myself.”

“You look hot!” exclaims Jo.

My cheeks heat and I run my fingers down the slippery fabric. “You think so?”

Jo rolls her eyes. “I know so, brainless.” She smiles knowingly. “Peeta’s not gonna be able to take his eyes off you.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, but I can’t help but return her smile. 

Hot is never a word I’d use to describe myself. I’ve felt pretty before. Cute. Never hot.

I’ve been called hot by Peeta on several occasions, but I’ve always had a hard time feeling that way myself. But now . . . I think I’m starting to see it.

“One thing, though,” says Jo, her tone suddenly making me suspicious.

“Oh?”

“That there’s a no-panties dress,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’m wearing a thong!”

She snorts. “Yeah, unfortunately I can see that.”

I blush. “I can’t go to the party without underwear on.”

“Yes, you can. And it’ll look good — trust me.”

I pause to think about it a moment longer. Realistically, nobody will know but me and her, and I can kind of deal with that. Especially when I’m starting to feel rather sexy in it too . . . “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” says Jo excitedly. “Okay, now take it off again. I don’t want you fucking it up when I do your hair and makeup.”

The five hours turn out to be used down to the very last minute, as Jo spends ages curling and pinning my hair, brushing shimmery powder on my cheekbones, and drawing perfect little dashes of kohl to line my eyelids. Her own hair and makeup probably takes a maximum of fifteen minutes, and I’m just zipping up her bloodred gown when Haymitch starts banging angrily at the door.

“Let’s go, sweetheart, don’t make me drag you out!”

I open the door to the grumpy old man. “What’re you whining about? We’re ready.”

Behind Haymitch, Peeta wears what first appears to be a normal black suit, but at closer glance has a silken floral pattern stitched into the meticulously tailored coat and trousers. It’s gorgeous, if not a bit conservative in light of my outfit, which Jo was completely right about — he can’t stop staring at me.

“Katniss, you look—”

“Cold, doesn’t she?” grumbles Haymitch. “You sure you don’t want to grab a jacket for that, sweetheart?”

Johanna shoves her way past me, grabbing Haymitch by the arm and pulling him down the path to the street. “Don’t be a prude, Hay. She’s not a baby.”

Peeta and I laugh lightly.

He lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “I was going to say you look absolutely breathtaking.” He smiles widely at me, eyes twinkling.

“You clean up pretty nicely yourself,” I reply, mirroring his smile.

He offers me his arm, which I accept gratefully. “C’mon, let’s catch up before the birthday boy has a fit.”

As if on cue, Haymitch shoots us a sharp glare from where he and Johanna wait for us at the edge of my yard.

We walk arm-in-arm through the recently rebuilt streets surrounding the heart of District 12. Past newly cobbled pathways, and freshly built flowerbeds. There’s something unfamiliar about it. It’s almost too clean, too new. There’s no ugly, gray coal dust embedded into every grain of wood. No ash-covered skeletons lining the pathway. No trace of what we were, nor what we became.

I’ve made a point of avoiding the town square when going to hunt in the woods lately. It was definitely faster to cut through town, but ever since they tore the fence down, I’m happy to sacrifice a few extra minutes of my time to skirt the edges of the rebuilds to escape the never-ending string of stares and comments that have followed me since the first Games. So save for our brief trips to and from the train station (where my attention was a bit distracted, to say the least), I hadn’t really gotten a good look at the town square since they’d first started the reconstruction efforts. 

Efforts which — as it would appear — have not been in vain. As we turn the corner into the town square, it’s almost unrecognizable. The shoe and sweets boutiques have been rebuilt entirely, as well as the butcher and woodshop. Peeta informs me the bakery is well on its way to being reopened as well, only missing some sort of fire inspection and waiting on one more oven before he can officially move his work there. And the dull, lifeless Justice Building is now a gorgeous, light fortress of white marble with floor-to-ceiling windows lining the front of it and a glistening golden sign of our new district seal hanging above the double doors. 

The inside is just as grand, just as bright. Sparkling chandeliers line the ceiling, twinkling candlelights illuminating the long tables set up for dinner. And on the back wall — another slab of marble, this time in black, and covered in the names of the dead. 

The first column lists every name of every child from District 12 lost in the 73 years of the Hunger Games. 

Maysilee Donner. 

The name seems to call out to me from the long list of tributes, and I feel a pang in my chest when I remember that the rest of her family is somewhere on here as well, the rest of the wall providing the names of every life lost in the war that ended them, all the way from the firebombings after the Quell to the surrender this past winter. Thousands upon thousands of names, both familiar and not. 

It doesn’t take me long to find them.

Merrilee Undersee

Mayor Maximus Undersee

And beneath that:

Marjorie “Madge” Undersee

I trace my fingers over my friend’s name, now memorialized for eternity. 

As if I could ever forget her to begin with.

The music starts to sound too loud, the chorus of conversing voices around me blending into the cacophony. My face feels hot, my lipgloss suddenly too sticky, the smell of hairspray too strong, and my stomach turns with nausea. 

I take a few steps back from the memorial, bumping into Peeta’s chest and nearly stepping on his feet in the process.

He grabs my arms to steady me, looking at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

I shake my head. No.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I hate to admit it, but his mere presence does more to soothe me than anything else. But that’s not the kind of things that friends say to each other, so instead I say, “Can you get me something to drink?”

“Of course,” he says, brushing a stray bit of hair out of my face. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I make myself busy trying not to read the names. I don’t even dare to walk over to the E section. 

It's one thing to know in my head that they’re gone, but it’s somehow different reading their names off a slab of stone. Permanent.

“It still doesn’t feel real,” says a familiar voice behind me that turns my blood cold.

I spin on my heel to find my ex best friend, Gale Hawthorne standing in front of me. “No, it doesn’t.” I wait for the smile to emerge. Some innate sign that I’ve missed my old friend. But none comes. “What are you doing here?” I ask him, struggling to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.

He gives me a smile that appears almost closer to a grimace. “I’m apparently being honored for saving so many people in the bombings. I guess they’re giving me a medal or something.”

“That’s great, Gale,” I say. “You deserve it.” And I mean it. His actions that night gave me extra time with Prim in 13 that I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise, and kept my mother’s name off the list entirely. Delly’s too, and her little brother. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. Thom. And hundreds of others. That is something nobody can take from him — probably one of the few things he did during the war that deserves nothing but pure and utter gratitude. 

“Thanks, Catnip,” he says. “I appreciate that.” He pauses a beat. “How are you doing now, by the way? You certainly look great.” His eyes scan me up and down, and I’m suddenly deeply uncomfortable by my choice of dress.

“Isn’t she gorgeous? I can’t seem to take my eyes off her either.” Peeta breaks into the conversation. He hands me a glass of sparkling cider before slinging an arm around my waist. “It’s nice to see you again, Gale. Congrats on the medal.”

“Hello, Peeta. And thank you,” he says, pursing his lips. “Though I will say, Katniss, however pretty you look, you don’t quite look like yourself. I mean, that thing is practically a nightgown.”

Peeta chuckles politely. “Please, she’d never wear something with that much coverage to bed,” he says, running a hand down the fabric at my waist. “I don’t think she even owns a nightgown — I’ve never seen her wear one.”

“Peeta!” I gasp.

“What?” he asks a little too innocently.

Gale’s brow knits together in confusion. “So, you two are . . .”

“We—”

“Yes,” Peeta says with a small, smug smile, tightening his grip on my waist.

Gale’s expression hardens. “Well. Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming. I hope the two of you are very . . . happy together.”

“We are,” I say, deciding to play along. I place a hand somewhat possessively over his chest and take the opportunity to glance up at Peeta’s face, only to find him already looking back at me, an amused glint in his eyes.

Gale just nods uncomfortably. “Good for you, Katniss,” he says. “I suppose I’ll see you guys around.”

“See you around, Gale,” says Peeta good-naturedly. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I corner Peeta. “What was that?” I ask.

Peeta’s face falls. “Was that too much?”

“No.” I smile. “I loved it.”

Because I did. It had taken me an embarrassingly long time (and my sister’s death) to figure out that I never loved Gale, at least not in the way he wanted me to. He knew as well as I did that what happened to Prim had ended whatever fragments remained of our friendship; he even said as much the last time I saw him. The circumstances of our last encounter and his promotion to District 2 had saved me the discomfort of ever having to reject him myself, but I have a sinking suspicion that no matter what I say, he never would’ve left me alone of his own accord. That having Peeta by my side, supporting me, claiming me, is the only way he’d ever really get the message that he never stood a chance.

And if I’m being honest with myself . . . the way Peeta put himself between us, feigning a relationship with me and acting territorial was really fucking hot.

“You’re sure?” he asks earnestly.

I cup the sides of his face in both of my hands. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t care. I’m just glad he might actually leave me alone for once now that he thinks we’re together.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean, we kind of are. He doesn’t need to know just how together we are.”

“No,” Peeta says with a smirk. “He doesn’t.”

We stare at each other in silence for a moment.

“He did have a point though — you do look amazing, Katniss,” he says. “That dress is . . . just wow .”

I smile smugly. “Wanna know something else?”

“What?” he asks cautiously.

I pull him in close, standing as high on my tiptoes as possible so that my lips are just shy of his ear. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

His eyes widen in surprise, as well as some other emotion I can’t quite place. “Katniss, I—”

I grab his hand, placing it on my waist, letting it slide down the side of my hip, across the smooth, uninterrupted fabric of the dress that lays there.

“Katniss,” he repeats, a dark desire in his voice.

Now it’s my turn to feign innocence. “Yes?”

“We are in public,” he hisses. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Why? Does knowing that do something to you?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re unbelievable.”

I open my mouth to respond, but not before there’s an unfamiliar woman standing at a podium, calling us to dinner. 

I smile coyly at Peeta and grab his hand, pulling him toward the table. “Oh dear. I guess we’ll just have to continue this later.”

Peeta huffs a sigh, trailing after me. “What am I gonna do with you?” he says under his breath.

“Whatever you want,” I whisper back.

Even as someone who adores food, the dinner that follows seems to be neverending. Each course is followed by a round of dull speeches, accolades, and painful reminders of the scars that will plague our district for years to come. 

The only relief I find is in Peeta. The way his eyes can’t seem to stop raking over my body. The way his hands keep finding my fingers on top of the table (and occasionally my thigh underneath it too).

Memorials are dedicated. Gale gets his medal. Pictures are taken of the victors. And every minute seems to last an eternity.

At least until the dinner is finally over, and the cocktail hour begins, and we decide it’s the perfect time to make ourselves scarce.

We say a final goodnight to Jo and Haymitch, wishing a final “happy birthday” to the latter, and receiving a not-so-subtle whisper in my ear when I hug the former: “I fucking told you .”

I roll my eyes, grabbing Peeta’s arm. “Whatever. We’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Trust me,” Johanna says with a smirk, “I’m not expecting to see you again before then.”

I glare at her over my shoulder, but don’t deign to waste anymore words on her. Especially when she’s getting a little too close to the truth.

Once we’re outside, I grab Peeta’s hand, pulling him away from the town square and toward the Seam. I don’t quite have a plan for where we’re going, but I know it needs to be closer than Victor’s Village, but far enough to be away from prying eyes and ears. Peeta follows me without question as we wind down the alleyways, past temporarily abandoned tarps and lumber, rebar and scaffolding, until we reach a road I could navigate anywhere and stop in front of what used to be my childhood home. 

It’s not the cottage that it used to be, but it’s not the decimated pile of ashes it became, either. The walls have been rebuilt, the floors and doorframes too. There’s no roof or doors to be found, but a tarp hangs where the front door should be, providing some sense of privacy from the empty street.

I push the tarp flap aside, leading Peeta into my work-in-progress family home, and lean back against the work bench that’s been set up in the makeshift kitchen. I loop my fingers through his belt loops, pulling him flush against me. Although some of the urgency has dropped in light of our surroundings, it’s only added to the intensity of the moment.

I move my hands back up to his face brushing my thumb over his lips. “I need you,” I whisper, as if the words themselves are a secret I’m frightened of revealing.

“Do you, now?” he says, eyes ablaze with desire. He presses his lips hungrily against mine, his hands roaming my body, before pulling away, his hands finally coming to a stop on either side of the inside of my thighs. “Tell me exactly what you need from me.”

My heart skips a beat at the sultry tone in his voice as heat blooms in my core. “You know ,” I say, somewhat bashfully.

He breathes a low laugh. “Don’t get shy on me now, Katniss. Not after you’ve been parading around in no panties all night, stringing me along, entirely under your control.” He emphasizes his final words by teasingly drawing a finger along the seam of the slit in my dress.

“I need your mouth,” I say, pulling his lips to mine and kissing him deeply. 

Peeta slides an arm around my waist, holding me tightly against him with one hand and bracing himself against the table beneath us with the other. He slowly pulls his lips away from mine, trailing them away from my mouth and down the hollow of my throat. “What else?” he whispers in the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. He removes his hand from my waist, sliding it down my thigh once more.

“Your fingers,” I breathe, the moisture between my legs and the heat inside me growing with each passing moment, with each inch his hand glides closer to where I want it to be.

“These ones?”

Closer, closer . . .

“Peeta, please ,” I whine.

He leans back slightly to look at me, grinning wickedly. The starlight reflects on those sapphire eyes like sunlight dancing on open ocean, so naturally lovely and enamoring in comparison to the animalistic heat behind them. “Only because you asked so nicely,” he says, finally indulging my request.

I gasp softly as he slips a finger inside me, a second one quickly joining the first as I arch my back into his touch. 

“Oh, honey, you’re soaked ,” Peeta says, his voice practically purring in delighted approval.

“It’s like I—” Thrust. “I told yo—” Thrust . “Told you.” He eases his pace for a moment in order to let me finish my sentence. “You’re the one who doesn’t realize the effect you have on me now,” I pant.

“Then why don’t you show me?” He continues pumping his now-slick fingers inside me, focusing his thumb on my clit in slow, circular strokes. I squirm under his touch, at the molten desire, the pressure pooling in my core. But he senses this, and his free hand slides down to my ass, pulling me against him, holding me about as still as can be expected in this situation.

Between his teasing words and swirling fingers, he has me totally and utterly at his mercy, and I don’t care. And there’s only one thing that could make this moment better.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

A look of confusion flickers briefly across his face, but it’s gone in an instant, and he doesn’t wait long enough for me to register his next expression before his lips are crashing into mine, and I can’t think of anything but the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his fingers between my legs.

It’s not long before the pressure inside me builds to a breaking point, my moans muffled against his mouth as I buck my hips involuntarily against his never-ceasing fingers. I ball his shirt in my fist, pulling him even closer as I shudder in his arms. 

“Oh, Peeta ,” I groan. 

I throw my head back in blazing ecstasy as my vision begins to blur at the edges, stars bursting behind my eyes. No, not behind my eyes. I blink hard and the night sky slides into focus. 

There’s no ceiling here, no walls. Just him. Just us.

I collapse against his chest and he cradles my head against him as I pant through the throes of my climax, breathing him in. 

There’s the familiar scent of his lavender soap, the faint, intoxicating smell of sweat and sex. Underneath it, woodsmoke and vanilla from whatever treat he was baking earlier in the day. A hint of peppermint on his breath from the mint he snuck from the party.

And around us. Sawdust. Rust on weathered tools. The scent of dew drops on grass blades in the Meadow wafting through the airy bones of my home.

Peeta presses his lips to my forehead, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. There’s an intensity there that sends a shiver down my spine. 

An intensity that frankly makes me want to run.

But simultaneously keeps me frozen in place.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers.

Too close. It’s too close.

We’d agreed on casual, and him saying things like that . . . well, it makes me want to be anything but that. And I can’t put that on him.

I push him away lightly. Coyly. Drag a finger to the hem up my dress, bunching it up around my waist. Bend myself over the work bench, baring myself to him. Grab his hands, placing them on the small of my waist. “Then fuck me.” 

I look back over my shoulder to see his mouth half-parted in awe.

“Please,” I whine, batting my eyelashes in a way that I hope comes across as sensual, wiggling my hips invitingly. 

I want him. Badly. But my emotional needs are starting to bleed over to my physical needs, and I can’t have that if I want to keep him.

His fingers tighten instinctively on my waist, but he still doesn’t move.

“Careful, baby,” he says. “If you keep saying such things to me, I might start to think you want me or something.”

I roll my eyes, even as I hear the clink of his belt buckle being undone, the rustling of his trousers. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

I gasp as he pushes himself inside me.

We’d slept together countless times before, but never like this. No, this felt different. Deeper. In a way I didn’t know was possible. In a way that sets my body on fire.

I lay down my cheek on the smooth silk stitching of his jacket, grip the cold, biting metal edges of the table to the point of my knuckles turning white. I thought I’d (unfortunately) come to know the phrase being ‘weak in the knees,’ but never so literally — I was struggling to hold myself up at all, with each thrust sending such a powerful wave of pleasure through my body that I was starting to seriously doubt if I’d regain control over my legs again.

And then the sensation is gone when he withdraws himself entirely.

I whine in protest, but am immediately cut off by him flipping me back over to face him and lifting me up onto the table. He lays me down gently on his jacket, and my heart drops into my stomach when he pulls my hips to the edge, causing me to reflexively link my legs around him as he nudges at my entrance.

“I want to see you,” he says, his voice low, urgent.

My lips seem to have lost their ability to form words, so I just nod instead before he plunges inside of me once more. 

I take it back, this position is different in a way I can’t fully capture in words. A visceral, feral joining of our bodies.

Physically, it’s incredibly similar to sex we’ve had in the past. But between the positioning and the eye contact, the mix of unbridled lust and blatant adoration on his face, and the fluttering in my chest, he’s putting me at great risk of saying something I won’t be able to take back.

With all the movement, a few of my hairpins have fallen out, leaving my hair almost as messy and undone as me. The remaining pins begin to slowly buckle under the weight of my hair, causing the curls to tumble down my shoulders.

I bring up a hand to push back my hair, but Peeta catches my hand. 

“Don’t. Leave it,” he says.

So I do.

He threads his fingers through my hair, combing them through my curls. “Oh, Katniss . . .”

My heart thunders in my chest as he shifts his grip, anchoring my hips to the edge of the bench before thrusting back inside me, just as slow, just as deliberate. I let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

He rocks back into me, finding a devilish rhythm — not rushed, not rough, just deep. Intentional. Every roll of his hips making my breath catch in my throat.

I clutch at his shoulders, my legs tightening around his waist for leverage as his jacket slips slightly beneath me with our movement, the fabric catching against the sweat slicking my back.

He lowers his forehead to mine, breathing ragged. “You feel amazing.”

I tilt my jaw up to kiss him — not frenzied this time. Lingering. Soft. 

But just as insatiable. 

His hand slides under one of my thighs, adjusting the angle, and my whole body arches up with the change — a cry slipping out of my throat before I can bite it back. He groans, the sound torn straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers against my mouth.

That pressure inside me is mounting again, coiling tighter and hotter with every thrust. Peeta buries his face in my neck, lips brushing my skin and rhythm growing erratic like he’s barely hanging on, and for a second, I think he might let go first.

But it’s me.

It’s always me.

The world shatters around me for the second time tonight, my entire body tensing up, my blood turning to whitehot ichor. I bury my face in his shoulder, trying desperately to muffle my cry of pleasure.

He follows me seconds later with a low, guttural groan, holding me tightly against him as he spills into me, clutching me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

And for a moment, I think I might be.

I expect him to let go of me after that. 

And for a moment, he does. 

He withdraws, pulling his trousers up and tugging my dress down slightly.

But his arms just move right back into place and continue holding me against him. He rests his cheek on top of my head, catching his breath.

“Home?” he finally whispers into my hair.

I nod my head. “Yeah.”

He backs up, giving me enough space to hop off the table and offering me a hand. I don’t accept it at first, but after my first foot touches down again, I realize just how wobbly my legs have become and almost immediately have to lean back against the table for stability. I peek up at his face, at the satisfied smirk that lingers there.

I glare at his expression. “Not a word,” I say sternly.

He just smiles wider. “Wasn’t gonna say anything.”

He kneels down in front of me, smoothing down my dress before rising again and grabbing his jacket from the table, draping it around my shoulders. He offers me his hand again, and this time, I take it.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

His or mine? I wonder as we wind down the empty Seam alleyways, though I suppose there’s not much of a difference anymore.

As we approach the town square and begin to enter the newly finished developments, dozens of partygoers stream past us, going home for the evening. We’re almost back to the town square when I see him again.

“Gale,” I say.

“Katniss. Peeta. I thought you left a while ago,” he says, gesturing between us.

“We did,” I say, my cheeks burning. “We were just—”

“Just visiting her old house in the Seam. Checking up on the construction process,” interjects Peeta smoothly. 

It was such an odd situation I could almost laugh — I’m standing here with my dress wrinkled and hair tousled, a sheen of sweat on my forehead and Peeta’s jacket wrapped around me. Not to mention the evidence of what we just did still lingering, sticking between my thighs. But Gale doesn’t need to know that.

Gale raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press. “Right.” He directs his attention to me. “Will I see you again while I’m here? I leave tomorrow night.”

“I doubt it,” I say, leaning into Peeta ever so slightly. “I’m pretty tired, so I don’t think it’ll be a hunting day tomorrow and Johanna was talking about some sort of get-together at Delly’s house in the evening. But safe travels back to Two, Gale. Say hi to the kids and Hazelle for me.”

He gives me a tight smile. “I’ll do that. I suppose I’ll see you around, Katniss.”

“See you around, Gale,” I say.

“Hey, Gale?” says Peeta. “It was good to see you again.”

Gale turns to walk away. “Um, yeah, you too,” he says before disappearing down the alleyway.

When he’s walked completely out of sight I whack Peeta playfully, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re so mean.”

“What? I was being nice,” he says, but there’s a twinkle behind his eyes. 

I bump my shoulder into him. “You’re impossible,” I mumble, but a smile plays on my lips.

“Mmhm, but you like that,” he says, wrapping his arms around me from behind and planting a kiss on my cheek.

I do. And that’s the terrifying part — I loved all of it.

Gale stumbling upon us in such a condemning, disheveled state. The obvious causation being Peeta. Even the evidence he couldn’t see, marking me as another man’s. Peeta acting like I’m his, even if it’s just to keep away unwanted advances — it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

And that scares me.

Chapter Text

Fuck .

I maneuver awkwardly out of bed, trying to clench my legs together to avoid touching anything and trying not to wake up Peeta as I sit up and do an odd little speed-walk to my bathroom.

I pull down my underwear and all of the breath rushes out of my lungs in a heavy sigh.

The black fabric is tinted an unmistakable dark red, and the sharp tang of blood reaches my nostrils. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment washes over me. Peeta was right — the physical confirmation that we won’t have a little Ronan of our own anytime soon settles my nerves more than anything else in the world. But I can already feel the soreness that has crept into my breasts and between my legs, the unforgiving, throbbing pain in my abdomen, and I know that the next few days will be anything but soothing.

All I want to do is just curl up back in bed and sleep through the rest of this week, but apparently my body won’t be letting me do any of that. 

I toss the soiled panties into the sink and rinse them under the tap, watching the rust colored water run down the drain, waiting for it to go clear before tossing them in the laundry basket in the corner of the room. Peeta’s shirt that I’ve taken to sleeping in follows closely behind it before I reach for the shower faucet and twist it to nearly as hot as it will go.

I step into the warm rain as steam already starts to billow throughout the room and I sink to the tiled floor. I pull my knees to my chest and lean my head against my forearm, closing my eyes as I let the water stream down my aching body.

I guess it isn’t enough for society to think I’m weird for not wanting children — my body has to hate me too.

The warmth of the shower helps infinitesimally, but no matter how many adjustments I make to how I am sitting, I can’t seem to find comfort in any position I try. Standing is out of the question; it’s miserable to hold myself up. Laying on my back just hurts more with gravity pressing down on me. I can’t lay on my side without getting water in my ears. Sitting is okay, but hard to do without doubling over and clutching at my stomach, as if I could claw through the skin there and remove my angry uterus straight from the source.

I’m starting to think the years of missed menstruation I had when living on the brink of starvation or too stressed for my body to function normally were more of a luxury than anything. Even the hunger pains were nothing in comparison to this — at least those were curable.

I hear the door to the bathroom crack open, listening to the familiar set of uneven footsteps that pad quietly across the floor. The shower curtain rustles as someone pulls it back, but I refuse to raise my head from where it rests against my arms. To move myself at all right now sounds unbelievably uncomfortable.

“Katniss?” says Peeta, his voice still gruff from sleep. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. Fuck, what am I doing? He’s just trying to be nice. I breathe out slowly, concentrating on making my voice level, even as another rolling wave of pain pierces my stomach. “I just want to be alone right now, okay?”

I’m met with silence, and after a moment, I start to think he may have left. But then I feel a hand tucking a loose strand of wet hair behind my ear, a pair of lips leaving the ghost of a kiss on my shoulder.

“Whatever you need,” he says quietly, and I listen as his footsteps slowly retreat, hearing the door click shut behind him.

Shit, shit shit. Why was I so dismissive? Why was I so mean? This should be what I want, right? The boy I have feelings for is going out of his way to take care of me, to make sure I’m feeling okay. 

Or at least okay as I can be given the circumstances.

Typically, I wouldn’t say anything. Not that I could keep it a secret even if I wanted to. Unfortunately it tends to be quite obvious when I rotate exclusively between my bed, the bath,  and the couch, eat every single sweet Peeta and Jo have left around the house, and even my patience for Peeta begins to run thin for about five days out of the month. But this would be my first cycle since we’ve started sleeping together in more ways than one, and I’m not really sure how to act.

I should tell him, shouldn’t I? That is, if he doesn’t already know based on our short and not-very-civil (from my side) interaction. I mean, this concerns him too now. He’ll probably be just as relieved as me that there’s no mini-us taking up residence in my womb. Plus, he deserves an explanation as to why I likely won’t be letting him touch me in the next few days.

Then again, it’s my body. My problem. Not his.

He’s got work to do and friends of his own to spend time with who won’t be trying to bite his head off every time he tries to talk to them.

I don’t need to make a bigger deal out of it than it is.

I linger in the shower for longer than I should — long enough for the water to run cold, which is coincidentally also long enough to get yelled at by Johanna for said water turning cold, her voice carrying all the way downstairs. I wrap myself reluctantly in the darkest towel I can find before creeping shyly back into my room to retrieve a clean pair of underwear and steal a fresh t-shirt from Peeta’s drawer, loosing a breath of relief when I see that its owner is nowhere to be found.

I dress quickly, eager to curl up in a fetal position in bed so I can wallow in my misery in peace, but when I push back the covers, I find a hot water bottle already warming my side of the bed. Trailing my fingers across the duvet cover, I realize that the bedsheets have been changed to a fresh set too.

The thoughtfulness of it all causes tears to prick in my eyes, which is dumb, because Peeta does this sort of thing all the time.

I know it doesn’t have any deeper meaning — it just means he’s kind. Really, truly kind.

I blink away the fogginess threatening to overtake my vision, and crawl under the covers, pulling the duvet over my head, leaving only an opening for breathing, and tugging the hot water bottle against my stomach.

The relief is instantaneous, and I nearly groan out loud as the warmth seeps into my body, softening the worst of the pain.

I hear the bedroom door open, but this time, I’m feeling well enough to poke my head out from under the duvet and peek at my visitor. Peeta walks back in, carrying a cup of chamomile tea and a warm, gooey cheese bun, setting both on the nightstand before sinking down on the edge of the bed beside me.

I push myself into a sitting position, grabbing greedily for the cheese bun and immediately taking a gigantic bite out of it.

Peeta’s lips curl into an amused smile at my enthusiasm. “Y’know that’s not the thing that’s gonna make you feel better, honey.”

My chewing slows, a slight shiver going down my spine at his casual use of the pet name, but I just swallow and offer him a small smile in return. “The tea makes me feel better here .” I use my free hand to grab one of his and lower it to on top of where I have the hot water bottle pressed against my abdomen. “This,” I say, holding up the cheese bun pointedly, “makes me feel better here .” I move our hands from my stomach to just over my heart.

“Well, you’re the daughter of a healer, so I guess I’ll just have to trust you on the medicinal benefits of cheese buns,” he says with a chuckle, gently withdrawing his hand from my chest.

I give him a close-mouthed grin, my cheeks puffed up with the mouthful of food, and he laughs lightly again.

“Just in case you are wrong though, I’ve got a batch of brownies in the oven,” he says, and it’s only then that I finally note the stray dashes of flour and cocoa powder on his navy blue shirt. “Johanna tells me chocolate is actually helpful, though I’m not sure if that counts for baked goods.”

I’m finished with the cheese bun in a matter of bites and wash it down with a sip of chamomile tea. The sweet combination of honey and chamomile trickles down my throat, and seems to have the same soothing effect of the hot water bottle, only from the inside this time. I close my eyes for a moment and take another sip, basking in the warm tendrils that snake out from my stomach to the rest of my body.

I open my eyes again to find him staring at me intently. “Huh? Oh, I — I’m not sure either,” I say, startling under his gaze. “But I will very happily be your guinea pig to test it out on.”

“Jo said the same damn thing,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

I pull the covers up over my chest a bit more. “Thank you for changing the sheets, by the way,” I say, running a hand over the kitten-soft cotton. A thought occurs to me. “I didn’t . . .?”

He nods, but rushes to comfort me as my cheeks grow hot. “It was nothing, really. I don’t mind.”

But it’s not enough to stop my cheeks from flushing red. 

So much for keeping this my problem.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says good-naturedly. “I’m serious — I don’t mind.”

I cover my face half-heartedly with the duvet. “Maybe I do . I don’t want you to have to deal with all —” I gesture wildly with my hands. “— this!”

He catches my wrists in his hands, gently closing his fingers around them and slowing my erratic movements. “Katniss, if this is all it takes to selfishly have you to myself for however long we last together, and knowing the peace of mind it brings you, I am more than okay with dealing with all this once a month.”

“But—”

“Katniss,” he says, dropping my hands and pulling back the duvet to meet my eyes. “I do not care.”

Tears sting my eyes for the second time already today, and I fight to keep them from falling. “I hate this,” I say, unable to keep the pout from my face or the crack from my voice.

He pulls me to his chest, pressing his lips to my forehead. “I know,” he says. “If I could take it all away, I would.”

“Stupid hormones,” I splutter.

“The stupidest,” he agrees, stroking my hair softly.

At that point, I hear Jo’s voice from the other room. “Lover Boy, your brownies are almost done!”

He smiles apologetically at me. “I should probably go get those.”

“Yes. That’s probably a good idea,” I sniffle.

What am I doing? Why am I crying? Why am I crying into his chest? Why is he letting me?

It doesn’t mean anything , I remind myself. It’s just my body betraying me and my friend taking care of me through it all. Simple as that.

After he leaves, I manage to drag myself out of bed, holding the hot water bottle flush to my body even as I transfer myself to the couch. I flop down in exhaustion when I get there, even though all I’ve done this morning is a whole lot of nothing.

A pillow comes flying at my face from across the room, and I look up to see the thrower of the projectile scowling at me. “Since when does having a period entitle you to use up all the hot water in the house?” Jo asks accusingly.

I just prop the pillow behind my head and stick my tongue out at her. “I don’t feel good.”

“You’d think you were dying of plague with all the dramatics you’ve triggered with Lover Boy over there,” she says.

“I’m open to alternatives,” I say.

“Good,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. She quickly returns carrying two small, blue tablets and a glass of water and shoves them into my hands. “Take these.”

Pain relievers. Mild ones at best, but the kind my mother used to use incredibly sparingly, only in the most dire of circumstances. Never for menstrual cramps.

“I’m fine,” I insist, pushing them back at her. 

“No, you’re not!” Johanna and Peeta say at the same time, his voice echoing over from the kitchen. 

I glare at the entrance to the kitchen, even though I know he can’t see me, before turning my narrowed gaze to Jo. “Ugh, only if it’ll get you to shut up.”

“Deal,” she says, dropping the pills back in my hand and putting the glass of water on the table next to me. 

I toss back the pills, swallowing them with a big gulp of water, even going as far as opening my mouth and sticking out my tongue to show her I swallowed them. “Did it. See?”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, sinking down on the opposite end of the couch from me. “Gross, I believe you.” She turns her attention to an unfamiliar card game set up on the coffee table that I hadn’t previously noticed. Seven stacks of varying amounts of cards are haphazardly lined up beside each other, with four smaller ones at the top and the main deck to the side.

I watch her draw three cards from the deck at a time, sorting them out amongst the stacks in a way that must make sense to her, but could not be more confusing for me. After only a few rounds, I lose all interest entirely in trying to figure out how the game works and revert to cradling my hot water bottle and resting my eyes.

A moment later, Peeta walks out from the kitchen carrying a platter of brownies — so fresh they’re not even cut out from their form yet — into the living room and sets them on the coffee table, and suddenly I’m wide awake again. I grab the knife he brought with them, eagerly cutting myself a slice and popping it in my mouth before curling back up on my side.

“Be careful,” he warns, as he walks back to the kitchen to grab something else, “they’re —”

“Hot!” I cry around the molten brownie burning my mouth.

He grimaces as he walks back in, handing me a glass of milk. “Yeah. That.”

I swallow painfully, my eyes watering and mouth now raw from the hot food as I chug the cold glass of milk to cool the burns.

Peeta shakes his head, chuckling. “You just can’t make things easy for yourself, huh?” He moves to sit between Jo and I, and I shift my legs to the side to make space for him, but he just pulls them back into his lap when he sits down, preserving my fetal position. He brushes his fingers absentmindedly up and down my leg.

“Solitaire?” he asks Johanna.

“Mmm,” she mumbles in confirmation, not even bothering to look up from the cards as her hands begin to move with expert speed, sorting the stacks by symbol into their new piles at the top.

“Nerd,” I chuckle.

Jo’s eyes dart away from her game for a split second, and though she doesn’t say anything, her I’ll kill you glare is enough for me to suddenly be extremely interested in the baked goods again.

I reach for another brownie. They’ve cooled down ever so slightly since my last mishap, and this one’s warm, not hot, and gooey, melting in my mouth in a chocolaty, buttery, sugary swirl of flavor.

“Better?” Peeta asks me, and I nod enthusiastically in response. “Good.” His eyes dart down to my mouth before drifting back up to my eyes. 

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “You’ve just got a little . . .” He gestures to the corner of his own mouth, and I mirror the opposite, swiping at the side of my mouth. His eyes crinkle as he reaches out to brush a stray crumb from the other corner of my lips, causing my breath to hitch for some reason. “No, I meant this side.”

Jo — who finished her card game only a moment ago before snagging a chocolaty treat of her own — snorts, chocolate smearing her own mouth. “You guys are cute. It’s disgusting.”

I glare at her again, widening my eyes in a way I can only hope is conveyed as “Shut up.”

She just grins smugly, reaching for another brownie.

“Watch yourself, Jo, or else I’m only making enough for the two of us next time,” Peeta threatens.

“Please.” Jo huffs a laugh. “You love me too much to deny me of freshly baked goods, especially when you’re already making them for your girl—”

“Jo!” I cut her off.

She holds both her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I can tell when my presence isn’t wanted. I guess I’ll just go help with rebuilding efforts. Maybe Delly needs help putting the finishing touches on her new house.” Her eyes have a mischievous twinkle to them.

“Leave her alone,” says Peeta sternly. “I’m serious — a relationship is the last thing she needs right now.”

Jo backs away towards the front door, practically skipping with glee. She stops in front of the mirror in the entry hall, fluffing out her dark brown pixie cut and licking away the chocolate at the corners of her mouth before blowing a kiss at us. “Who said anything about a relationship?” She squeals and giggles evilly, dodging the pillow Peeta throws at her this time and shutting the door quickly behind her.

I can’t help but laugh with her, even after Peeta turns back to me, his face a mask of confusion and seriousness. He shakes his head at the closed front door, as if to clear it of the memory that just happened. “What are we gonna do with her?”

“Not a clue,” I say. But, unfortunately for me, I can feel the pills she gave me starting to kick in. I hate to admit it, but she was right. She usually is. I rest my head against one of the other throw pillows, my eyes fluttering shut as I finally start to relax, the pain in my abdomen fading to a dull ache. 

Peeta must notice this, as his next words are, “You feeling any better?” 

I nod. “Don’t tell her, please.”

He huffs a low laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Your secret is safe with me.” He runs a hand along the length of my leg.

After a few minutes of us laying tangled together like this in comfortable silence, Peeta clears his throat. “Y’know, I too have to get to work at some point . . .” he trails off, starting to extract himself from my limbs. 

“No!” I whine, grabbing his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”

A thousand emotions flit across his face, and for a moment I think he might actually be considering it, but then he just gazes at me softly. “Katniss, people need bread.”

“Well, I need you,” I say, crossing my arms.

Peeta freezes, searching my face. “That’s not fair,” he whispers.

My lips are parted slightly, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m not even sure where that came from. “Okay, fine, maybe I don’t,” I relent after a moment. “But I really don’t want you to go.”

“You could come with me,” he suggests. “You were gonna sleepover tonight anyways.” He extracts himself without resistance this time and stands, offering me his hand. 

My lips curl into a smile at his invitation, but it fades just as quickly as it appears when I remember the situation at hand. “About that . . .” I say.

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure I’m feeling up to any sort of . . . our usual activities tonight. It’ll probably be just that — sleeping,” I warn him.

“Katniss?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Once again — I don’t care. How many times do I have to convince you that you mean a helluva lot more to me than the sex?” he asks in exasperation. “We slept together before we started sleeping together, and if that’s all that goes on, I am totally fine with that. I don’t think you realize how much power you have over me.” 

My cheeks flush. “I’m just letting you know.”

“And I’m just letting you know — you mean so much more to me than that.” He doesn’t wait for a response, he just grabs my hand himself, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. “Now, come on. I’ve got work to do and a beautiful girl to look after.”

“You’re sure?”

“Katniss,” he says, leaning his forehead against mine. “You are the only thing in my life that I’m 100 percent certain about.”

I draw back slightly, shooting him a confused look. “What?” What the hell does he mean by that?

He sighs. “Nothing,” he says. “Never mind. Grab your brownies and whatever else you need to bring with you.”

I stalk off to my room to grab a few pairs of my ugly, ancient underpants that are deeply unflattering, yet insanely comfortable. No need to bring out the pretty, lacy stuff — I don’t want to ruin those, especially not when there will be nobody taking them off but me anyways.

“Oh, and Katniss?”

“Yes?” I ask, pausing at the entrance to the hallway.

“Just for the record, if you did want to do anything other than sleeping, I don’t care what’s going on with you, I’ll do anything you want.” The intensity of his voice sends a shudder through my body. “Matter of fact, I’ve heard it can actually help you feel better.” He smiles wickedly. “So, y’know. It’s up to you. But just in the off chance that you change your mind, remember I’m not the one saying no.”

My stomach dips, and I feel my cheeks go red again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble, turning back towards my room.

And it’s a real effort to still the fluttering in my heart that accompanies it all.

Chapter Text

“I think he hates me.”

“He’s got good taste,” says Haymitch, tossing another handful of oats to the goose that just hissed at me for getting too close. 

I glare at the bird, who only mirrors my malice. “I swear, Haymitch, if that thing snaps at me one more time, we’re having goose for dinner.”

“I never took you as someone who’d be scared of geese,” chuckles Peeta from where he sits, lounging lazily in a chair on our mentor’s back patio.

“Birds should not have teeth!” I exclaim. “Geese are good for food, and nothing more.”

The goose hisses again, as if he’s actively listening to my words, and I take a step back, less than eager to give the bird an excuse to turn those teeth on me.

“Nonsense,” says Haymitch with a frown. “Sid here is great company.” He gestures at the mean one staring me down. “Here,” he says, tossing me the feed bag. “Try feeding him — I’m sure he’ll like you if you actually make an effort to be likeable. Though, now that I think about it, with your charisma, you’re probably better off just accepting the fact that he’ll hate you forever.”

I catch the bag easily, flashing a scowl at the old man. “Have you ever considered your birds are just evil?” I ask, plunging my hand into the bag of oats and grabbing a fistful.

“Have you ever considered that you might be the evil one in their eyes?” he asks pointedly.

I swing back my arm to toss the food, not bothering to look away from Haymitch. “That dumb bird wants to kill—”

My words are cut off by a loud honking noise, and my eyes dart to Sid, whose wings are flapping wildly as he charges directly toward me.

I instinctively retreat a few steps, but in my haste, I’ve failed to notice my sudden proximity to the goose pond, and the world slips out from underneath me as my foot slides on a patch of reeds and I go plunging into the cold, algae-ridden water.

I come up gasping for air a moment later, pulling a stray reed out of my hair as I emerge to see Haymitch calmly herding Sid and his less-violent siblings away from where I stand in the waist-deep pool, water running down my body in rivulets. The mud is soft and slippery beneath my sneakers as I reach a leg up on the bank to climb out, muttering obscenities at one member of the flock in particular.

“I’m gonna kill that fucking thing,” I say, dragging myself up from the water and taking a step toward the birds on the other side of the yard.

“Like hell you will,” snarls Haymitch.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of large, warm hands on my waist, pressing against my skin through my soaking wet shirt and pulling me back from my murder mission as my mentor glares at me from across the grassy garden. 

“No, you won’t,” says Peeta. “You’re above hunting pets.”

“I’m really not,” I insist, twisting around in his arms, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Yes, you are,” he chuckles. “Besides, I think you’ve already made one nemesis today. Don’t need to add Haymitch to that list as well.”

I meet his eyes, which are illuminated brilliantly in the midday sunlight and have taken on a lovely turquoise hue around the edges of his pupils that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before, and whatever argument I was about to make immediately melts in my mind. 

I shake my head to clear it, recovering just enough to whine one basic sentence: “That bird wants me dead.”

“I don’t blame him!” calls Haymitch, who starts walking back in our direction. “Poor Sid just wanted a snack, and then you come over to his home and start antagonizing the little guy.”

“Me? Antagonizing him? Fu—”

“I think we’d better go,” says Peeta to Haymitch, flashing him an apologetic smile as I try to wriggle my way out of his grip to go throttle the damn bird. “We’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

“Keep your girl away from my geese,” he responds grumpily.

Ugh. “I’m not—”

“Will do,” says Peeta, grabbing my hand tight and half-dragging me to the side gate that will lead us back out to the street, only releasing me once he’s tugged me safely inside the entryway of my house.

I turn on my heel, sending water droplets flying through the foyer as my hair whips around with me. “What are you doing?” I seethe. “You seriously can’t be that attached to those geese.”

Peeta places a hand on each one of my shoulders. “Katniss, your shirt is fucking see-through.”

Oh.

I look down, and sure enough, the thin cotton fabric of my white camisole clings to my breasts, leaving nothing up to imagination.

I scramble to cross my arms over my chest, shrugging off his hands as I pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers on my breasts for a moment before meeting my eyes again.

“Just leave the bird alone, please,” he says. “It doesn’t do you any good to get on Haymitch’s bad side by killing his pets.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And as much as I don’t mind the view when fishing you out of the goose pond, I’d rather not share the show with anyone else, Haymitch least of all.”

My face grows hot. Not from embarrassment, but something . . . different. Something I can’t quite place.

Maybe I’m reading too much into his words, but from where I stand, he sounds almost . . . jealous? No, that’s not right.

Possessive.

“Haymitch couldn’t care less. He’s like a . . . well, I don’t know. But he’s family — he’s far more worried about that damn goose than the opacity of my shirt.”

“Maybe I care,” says Peeta.

I raise an eyebrow. “And why would you do that?”

“Maybe because I like being the only one who gets to see that much of you.”

My lips curve into a smug smile. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing one friend says to another.”

“We’re not just friends, though,” he says.

I swear I can feel my heart stutter to a stop. 

He breaks into a grin. “We’re friends with benefits.”

“Fair enough,” I say lightheartedly, but it’s an effort to keep the note of bitterness out of my voice.

Peeta presses his lips to my forehead. “Now go take a shower,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “You smell like a goose.”

I drop my mouth open in disbelief. “You are so mean.”

“I’m also right,” he says.

Fine.

I can be mean too.

I kick off my soggy shoes and peel off my socks before sliding my fingers underneath the hem of my shirt, lifting my camisole off in one smooth motion, baring my chest to him entirely.

“Katniss,” he groans as I unbutton my soaking wet shorts, tugging them off and kicking them to join my top.

“What?” I say innocently, pausing with my fingers hooked through the waistband of my panties. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You being the only one who gets to see me this way?”

He stares at me hungrily, but just crosses his arm and leans back against the wall. “What about Johanna?”

I smile sweetly, pulling down my underwear and leaving it with the rest of my wet clothing. “Oh, she won’t be home for a few hours — she’s on construction duty today.”

“You cruel, cruel creature,” he says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I respond, sauntering past him and heading down the hallway to his en suite bathroom. I dare a quick glance over my shoulder as I turn the corner into the bedroom, and sure enough, he hasn’t moved a muscle, but that doesn’t stop him from staring, his gaze practically setting my body aflame with the amount of heat behind his eyes.

I take my sweet time turning on the shower. Waiting for the water to turn hot. Stepping into the warm rain. Lathering up with the bar of lavender soap that Peeta bought for me, a scent that I’ve started to associate exclusively with him. 

I’m nearly done rinsing off when I hear the bathroom door open and footsteps.

“Couldn’t take it, huh?” I ask teasingly.

The shower curtain rips aside, revealing a very intense-looking Peeta. “Not a chance,” he says, his voice dangerously soft.

“Wha—”

I’m interrupted by Peeta grabbing me by the waist and hoisting me over his shoulder as if I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes. I hear him twist the faucet off, and then he’s spinning us around, walking back towards our room.

“What’re you doing?” I ask in utter bewilderment. A second later, he’s dropping me onto the bed, and suddenly I’m on my back staring up at him, my heart racing.

“No more games,” he says adamantly, kneeling down on the carpeting at the side of the bed, positioning himself between my legs. 

I start to sit up, leaning back on my elbows. “I don’t always have to go first, you can—”

“Not a chance.” He slides his hands underneath each of my thighs, tugging me to the edge of the bed, causing me to fall flat on my back again as he drapes each of my legs over a respective shoulder.

My stomach dips in anticipation of what I know comes next, and as he lowers his mouth to me, maintaining eye contact all the while, I can feel that familiar molten heat already pooling in my core.

From the first stroke of his tongue, I’m already bunching the duvet in my clenched fists, arching my back into his touch.

I missed this. Oh, how I’ve missed this.

He flattens his tongue, licking all the way up from my entrance to my clit, and sucking lightly when he reaches the latter, eliciting a loud moan from me.

“You have no idea how much I missed your taste,” he mumbles against me, the words on his lips sending infernal vibrations through my body. “I hated keeping my mouth off you.”

Well, that makes two of us.

It had taken all of one day for me to break my “hands-off” policy when I had my cycle last week. 

One day.

My only stipulation was that it would become exclusively hands-on, at least until I could guarantee a slightly less messy — um — experience. Peeta was not particularly thrilled with that boundary, but didn’t push the subject, and very quickly got over himself when I invited him into the shower with me only a moment later.

And I’ve regretted it ever since the words came out of my mouth.

Apparently he did too.

A shudder runs through my body and I bite back another moan as he resumes those fiendishly slow, swirling motions with his tongue, expertly switching up the pressure as if he has some sort of direct line to my body to know exactly what I need.

He pulls back slightly, grinning deviously, and it’s almost embarrassingly difficult not to let out a whine when he removes his mouth. “Don’t be quiet on my account.”

I prop myself up on my elbows as best as I can with my hips pinned in the position he’s got me in, narrowing my eyes at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s midday and the window is wide open,” I remind him.

As if on cue, a gentle summer breeze tumbles through the window, caressing my naked body and sending a shiver down my spine when it reaches my still-wet hair, causing my already-peaked nipples to harden even further with the chill it incites.

“And?”

“And we have neighbors,” I say, but I’m already missing the touch of his tongue on my body, the throbbing feeling between my legs only amplifies that feeling. I need him to stop talking, and soon.

He smirks. “Good, then they’ll know you’re mine,” he says.

I open my mouth to argue, but I never get around to it, because when he buries his face between my thighs once more, whatever I was going to say simply morphs into a moan on my lips.

Mine.

Did he just call me his?

Whatever that means, I can’t be bothered to interpret right now. 

No, right now I’m tangling my fingers in his curls, fighting against the ever-increasing pressure building in my core. Heat simmers beneath my skin, and I feel my legs trying to press together reflexively, but he just tightens his fingers on my thighs, keeping them apart, keeping me bared to his mercy. 

He removes one hand from my leg, snaking it up my body — skimming over my hip and the curve of my waist, coming to a stop at my breast. I gasp as he runs his fingers gently over my nipple, the sensation combining seamlessly with the strokes of his tongue to send my body into a state of pure ecstasy. My breaths become ragged, uneven as I try to maintain any semblance of control. But it’s all too much.

I cry out as the world shatters around me and I drag my fingers from Peeta’s hair down to his shoulders, his arms, scratching my fingernails all the way down, as if that could possibly help me keep a hold on my sanity. My hips try in vain to buck against his touch, but I’m still pinned in position, and there’s nothing I can do but throw back my head as my body shudders through its climax, his never-ceasing tongue not daring to free me until I’m all but a trembling, limp mess in his arms.

He gently extracts my legs from each of his shoulders, letting them drop softly onto the edge of the mattress before standing up, his eyes ravenously scanning over my aching, shivering body. “You look so beautiful when you let yourself become such a mess for me.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I manage to whisper between panted breaths, my heart thundering in my chest. “You know, when you let me . . . anyways — your turn.”

He nods, already slipping off his shirt over his head, his fumbling fingers making quick work of his trousers and boxers. And though it takes a bit of maneuvering for him to get them over his prosthesis, I think this may just be the fastest I’ve ever seen him undress.

He leans forward, kneeling over me on the bed and pressing his lips to mine, his kiss demanding and hungry — no trace of the gentle, affectionate ones that I’ve grown so used to.

I open my mouth to him, deepening the kiss, allowing his sweeping, swirling tongue to tangle with mine, the two of us instantly finding a perfect rhythm with each other, as if our very bodies have been meticulously crafted to compliment each other flawlessly.

Peeta pulls away slightly, resting his forehead against mine as he gazes at me under lowered lashes. “How are you feeling?”

I stare back up at him, wrinkling my brow in confusion. “Fine. Why?”

“Because ever since that night at your old house in the Seam, all I’ve been thinking about is bending you over again,” he says. He laughs lightly. “But you seemed a bit shaky, so I didn’t wanna push you into anything.”

I cup my hands on either side of his face, brushing a thumb over the shadow of stubble that lives there. “Peeta, I am better than fine. I’m, well . . . you know.” My cheeks flush. “I trust you completely.”

Something softens slightly in his eyes, but is quickly replaced by wicked desire. “Glad to hear it.”

I’m distantly aware of being flipped onto my stomach, and suddenly I can’t feel or hear or think about anything other than the feeling of his hands on my waist, my hips, my ass. I somehow manage to prop myself up on my hands and knees; he’s right — I’m shaky. But I can’t bring myself to care about it as he lines himself up at my entrance, nudging gently before pushing all the way in.

I let out an odd, strangled sound that sounds like somewhere between a gasp and a cry of pleasure, and it immediately takes all of my strength not to just collapse facedown in the pillows. The stretch, the pressure, the feeling of taking him — all of him — inside of me from this angle has me once again grasping at the sheets, my arm muscles already trembling wildly.

He draws his hips back slightly before slamming back into me, and I arch my back into his touch, moaning loudly, but this time, he releases a breathy groan of his own.

No, there would be no silencing myself from this.

On the next thrust, my trembling is starting to borderline on convulsions. But then there’s a pair of lips on my spine, pressing a gentle kiss there that sends a jolt of electricity through my body.

“It’s okay, love,” he says softly. “Just let go.”

So I do. 

I let my arms collapse beneath me, burying my face in a pillow. Now that I’m relieved of the task of holding myself upright, it’s all I can do to refrain from losing my mind in euphoria as he adjusts the angle and pushes somehow deeper inside of me.

Over, and over, and over, I let my cries and moans and groans be muffled by the pillow, feeling that pressure building higher and higher in my core again. I know Peeta’s not far behind, with his own breathing growing uneven, his rhythm growing more erratic with each thrust.

And then he’s got one arm slung across my chest, holding me up against him as his other hand snakes around my waist, his fingers easily finding their way to my clit where he starts circling them in small, precise motions, all while still moving his cock inside me.

“Fuck!” I breathe.

The effect is almost instant, the pressure and heat inside of me building to yet another crescendo. I feel my walls closing in on him, making each thrust tighter, the stretch aching so deliciously with each roll of his hips.

Until I can’t hold on anymore, and I could swear stars explode in the edges of my vision. And still, he hugs me against him, holding me through it all, even as he too cries out in pleasure, my name on his lips as he spills into me.

He finally releases his arms from around me, gently lowering me back down to the bed before withdrawing and flopping down beside me, still breathing heavily.

I turn my head to the side, still laying on my stomach as I peer up at him. 

I hate how beautiful he looks like this. The way the afternoon sunlight filters through the windows, casting shadows across the planes of his face and bathing his honey-colored curls in golden light. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I find myself reaching out, tracing my fingers lightly across the silvery scars dappled across the skin there.

He tilts his head towards me, gazing at me softly as he gives me a small smile. “What are you thinking?”

My hand stills on his chest.

I love you.

That’s what I’m really thinking.

But I can’t say that. To admit to what I feel would be the end of us as we know it. And for the life of me, I just can’t bring myself to do that.

I choose my words carefully. “I’m just . . . really grateful you’re in my life.”

He rolls to his side so that our faces are only a matter of millimeters apart, pressing a delicate kiss to the tip of my nose. “The feeling is mutual,” he says, his face splitting into a goofy grin.

Something flutters in my chest, and I can’t help but return his smile.

I scoot over, nestling my way into the crook of his arm, resting my head against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath me, even as my own pulse seems to be pitter-pattering erratically  through my veins.

And this is when I’m not making eye contact with him.

I am so incredibly fucked.

There’s an annoying ache behind my ribs when he finally untangles our limbs from each other and he reaches for his discarded clothing. “Do you have to go?” I whine.

Peeta chuckles. “Somebody has to get started on dinner, and as dear as you are to me, I’d prefer it wasn’t you.” He sits on the edge of the bed as he pulls his clothes back on, first his boxers, then his pants, before turning back to me. He kneels back on the mattress, leaning over me in a way that makes me seriously question whether or not I should just pull him back into bed with me, and brushes his lips against mine tenderly. “I’ll see you later. I’m sorry for interrupting your shower.” I watch open-mouthed as he snags his shirt off of the floor and slips it over his head, giving me one last wink before disappearing out my door and into the hallway.

That damn wink.

Half an hour later, I’m freshly showered — again — and tugging a clean sweater over my head when my phone starts ringing. At first I’m confused as to why anyone would be calling me, but a quick glance at the clock on my nightstand has me immediately ignoring it.

Until I can’t.

On the last ring, I find myself in the living room, reluctantly picking up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Miss Everdeen. This is quite a surprise,” says Dr. Aurelius, his voice already inciting a weird sinking feeling in my stomach.

I’m supposed to speak with the head doctor once a week per my court-ordered therapy sessions following the trial. He calls me every Thursday at five o’ clock sharp. And I’ve answered his phone call precisely once in all the time since I moved back to 12.

We go over the standard questions, the ones I expect. Why don’t I pick up the phone? I don’t feel like it. Do I know I’m legally obligated to and he can’t cover for me forever? Yes. Am I keeping up with my medications at least? Yes, Peeta makes sure of that. And that I take them with food? Yes, Peeta makes sure of that too.

Then there’s the big one: how am I?

“I’m fine,” I say.

I can hear Dr. Aurelius sigh on the other side of the line. “Miss Everdeen, we’ve been over this — don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste yours.”

I shrug, even though I know he can’t see me. “I’ve definitely been worse.”

“Do you care to elaborate on that?”

I stay silent.

“Katniss, you almost never pick up when I call you. In all the months I’ve supposedly been treating you, you’ve only answered once before. Why now?” he asks. “What’s changed?”

The worst part is — I really have no idea what prompted me to answer his call today.

I hate talking. If I wanted to talk to someone, I’d talk to Peeta. Or Johanna. Or Haymitch. Maybe even Annie. Delly, if I felt desperate enough. So why would I pick up the phone to have a chat with the head doctor from the Capitol who probably can’t even begin to comprehend everything I’ve been through?

But I can’t talk to Peeta about what’s really bothering me. Maybe Jo, but I’m not sure I could handle explaining to her the specifics of the situation I’ve gotten myself into. Haymitch is out of the question entirely. Annie and Delly are far too close to Peeta for the conversation to be truly confidential. 

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Peeta lately,” I say plainly.

“Last time we talked, you two were just getting back to being friends. How’s that going?”

My cheeks burn for some reason, even though I know Dr. Aurelius can’t see my expression. “We’re definitely close again. Closer than we used to be in some ways.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Well, if he must know, it makes me feel a lot of things — that’s kind of the problem. But I’m not gonna come out and tell him that. 

“Good. Safe, I mean,” I say. “I’m glad he’s back.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just . . . complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“We’re not in a relationship or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.

“Didn’t say you were,” says Dr. Aurelius. “But now that you bring it up, is that something you’re considering?”

Only in my mind. 

“Not really,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

“Then why would that be complicated?” he asks.

I pluck mindlessly at a loose thread on my skirt. “We do other stuff too,” I say quietly.

“Such as?”

My face goes red again. “We’ve been . . . intimate with each other. A lot.”

There’s a long pause on the line, and for a moment, I wonder if the call has dropped.

“I see. And the two of you have talked about this? You’re both okay with it?”

“We’ve discussed it,” I say. “He’s okay with it. I think.”

“What about you?”

I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I’m not not okay.”

Dr. Aurelius doesn’t dance around the subject. “Do you love him?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

But my silence seems to be answer enough for the head doctor, because the next thing he asks is: “Does he know?”

“I— I don’t think so,” I say, my voice suddenly taking on a shaky quality.

“Does he feel the same way?”

“He used to,” I say.

The doctor doesn’t let up. “And now?”

“Now? I have no idea,” I say. No, that’s a lie. “Or at least not in a romantic way. I know he loves me as a friend.”

“But you say he used to. What changed there?”

“What didn’t?” I scoff. 

A rare chuckle echoes from Dr. Aurelius’ side. “Fair enough. But now you’re sleeping together.”

“Yes. But it’s not like that,” I say hastily.

“Have you considered that it is like that? That maybe he feels the same way, but that you’ve both been hurt so badly that you’re terrified of scaring the other off, so you cope by being as close as you can without actually committing to one another?”

I hate him. I hate him so much.

“I think we’re done here,” I grumble.

“Katniss, I—”

I hang up the phone in its cradle with a satisfying click and stare at where it hangs on the wall, seriously considering whether or not I should just rip it out like Haymitch did with his all those years ago.

What an asshole.

As if what I have with Peeta was ever that simple.

Chapter Text

“Let go!”

An arm slams into my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs as I startle awake. 

What the hell?

“Peeta?” I wheeze groggily.

He’s on his back, arms splayed on either side of him, thrashing against invisible restraints. Damp curls stick to the cold sweat on his forehead, his face contorting in pain from whatever trick his mind plays on him.

“No,” he protests. “Please—”

I wriggle out from under his arm, leaning over his sleeping form and placing a palm lightly against his cheek. “Peeta, wake up,” I say firmly.

No response. 

“Peeta!” I shake his shoulder gently with my other hand.

His eyes flutter open, darting around before focusing on my face, his pupils dilating in fear for a split second before shrinking back to their usual size.

My heart sinks in my chest.

Shit . 

He’s been doing so well lately. I sometimes forget that while his nightmares used to be about losing me, somewhere along the line, I became a nightmare too. 

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

I shrink away, moving to withdraw my hand, but he interlaces his fingers with mine, holding it in place and leaning his face into my cupped hand. A faint shadow of scruff scratches my palm as he sighs deeply, closing his eyes and relaxing into my touch.

Maybe it’s risky, but I lean forward, bringing my head to rest on his chest. I listen to the slowing of his pounding heart, fighting to steady itself in the wake of his latest nightmare.

I start to think I’ve made a mistake in initiating this closeness, knowing that I’ve just been a figure of fear in his dreams, when his free hand comes up to cradle the back of my head against him. Fingers knot loosely in my hair at the nape of my neck, so heartbreakingly gentle — as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt me if he tightens his grip the slightest bit.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion and sleep.

I turn my face, resting my chin on his chest as I look up into his eyes. They’re rimmed with red and ringed with deep purple half-moons under each one, an all too familiar haunted quality reflecting in them. I stroke my thumb over his cheekbone in what I hope is a soothing motion. “You don’t ever have to apologize for having a nightmare. Not with me.”

His lips turn up into a small smile, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Whatever he’s seen in his sleep has rattled his waking world too. “Remind me again what I did to deserve you,” he says, half-joking.

Okay, so maybe he’s not as rattled as I thought if he’s already back to flirting.

But the fear I saw when he first awoke . . .

“Are you all right?” I ask softly. I almost don’t recognize my own voice, the tenderness that lies in every syllable. 

I must look as concerned as I feel, because Peeta rushes to reassure me. “I will be,” he says earnestly. 

I don’t trust him, of course. I sure wouldn’t be okay if it were me in his position, and after everything he’s been through . . . he must be lying for my benefit. 

He’s the one suffering. And he’s lying for my comfort.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

He stares at me pointedly. “Like you don’t believe me. I really am fine, Katniss.”

I study his face, unable to keep the doubt from creeping into my expression.

“You’re so bad at hiding what you’re thinking, darling,” he says, chuckling weakly. “How you fooled the entire country into thinking you loved me, I’ll never understand.”

“You made it easy.” The words come out of my mouth before I can think about the implications of what I’ve just suggested. “I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he says quickly, flashing a reassuring smile that boils my blood for some reason.

I snatch my hand back from his face, using it to prop myself up on his chest instead. “Stop doing that!” I snap.

His brow furrows in confusion. “Doing what?”

“Stop comforting me when you’re the one hurting!”

Peeta’s gaze immediately softens. “Oh, honey, I wasn’t lying to you when I said that I’m gonna be okay. I’ve told you before — most of my nightmares are about losing you, but I’m all right once I realize you’re right here.” He lowers his hand from my hair, dragging it down my spine before letting it rest against the small of my back, squeezing me lightly against him.

I hesitate for a moment. “But you were afraid when you woke up. You were afraid of me.”

“I was afraid for you, Katniss,” he says, his fingers starting to trail tiny whorls across my lower back. 

“Why?” I ask.

It’s his turn to pause, his hand stilling on my skin. 

“Now that I’d rather not talk about,” he finally admits. “I can tell you if you really want, but . . . I’d rather leave those dreams in the dark.” He resumes stroking my back. “But you really don’t need to worry. They can’t get me when I’ve got you here like this.”

“I guess you’ll just have to keep me stuck in your bed forever,” I joke. Not that I’d particularly mind if he did.

“I guess I will,” he says. The corners of his mouth lift into a smile, but there’s something sad behind his eyes when he meets my gaze.

I study his face. “You’re really okay?”

He puts his hand over his heart dramatically. “I am completely fine,” he swears, “as long as I have you.”

My stomach dips, but I try to ignore it. It’s just normal, charming Peeta, I remind myself. No reason to get myself all worked up over nothing.

“Does that mean you’ll take the day off with me?” I ask hopefully. I know in all likelihood he’s going to shoot me down. His work is one area that he somehow always manages to prioritize, regardless of how much I plead with him to stay in bed and spend a lazy morning with me. 

That’s why it’s so surprising to me when he answers, “What did you have in mind?” He stretches his free arm back behind his head, and it takes me more effort than I’d like to admit not to stare at the way it flexes his triceps.

I can feel a grin spreading across my cheeks. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

One hour and an overpacked picnic basket later, we’re in the outskirts of Victor’s Village, taking the new trail to the forest that I’ve started to wear down ever since the fence was permanently removed.

As we near the woods, I notice Peeta lagging about ten feet behind me and I pause for a moment, waiting for him. I don’t blame him—the path is riddled with weeds and roots, and while it’s a far easier method of entering the forest than any of my old passages, it's still somewhat of an awkward terrain for him to maneuver in. Though in all fairness, now that I think about it, the path I’ve established over the past few months is rather narrow, and more of a me-sized width than a Peeta-sized width. But the hike only gets harder from here, and if it’s this difficult for him to get through this stretch . . .

“We can still change direction,” I tell him when he finally reaches me. “I’m just as happy spending the day with you in the Meadow.”

“Not a chance—I want to see this lake that’s so special to you,” he says, shifting the picnic basket from one arm to the other. “I’m not fragile, Katniss. You of all people should know that.”

My cheeks heat. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I’m only teasing,” he chuckles, planting a kiss on my temple as he walks past me toward the treeline. “Are you coming, or what?”

I smile, breaking into a short jog to catch up to his long strides, my arrows jostling around in my quiver as I fall into step beside him. There’s something light and fluttery in my chest at his enthusiasm to see the lake where I used to spend so many long summer days with my father. Even better—that he’s willing to brave the woods to get there.

Between the two of us, we’ve seen horrors that make even the most dangerous predators in the forest look about as scary as Buttercup. But then again, these aren’t Peeta’s woods. Not like they are mine. He was raised on stories of the forest being a place of danger and darkness, whereas it was always a gift, a source of survival in my house. He gathered apples in the safety of his own backyard; I did it in the safety of the shadows among the trees. 

Two trips to the arena and a war have definitely made him less skittish about it, and I know he’ll put on an eager front for my sake, but I’m not sure he’ll ever be truly comfortable in the woods.

Still, he’s here. Walking beside me. Horribly loud, undoubtedly scaring off all potential game from a mile away, and entirely unaware of it, but he’s here .

We pass by the boulder where I used to meet Gale to hunt, but unlike when I last brought people with me to this spot, I don’t yearn for what it used to mean to me. Even better? Peeta doesn’t have a clue either. 

The rock is just a rock.

For both of us.

By the time we arrive at the lake, we’re both exhausted and coated in a sheen of sweat, and the water looks so clear and refreshing that it takes all of my self-control not to immediately launch into a running leap off the dock. In the time it takes us to set our packs down on the grassy knoll that leads down to the shoreline, my hands are practically itching to peel off my clothes and dive in the lake. 

My eyes dart from the bathing suit in my hands to the glittering blue-green water lapping at the shore, and back to the bikini. 

I’ve never worn a swimsuit to the lake. Ever. 

When I was little, I would just swim naked. When I got a bit older, I’d keep on a pair of undershorts and an undershirt. Ever since my dad died, I’ve gone back to bare. 

But now that I’ve got a swimsuit in my hands, I’m not sure I even want to put it on. More than anything I just want to feel the cool lakewater washing over my skin. 

“You don’t have to wear it,” says Peeta’s voice from behind me.

I whip around to find him already tying the strings on his own bathing suit. 

“However,” he continues, “I am not liable for any of my actions if you choose not to, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that I will not be able to concentrate on the swimming lessons you insisted on giving me if you decide to walk around naked.”

I narrow my eyes at him, ignoring the way my heart speeds up at his comment, and he throws his hands up in surrender.

“What?” he asks. “It’s true.”

I reach for the button of my shorts, unfastening it swiftly. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—you’re a shameless flirt, Mellark.” I pull off my shorts and underwear, quickly replacing them with my bikini bottoms before peeling off my t-shirt and sports bra in one move. 

“Don’t I know it,” he says, raking his eyes over my body.

“Hey!” His eyes snap up to mine as I clutch my swim top to my chest. “I need you to tie me up,” I say, baring my back to him where both sets of ties to my bikini top hang loose, waiting to be secured. 

He smirks. “Gladly.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, glaring at him over my shoulder as I feel my straps tightening, his fingers brushing against my shoulders, sending waves of warmth through my body. 

“Mm,” he mumbles, finishing the second double knot in the center of my spine. “But it’s so fun to watch you squirm.”

I step away from him, from the heat he elicits all too easily in me, and bound down the dock, leaping into a dive and plunging into the cool water.

I resurface a moment later, breathing in a delicious lungful of sweet summer air, and wipe the water from my eyes, staring intently at the beautiful boy standing at the shoreline. “Don’t tell me you made me put on my bathing suit for nothing,” I taunt.

He walks slowly down to the edge of the dock, stopping only a few feet away from where I tread water. “Me? I would never,” he says, then pauses a beat, gazing at me softly. Wood groans as he crouches down, closing some of the distance between us and blocking the mid-morning sun from my eyes. He leans forward, testing the water with his hand and frowning when it’s undoubtedly colder than he expected. “You want me to join you in that ?”

I splash a handful of water at him playfully. “It’s nice when you get used to it.”

“I’d have to like you an awful lot to jump in there with you, y’know,” he muses. “Are you sure—”

I don’t think—I grab his hand that still lingers a little too close to the surface, and I pull with all my strength.

Water droplets go flying and there’s a loud splash as Peeta tips forward into the lake with me, sending ripples all the way to the reeds on the far side of the water.

He emerges much faster than I expect him to, shaking his curls free of water as he breaks the surface, gasping for air. “Oh, you absolute menace .” He lunges for me, and I quickly dive underwater, relying on my advantage of being a seasoned swimmer to escape the consequences of my actions. Problem is, my calculations in estimating the depth at this point must be way off because he moves with a speed that can only be explained by it being shallow enough for him to stand, and he wraps an arm around my waist, plucking me out of the water far too easily.

“Hey!” I squeal as he holds me against his chest, the shoulder-high waterline splashing in my face as I wriggle against his grip.

We pitch backwards slightly, and I realize my movement has destabilized him on his prosthesis. And as much as I enjoy toying with him, I hate the idea of weaponizing his missing leg against him, even if it’s by accident.

I go still in his arms immediately, allowing him to find his balance before I loop my own arms around his neck and wrap my legs around his waist, letting him hold me up as his hands find the undersides of my thighs. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

He shoots me a confused look. “Whatever for?”

“Almost knocking you over,” I say. 

“Seriously?” he asks with a chuckle. “Katniss, you know how much I care about you, but really? I’m not sure you could knock me over even if you tried. I just lost my footing—the mud here is a lot stickier on my leg than the sand was in Four.”

“Oh.” My cheeks flush. “Well, that won’t be a problem once I get you swimming properly. Then you won’t need to worry about it.”

One of his hands slides from my thigh to my waist, splaying across my ribs as he shifts so I can move again. “Be my guest.”

Peeta’s a fast learner and, to my surprise, remembers a lot of what I showed him in the Quell; our recent trip to District 4 didn’t hurt either. He’s not exactly comfortable swimming, especially not with the way his prosthesis cuts through the water instead of pushing it for momentum, but after about an hour of having him work on his basic stroke, I actually feel comfortable enough to leave him to his own devices so I can soak up some sun on the shore. 

I watch him carefully at first, taking note of his poorly timed—but smooth and effective—breaths, observing the flutter of his kicks just beneath the surface. At some point, he pauses, grinning over at me and waving before starting another lap. 

No trace of the nightmare that haunted him earlier this morning.

Whatever it was.

Part of me suspects that he only agreed to this for the sake of finding a distraction—for me as well as him. 

The other part hopes that he’s here because he knows what it means to me.

At that exact moment, a fat, adorable little bumblebee buzzes curiously around my shoulder, bumping into me a few times before taking off into the warm, thick air. 

I lean back on my elbows, smiling in the direction of the tiny creature and shut my eyes, relishing the warmth that seems to soak into my very bones. There’s a gentle breeze whispering through the trees, blowing across my damp hair and keeping me at the perfect temperature in spite of the heat.

Faint splashing coming from the shallows captures my attention, and I look up to see a pink-cheeked Peeta wading back to me. 

I try not to stare at the water droplets that cling to his perfectly carved arm and chest muscles, dripping down his abdomen and—

I look away quickly before my mind can get too carried away with how he makes me feel.

There’s a slight suction sound coming from his prosthesis as he approaches through the damp sediment, but it eases when he reaches the grassy area where I’ve laid out my towel. I cringe slightly to myself; how did I manage to forget about that aspect of the lakebed when I invited him to come out here? 

He shakes out his own towel beside me, lying down on his stomach and folding his hands underneath his cheek as he turns his head to face me. “I get it,” he says thoughtfully.

“Get what?” I furrow my brow.

“I get why you love it here.”

I tilt my head back, watching a rabbit-shaped cloud float slowly across the sky. “You’re the first person I’ve brought here,” I say, suddenly finding it difficult to look at him, even as I can feel his stare boring into me.

“Didn’t you film a propo here?” he asks.

I nod. “I didn’t bring them here, though. Gale did that.”

“How did he know about it?”

“I had him meet me here once. In there,” I say, pointing over at the ramshackle house. “But it was winter and I just left him a trail to follow; I half expected that he wouldn’t show up. I just needed somewhere far enough out of the way that I could bring up the rebellion without worrying about prying ears. I never took him here myself. Never told him what it was to me either. It didn’t feel right.”

“I’m really the only one?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I finally turn my head to meet his eyes. “You’re the only one,” I confirm.

His grin widens. “I’m honored.”

I roll my eyes, letting myself lie completely back against my towel and throwing my hand over my closed eyes to shield me from the sun.

“You sang in that propo too. Real or not real?”

I open an eye in surprise, peering over at him. “Real. Pollux asked me to and I couldn’t bring myself to say no. You remember that?”

“I remember,” he says. “It was the first video they showed me of you where I just saw . . . you. I didn’t feel any fear, only . . .” he pauses, as if stopping himself. “It reminded me of when we were little. When you and your dad used to stop by the bakery. That song—he used to sing it, and all the birds would go silent.”

I shift uncomfortably on my towel. “I don’t think I like that song. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore,” I admit.

Peeta hesitates. “Would you sing something else?” he asks bashfully.

I open my eyes entirely and turn my whole body to face him. “Like what?”

“Anything,” he breathes. 

“Oh, um, I don’t know . . .” I trail off as a spike of anxiety shoots through my chest. 

“You don’t have to, of course,” says Peeta. “But when I heard you with Ronan . . . well, I just miss your voice.”

I sigh. “Only this once,” I say, “and only because we’re here.”

I push myself into a sitting position, and he follows suit. I rack my brains for a moment, trying to come up with one of my father’s songs. At first, all I can think of are lullabies and eulogies. Then one comes to me.

Oh, the summer time is coming,
And the trees are sweetly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather.

Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together
Te pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will ye go, lassie, go?

The birds that have been twittering incessantly in the surrounding woods have quieted now, the mockingjays listening for a melody.

I will build my love a bower
By yon clear and crystal fountain,
And all around the bower,
I'll pile flowers from the mountain.

Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together
Te pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will ye go, lassie, go?

The songbirds are silent; the mockingjays have picked up my tune, whistling it between each other like a secret language only we can understand. Peeta’s gaze flits from tree to tree, something like awe shining on his face.

If my true love, she won't have me,
I will surely find another
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather.

Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we'll all go together
Te pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we'll all go together
Te pull wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather,
Will ye go, lassie, go?

Will ye go, lassie, go?

I stare across the lake, listening to the mockingjays’ tune echoing across the water and bouncing around the clearing. It takes a moment for the songbirds to join in, but they don’t have the ear for it that the mockingjays do, and the song slowly fades out in the trees.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t think of something more upbeat,” I say, turning to Peeta. “It was—”

I’m cut off by him gripping my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting my jaw up, gently pressing his lips against mine. The kiss is soft. Sweet. It brings warmth—not heat—to my chest and a fluttering feeling in my heart.

Floating. I could swear I’m floating with the lightness I feel in my veins. 

And when he finally pulls away, and I’m brought back to the earth, I can’t help but feel the slightest bit disappointed.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against mine as he brushes the back of his hand along my cheek.

I blush. “I’ll never be as good as my father.”

“To me, you’ll always be better,” says Peeta simply.

Before I can stop myself, I find my lips forming the words, “He would’ve loved you.”

I’m met with silence; the sounds of birdsong and wind rustling through the forest are the only things breaking the quiet.

Oh, fuck.

I shouldn’t have said that. That’s way too much pressure to put on him. That’s the kind of thing someone says to a partner, not a friend. That sort of thing . . . it’s anything but casual.

“That means a lot, Katniss,” he says finally, his voice soft. “Thank you.”

I can’t bring myself to face him, so I just lean into his chest, resting my head on his bare shoulder. His arm wraps around me instinctively, and I find myself hating how natural it feels to tangle myself up in him.

“They take you instead of me,” he says suddenly. “In my dream, I mean. It’s Snow’s hovercraft that takes you instead of Plutarch’s, and—and I hate it. I’m always back in that awful jungle, watching the roof cave in as they carry you out, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

I feel a sharp pain in my chest and I brush my lips lightly against his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m right here,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he says. “But at that moment, you’re not.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. “Peeta . . .” I don’t really know what to say. I don’t think there is anything I can say to make him feel better. That’s the thing with the nightmares—there’s no getting over them, there’s only getting through them.

“I’m okay,” he says. “It’s like I said earlier—as long as I have you, I’ll be all right.”

“Then you have me,” I say.

Always.

Chapter Text

Sweltering, dry heat sweeps over my body as I open the back door into the bakery.

Peeta looks up from where he stands at the flour-strewn counter, stretching a fresh batch of bread in a large bowl. Sourdough, I think, as the sharp, sour tang of the open starter fills my nose. His fingers don’t stop working the dough as he nods his head to the side in silent invitation. “Are you going to stand there all day? Or are you coming in?”

I smile. “Coming in,” I say, stepping inside the kitchen. 

Walking up the alleyway, climbing up the three little steps to the back door felt normal. Routine. But there’s something about actually going inside that feels forbidden, like I’m crossing an invisible boundary I’m not supposed to. 

I know the witch is gone. That I didn’t have to pause in the alley to peek through the window to ensure she’s not there. Opening the door felt taboo enough, and even then, it took me longer than I’d care to admit to gather up the courage to let myself in. Reminding myself that Peeta was the only person waiting on the other side is the only thing that got me to finally twist the handle.

I’ve never really been inside the bakery; I’ve only stolen peeks at the inside through the display window with Prim, or through the backdoor when trading with Peeta’s father. The ground floor itself is essentially one large rectangle, with the kitchen taking up the back half, and the front half split between the customer entrance and the display counter that connects the kitchen to the rest of the bakery in a long L-shape. There’s three other doors against the back wall to what I assume must be the office and stairwell up to the merchant quarters. As for the third, metal one, I have no clue. 

“And I’m bearing gifts,” I add. I cross to an empty span of counter and upend my game bag onto the floured surface. Berries and herbs tumble out, rolling across the wood—raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, dill, parsley, basil, thyme, and just about anything else I could get my hands on this morning that I thought could be of use to him. 

Peeta’s eyes light up. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says as he folds over the dough one last time before putting some sort of cover on it. 

“It was nothing. Plus, not all of it’s for you,” I respond, plucking a strawberry from the pile and taking a small bite. Juice bursts across my tongue, flooding my mouth with summery sweetness. The taste elicits a dull ache in my chest, and for a moment, I can’t help glancing through the newly finished windows, across the street to the skeleton of what used to be the mayor’s house. But my attention is just as quickly torn away when Peeta opens a door I didn’t see before and a flood of cold air rushes into the room as he places the bread inside. 

“Right,” he says, walking over to the sink and washing the remnants of dough off his hands before drying them on the underside of his apron. He sidles up beside me, grabbing a small handful of raspberries himself and popping them in his mouth. “Mm,” he groans. “You’re amazing.”

I feel a warmth creeping into my cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat of the ovens, but I just offer him a small smile. “I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed for the re-opening.”

“I do now,” he says, giving me a returning grin. “Thank you.”

“So I guess you’ll be moving in here soon, huh?” I ask him. I suppose there’s no point in dancing around the question that’s been eating away at my mind ever since he told me last week that the bakery rebuild was finished. 

He shoots me a confused look. “What do you mean?”

I shift from foot to foot. “Now that the bakery’s back, you’ll probably be moving back upstairs again, won’t you?” I ask.

“And why would you think that?” he asks, chuckling as if I’ve just suggested the silliest thing in the world. 

My cheeks go red. “I just thought . . . you own the place, and you start work so early . . .”

“This isn’t my home, Katniss,” he says softly. “It hasn’t been for a long time, even before the Quell. My home is in Victor’s Village, not here.” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. “Besides, there’s other people who will need somewhere to live. I’m already splitting my time between our houses anyways—I don’t need a third.”

“So you’re staying?” I ask. I need to hear him say the words myself.

He turns to face me, cupping my face in both hands as he stares me directly in the eyes. “I’m staying. You think you can get rid of me that easily?”

“I hope not,” I whisper.

His eyes widen slightly. “Wha—”

No, no, no. Too obvious. I’ve been too obvious.

“Well, y’know,” I say, scrambling to cover my tracks, “it’d make it pretty hard for me to do this .” I take a step forward and press my lips to his. Hungrily.

After a moment, he pulls away, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb. “Katniss,” he says, his voice low, warning.

“What?” I whine, pulling him around the corner of the counter, out of view of the front of the shop.

He sighs, but follows me without hesitation, bracing his hands on the storage cabinet behind me as he leans over me, his lips hovering only millimeters from mine. “You’re a terrible influence.”

I smile as sweetly and innocently as I can muster. “I try my best,” I say. I grab fistfuls of his shirt in my hands, tugging him toward me and closing the distance between us. 

This time, I’m met with no resistance. He kisses me back with full force, sliding one hand around my waist and pushing me flush against the wall, pinning me in place. I feel his tongue brush against my teeth and I open my mouth to him instantly, letting him take over entirely as he raises a hand to my jaw, tilting my head to the perfect angle to deepen the kiss, the taste of raspberry and mint flooding my senses.

He removes his lips from mine, and I groan in protest, but it morphs into a gasp as they travel down the side of my throat, finding a particularly sensitive spot and lingering there. I melt against him, moaning his name softly as he nips the skin there, his tongue brushing over the small hurt. Fingers glide underneath the hem of my shirt, brushing across my ribcage tantalizingly as his hand moves to cup my breast. 

“Don’t—don’t start something you’re not going to finish,” I breathe, dragging his hand back down to my waist.

Peeta pulls away, both hands lingering there. “Who said I wasn’t planning on finishing?”

My eyes flick up to his, just as his hands slide to my thighs, and I gasp as he picks me up off the ground and holds me against the wall. I part my legs and his hips push against mine, holding me in place and creating a friction that sets my blood ablaze as I can feel the full, hard length of him pressing against me.

I begin unbuttoning his shirt, distantly aware of the fact that we’re in his place of work, and I’m devastatingly aware that if he starts anything, I won’t be able to stop him. But the importance of that pales in comparison to the need coursing through my veins.

That is, right up until the bell rings at the front of the shop, signalling the front door opening. The arrival of a guest.

We spring apart immediately, Peeta letting me down quickly and quietly before his hands fly to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling to refasten them.

“Peeta?” a high, female voice sounds through the shop.

Peeta swears under his breath. “Hey, Delly, just give me one second.” He combs his fingers through his hair, attempting to regain some level of control over where I’ve mussed it over. Making quick work of his apron ties, he folds it over his arm, allowing it to drape down, covering the front of his trousers, before he walks back into the front of the shop.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling warmly. “I was just taking inventory.”

“No worries!” I hear Delly respond cheerfully. “Is Katniss here? I thought I saw her walk in through the back not too long ago.”

Fuck. I forgot they’re neighbors. How could I forget they’re neighbors? And why is she looking for me?

I start smoothing out my own hair, straightening out my clothes, pulling down the hem of my shorts, even before Peeta can respond, “Yeah, she’s in the back, just give me a second.”

He walks back to me, never breaking his smile until he’s out of Delly’s sight, when his mouth drops into an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I swear I thought it was locked.”

“It’s fine,” I whisper back, trailing my fingers along his arm as I move to pass by him. 

But I’m stopped in my tracks when I feel him tucking my shirt in the waist of my shorts.

“Okay, you’re good.” He nods once, following close behind me as I walk out to Delly.

“Katniss!”

I force my lips to turn up into a smile. “Hi, Delly.”

Her sky-blue gaze darts back and forth between Peeta and I for a moment before tossing a section of her long, yellow hair over her shoulder. “How are you doing?” she asks. 

“Fine,” I say, fighting to keep my voice friendly, pleasant in spite of my frustration with her arrival. I’ve gotten better at keeping the irritation out of my voice when talking to her ever since she became my greatest defender when Peeta was first hijacked, but this interruption was certainly testing me.

“You look a bit warm,” she says casually.

I risk a glance at Peeta, and while he’s done a good job of concealing the evidence of what we’ve done, there’s nothing that can cover up the rosy tint to his cheeks or his slightly swollen lips. 

I can only pray that Delly doesn’t put the two together.

“It’s the ovens,” says Peeta. “It’s always crazy hot back there, you know that, Dells.”

I nod in agreement, grateful for the cover. He’s right, of course, but that’s a minute aspect of the flush on my cheeks. 

“I know! I can’t believe you’d have her working back there in that heat. You poor thing,” she says to me with what sounds like genuine empathy in her voice. “Anyways, I was just wanting to confirm that you were coming over next Saturday?”

I furrow my brow in confusion. “Next Saturday?”

Delly glares at Peeta. “You said you would tell her.”

“I was getting to it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

I turn on him. “What’s on Saturday?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

Peeta opens his mouth to respond, but Delly cuts him off. “I’m having a small get-together at my house, and I told him to invite you.” She stares him down pointedly. “And the fact he hasn’t told you is pretty ironic considering it was his idea in the first place.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and to his credit, he looks guilty. 

“I got the idea from you when you lied to Gale about having a girls’ night,” he says sheepishly. “I swear I was going to tell you—I really just forgot with everything going on with the bakery.”

“You’re invited too, Peeta.”

Now it’s Peeta’s turn to stare at Delly in confusion. 

“You two are practically attached at the hip,” she continues. “I can’t imagine having one of you over and not the other. Plus, you’re . . . y’know. You. You’re like my brother, of course you’re allowed.”

He laughs lightly. “I think Katniss can handle herself without me for one night.”

I whip my head back to him, pleading with eyes. If I have to go, I want him there.

“Johanna’s going too,” he tells me, as if reading my mind. “You can hang out with her.”

But I want you.

“Up to you,” says Delly. “But you’re coming at least, right, Katniss?”

I want to crawl out of my skin. “Sure, Delly.” I say, my smile becoming harder and harder to maintain. “Maybe a night away from this one might be a good idea.”

Now it’s Peeta who turns to look at me, something like hurt flashing in his eyes.

“I know what you mean!” Delly laughs. “Sometimes you just need to spend some time with your girls.”

She has a point, even as she misses mine entirely. Ever since Peeta and I began our arrangement, my weekly wine nights with Jo have been far and few between. Partly because Plutarch’s ridiculous singing show takes a break over the summer, but partly because I’ve let myself become distracted. I know that. Peeta must know it too, or else I doubt he would've proposed the party to Delly, knowing full well it would force me to be social.

Realistically, it’s his fault for being so distracting.

Plus, I’ve started feeling guilty about drinking around Peeta after he blew up at Haymitch on the train. Even my singular glass of wine with Jo feels like a betrayal now.

“I’ll see you on Saturday, Delly,” I finally say.

“See you Saturday!” says Delly. I’m suddenly very grateful for the counter that stands between us, or else I’m certain she would be going in for a hug right now. “Bye, Peeta! Bye, Katniss!” she calls as she disappears out the door, leaving the bell ringing in her wake.

I sigh with relief, turning away from the counter.

“‘A night away from this one?’” Peeta asks incredulously, striding across to the door himself, and sliding the lock shut behind his friend. 

I scowl as I watch him stalk back over to me. “What? You’re the one who arranged for me to go and then didn’t tell me about it.”

“Yeah, because I was just wanting you to have some fun. And I was going to talk to you about it.” He drums his fingers against the counter. “I didn’t know you wanted your space that badly.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice rising slightly in frustration. “Peeta, you know it’s you I come home to at the end of the night.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you don’t want that,” he huffs.

“Don’t say that.” I frown. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

Why is he pushing this all of a sudden?

I take a deep breath. “It’s not that I want to come home to you—although I swear I do. I need to. And I’m lucky enough that you’ll have me,” I say quietly, looking down at my hands. 

“You . . . mean that?” he asks slowly.

I nod. 

“Good,” he says, his eyes darkening. “‘Cause I need you too.”

Before I can fully tell what’s going on, he’s scooping me up bridal style and carrying me to another room that I figure must be the office, setting me down on the massive oak desk. This time, he shuts the door behind him, and I feel my stomach dip as he clicks a second lock into place and he turns to me, a ravenous look in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Finishing what I started,” he replies. His fingers whip through the buttons on my own clothes with record speed, and it takes almost no time at all before I suddenly find myself perched on the edge of his desk in nothing but my thong.

But however fast he is, it’s not fast enough.

No, I have to have him now.

He kneels before me, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my panties, moving to draw them down. 

Until I grab his hand, and he stills immediately.

“Wait.” I hop off the edge of the desk, standing in front of where he still sits on his knees. But his eyes are on me as I run my fingers through his hair, meeting his stare. “Do you trust me?” I ask.

Peeta nods. “Completely.”

“Then lay back,” I tell him.

He narrows his eyes in suspicion and opens his mouth to argue, but is stopped with one word from me: “Please.”

“You’ll be the end of me, I swear,” he says, but he obliges my request, sitting back on the brand new, plush rug and using his arms to prop himself up.

I lower myself to the ground, slinking forward and planting the ghost of a kiss on his lips before I place a leg on either side of him, straddling him completely. I don’t remember the buttons on his shirt being as irritating to unfasten as they were twenty minutes ago, but still I go through them, backing up slowly as I undo each one until I arrive at his trousers. First, the button. Then the zipper. Then, I don’t even have to ask; he lifts his hips, allowing me to tug down his pants and boxers—albeit clumsily.

Except somewhere around his left knee, where prosthesis meets skin, it keeps getting stuck, and I have to pause to push my hair out of my face. “I cannot believe you do this all the time. On both of us too.”

Peeta releases a laugh that I know he’s been holding in on my account. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.” 

My mouth falls open in surprise, and I swat lightly at his chest. I don’t bother giving him the satisfaction of confirming what he clearly already knows to be true—my reaction is more than enough.

“Nah, I’m just used to it. It’s fine, baby, really. Just leave it and come here.”

I do what he asks, leaving his trousers stuck from the knees down, and crawl back over him, positioning my hips teasingly so that his cock is nudging at my entrance. “Is this what you wanted?” I ask, bracing a hand on the ground on either side of his head. 

His face is tight with restraint, almost as if my teasing is causing him physical pain. “Please, don’t play right now,” he says, moving his hands down to grip my hips, pulling my body upward, toward his mouth. “Let me just—”

“No,” I say firmly, sitting back in a way that just grinds against him harder.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, though I’m clearly pushing him to the point of discomfort myself.

I lean forward, hovering my lips over his. “I think you’ll find that you turn me on enough to make it more than comfortable.”

Before he can protest anymore, I reach between my legs, pulling my panties to the side, just enough to position myself over his tip, and sink down onto him slowly.

So.

Slowly.

He hisses through gritted teeth, tightening his grasp on my hips. “Oh fuck ,” he groans. “Katniss, you’re—” He closes his eyes, body shuddering as I rise up and lower myself once more.

“So wet for you,” I finish his sentence breathlessly. The stretch, the pressure, the heat feels so devilishly good I can’t think straight. The rest of the world may as well be burning around us for all I care—right now there’s only him. Only me. And it feels amazing .

My hair falls in a dark curtain, draping over my shoulder and tickling the side of my face as I lean forward to kiss him, my body already trembling with need at the white-hot pleasure coiling in my core as I rock my hips against his, finding a perfectly agonizing rhythm. He kisses me back fervently, drawing my hips to him, driving himself even further inside me. I let out an involuntary moan against his lips as I take him deeper than I thought possible, sinking my fingernails into the rug on either side of his head.

“Oh, Peeta,” I sigh. I pull away from his mouth, sitting up and leaning back, never ceasing my pace. The new angle is almost too much for me to handle, filling me up and hitting my walls in a way that makes my head spin and my whole body tense.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, his breaths coming faster and more ragged with each passing moment.

Heart racing in my chest, pulse thundering in my ears, I toss my head back, my eyes fluttering shut at how fucking good he feels. 

Featherlight fingers skim across my stomach, drawing my attention back to the beautiful boy underneath me. 

“Look at me,” he says, his voice strained with building ecstasy. 

Focusing in this state feels nearly impossible, but I manage to open my eyes fully and meet his midnight blue gaze. 

And suddenly he’s all I can focus on. 

“You are . . . so beautiful,” Peeta whispers, somehow managing to make his words soft in spite of the intensity of the circumstances.

If I wasn’t close to losing myself entirely before, I sure am now.

I breathe his name into the night and he knows as well as I do that I’m close, and he’s not far behind. My thighs shake, starting to lock up as I reach my breaking point. Each thrust becomes more and more erratic than the last as I surrender my last scrap of control and cry out, kaleidoscopes bursting behind my eyelids as he pushes me over the edge. 

I lean forward, falling against his chest as waves of euphoria roll through my body. But he won’t subject me to my body’s inability to moderate its own movement, won’t allow the high to fizzle out. In a moment, his hands are on me and I suddenly find myself flipped onto my back, a familiar weight settling over me as Peeta rides me through my climax. 

We don’t last long like this though. He pushes one of my legs up toward my shoulder, hitting a whole new angle that pushes all the air out of my lungs and somehow drags me higher still, a breathy whimper escaping my throat. 

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against my mouth. His expression tightens with the effort of holding himself together. 

“Let go,” I tell him, cupping his face in both of my hands. “I’ve got you.”

Those three words are all it takes for him to lose any remaining semblance of composure. He presses his brow against mine, burying himself deep as he comes inside me, my name a ragged prayer on his lips. Tremors rack his body, his hips bucking uncontrollably, and I slide my hands from his face to grip his back, holding him ever closer as I drag my nails across his shoulders.

Panting heavily, he pulls back slightly, scanning my face. 

“What?” I ask. 

Instead of answering, he just leans back in, brushing his lips against my right cheek. Then my left. My forehead. The tip of my nose. My chin. Trailing down my neck. 

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out in a half-giddy squeal.

“I just . . . absolutely adore you,” he says, planting a final kiss over my treacherous, thundering heart before ending the path at my lips once more. 

How the hell am I supposed to respond to that?

“Mm,” I say. “And I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that.”

Something sparks in his eyes, but I don’t dare to try to put a name to what.

He hesitates for a moment, as if thinking about what he’s going to say. 

But he always knows what to say.  

“Before the Quell,” he says slowly. “We had that one day on the rooftop—do you remember? I told you I wanted to stay in that moment and live in it forever. And you agreed to let me. Real or not real?”

“Real.” But why would he be bringing that up now?

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something more, but seems to stop himself. “Never mind.”

“Why?” I ask, curious now. 

“It’s nothing, darling,” he says, his mouth curving into a smile. Leaning forward, he gives me a quick peck before backing away and moving to refasten his pants. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up. I still have to tidy and lock up.”

“I can’t,” I protest, sprawling my arms on the ground above my head. 

Peeta chuckles. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“We’ve only had sex in the one room,” I pout. “Shouldn’t that be part of your final runthrough? Making sure every room gets the same treatment?”

His eyebrows shoot straight up, his hands freezing at his zipper. “There’s an entire upstairs here.”

“I know,” I say.

“And you know I won’t do it anywhere in the kitchen,” he says. “Or the shop, for that matter. Today was already too close.”

“I know,” I repeat.

“You’re serious?” he asks.

I nod. 

“Then I suppose we’re in for a long night,” he murmurs, crawling back over me.

“I suppose we are.”

Chapter Text

Paper crinkles as I open the small package on the counter, lifting the long stretch of fabric from the wrapping, and holding it up in front of me to get a better view.

It’s an apron, identical to Peeta’s in every way, except for almost comically smaller. And then there’s the words stitched into the chest.

Mellark Bakery.

I run my fingers over the embroidery, my heart leaping at the thoughtfulness of this latest gift, before pulling it against my chest. “You shouldn’t have.”

Peeta smiles at me. “I wanted to,” he says.

“But I don’t even technically work here,” I remind him. “I only volunteered to help you out in the shop until you can find yourself an apprentice or something. And even then, I’m not baking anything.”

The opening day of the bakery had gone about as smoothly as it could given the fact that there’s only one baker in the whole town. In spite of the fact that he’s been working out of his house basically since he came home, it still seems like everyone and their mother found an excuse to come down here on Monday morning. There was more than enough baked goods for everyone—Peeta held his own incredibly well on that front—but we quickly realized that him focusing on his bakes in the kitchen left far too little time for him to cover the shop too, hence my reluctant offer to pick up the slack.

I kind of hate it. I’ve never liked talking to people all that much, and working up front meant a steady stream of small talk and awkward eye contact that I don’t think I will ever get used to.

There is one highlight though: I get to trade again.

Not long after the war, Paylor decided that all remaining victors were to continue to receive winnings for the rest of our lives. The idea was to honor our sacrifices or something, but honestly it felt more like a way to keep us quiet and happy. Either way, it’s once again left us with way too much money of our own, and a whole lot of guilt when it comes to our neighbors who aren’t as lucky.

For many people, it means that Peeta has flat out refused to accept payment from them, insisting that it’s the least he could do after they supported us in the arena. In both of our Games, they came together to send us something to eat, even when so many of them were hungry themselves. 

Now it’s our turn to reciprocate.

Thing is, he didn’t account for the Seam people, especially those of us who used to frequent the Hob, coming up with their own forms of paying.

Greasy Sae brought us stew for lunch. Thom volunteered an hour of working on my old house in the Seam. A little girl who couldn’t have been more than ten years old brought me a flower crown woven with whatever wildflowers she could find in the Meadow, and I gladly accepted. Shoelaces. Homemade candies. The old fiddler even stopped by, offering a song.

And I bartered for all of it.

At the end of the day, I was coated in a thin layer of powdered sugar and flour and the profits were the lowest they’ve ever been, according to Peeta, but our community was fed, and we were no worse off.

Peeta may be the people person between the two of us, but I was the one they were used to trading with. Besides, he’s needed in the kitchen; we’d already proved time and time again that the more hands-off my role is in the actual baking, the better.

So I’d unintentionally become the temporary bakery shopkeeper. Now complete with a uniform and everything.

“If I had it my way, you’d stay forever. But in the meantime, I don’t care if you’re here for a day or a month—you deserve to be appreciated for your work,” Peeta says. “And keeping you from getting flour all over your clothes is the least I can do.”

I slide the top loop around my neck, crossing the ties over in the back and tying them in the front of my waist. “What do you think?” I ask, lifting my arms slightly and doing a small twirl.

His eyes flick from the embroidery on my chest to my face, his mouth curving into a smirk. “It’s funny—all that time you used to spend protesting our relationship and you still ended up with my last name after all.”

My heart skips a beat, but I just narrow my eyes at him. “Only in workplace. Temporary workplace, at that.”

“If you say so,” he says, chuckling to himself. 

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I look away, focusing instead on the pretty cakes in the window display.

It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know how much his comment stings. How much I wish I could’ve done things differently. How deeply I regret taking him for granted in the way that I did, resisting my feelings for as long as I did.

But still . . . what is he playing at?

“Do you have a minute? And possibly want to be my tastetester?” His voice breaks through my thoughts.

He’s barely uttered the question before I’m making a beeline for the kitchen. 

Since Monday, there’s also been a stool added in the corner of the kitchen. Peeta claims it’s so that he can reach stuff on high shelves, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s just to provide me a seat to keep me nearby, but off the counters and away from the bakes. Especially considering he can reach the shelves perfectly fine at his normal standing height.

It’s there that I plant myself down now, turning to eagerly await whatever it is he wants me to try.

A prouder woman would probably be embarrassed at how quickly my mood turned around the second he offered me food. Luckily, I don’t have that problem.

“Here,” he says, handing me a bun with a round circle of custard in the center and frosting carefully piped around the edges.

I take a large bite without so much as questioning what it is, flavors of cardamom, cream, and sugar instantly exploding on my tongue. The bun itself is perfectly soft, the custard rich, but not too sweet. “Mmm,” I groan, going back in for another bite.

Peeta laughs, gazing at me with an amused expression. “I’m assuming you approve of adding sunshine buns to the menu?”

“Sunshine buns?” I ask, swallowing another bite of the baked good, the custard melting in my mouth. “That’s really what they’re called?”

He nods. “At least I think they are. It’s not been as easy to remember recipes and names as I thought it would be,” he admits. “It was one thing for all the written recipes to burn, but the venom didn’t exactly help preserve my memories of them either. There’s some stuff that I don’t think I could ever forget—basic loaves and cakes and such. Your cheese buns too. But a lot of it’s still a little foggy.” Peeta picks up a sunshine bun himself. “These ones just came back to me, so I thought I’d test out what I could recall before I made them for anyone else.”

Oh, Peeta.

I hadn’t even thought about that aspect of him taking up baking again. There’s nothing and no one to help him anymore—only his own mind, and he’s still not completely sure he can trust that.

My heart breaks for him, but I know pity is the last thing he’s looking for right now, so instead I say, “They’re lovely, Peeta. You’re a lot better than you give yourself credit for.”

He gazes at me, his expression lingering somewhere between grateful and mournful, and has only just opened his mouth to reply when he’s interrupted by the sound of the bell at the door ringing loudly. 

“I’ll get it,” he says, leaning forward and planting a quick kiss on my temple. “You stay here and enjoy yourself.”

I nod at him enthusiastically in spite of my very full mouth, and he flashes one last smile at me before around the corner into the front of the shop.

A young woman’s voice greets him, clear and high, and something turns sour in my stomach at the sound. 

I’m on my feet before I can spare another thought, peeking around the corner at the girl, and my nerves are only amplified. 

She’s beautiful.

She’s tall and curvy in a way I’ve never been, with rich brown hair, fair skin, and silver eyes. Not the dull gray we have in the Seam, but something brighter. I decide she must be one of the new ones from District 13.

Once my trial was over and travel was reopened between districts, there was an influx of new citizens in 12, mostly from 13. Turns out that moving to an aboveground district was a particularly attractive opportunity to the young adults and families, and we, being the least populated and geographically closest, received a whole slew of people from the district whose president I just shot. 

I was less than thrilled to find out about it.

I’m even less thrilled now.

The woman leans across the counter, tossing her hair over one shoulder and crossing her arms in a way that presses her breasts together, her low-cut top leaving very little up to the imagination.

My stomach turns, but then again, how can I blame her?

After all, I want the same thing she’s clearly going for.

“This place is wonderful,” she gushes. “We never had anything like this in Thirteen.”

“I know,” says Peeta with a warm smile. “I’ve been there.”

She laughs, a high-pitched, girly sound that I’ve never managed to imitate. “Of course you have,” she says. “I just mean Twelve is lucky to have someone like you to take care of it.”

“Someone has to,” he jokes.

“So do you ever take time off? Or is it just work, work, work?” Her voice has taken on an unsettlingly sultry quality.

Peeta crosses his own arms over his chest now. “I get afternoons off. Why do you ask?”

“Maybe I’m just wondering if you’d ever want some companionship ,” she says, her voice lingering on the last word. “Y’know, if you’re not too busy.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I want to look away, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away as I watch Peeta chuckle lightly. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says gently. “I’m not looking for anything like that right now.”

She has the nerve to look disappointed. “Oh well,” she says with a pout, “if you change your mind, let me know.” She reaches her hand across to pass him a small handful of money, her fingers lingering a second too long on his for it to be a friendly touch.

“Will do,” says Peeta. “See you next time.”

The girl pauses in the door frame, her loaf of bread balanced in the crook of her arm. “Bye, Peeta,” she says in that devastatingly sensual voice before disappearing out the door.

Peeta searches under the counter for the old tea tin we’ve been using as a makeshift cash register, depositing the coins in there before turning around to find me staring at him.

“What was that?” I ask. My face is hot and I feel like I’m going to throw up, but at the same time, I don’t want to let him out of my sight.

He shrugs. “Just a customer. She wanted a loaf of bread—that’s all.”

“Sounds like she wanted a lot more than bread,” I remark bitterly.

His eyebrows flick upward. “What does that have to do with—” he cuts himself off, looking at me like he’s never seen me before. “Are you jealous ?”

“No,” I scoff, a little too quickly to have the nonchalant effect I was aiming for.

His face splits into a grin. “You are. You’re jealous,” he laughs.

“Am not,” I say with a huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why would I be jealous? We’re just friends. You’re free to date whoever you want. Including the easy ones from Thirteen.”

Peeta laughs harder still. “Did you just call that poor girl ‘easy?’”

I cringe slightly. “Maybe.” Not that I’m particularly proud of it. But she wasn’t not making it easy for him.

“Naw, honey, you have nothing to be jealous of,” he reassures me. “I don’t want any of them. Not one. No matter how easy they are.”

“I’m not one to stop you if you did,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air in surrender.

He approaches me, planting a palm on the wall behind me on either side of my face and leaning forward so that his lips are only millimeters away from mine. “Need I remind you that I have fucked you in nearly every room in this building?” he says lowly. “You. Nobody else. Certainly not the random girl in the bakery.”

My stomach dips at the thought, my brain flooding with the images of a few nights ago “But—”

“There’s only you,” Peeta says softly. “I swear it.”

I could almost melt.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the fact that he confirmed to the girl point-blank what I was already afraid of: he doesn’t want a relationship right now.

At least not more than what we already have. 

Part of me is relieved. He’s right—I am jealous. I can’t stand the thought of another woman in my place, in his bed. I’m the only one who gets to see that side of him; any other scenario is unthinkable. And hearing him confirm it himself? His words soothe me more than he could ever know.

Then there’s the part of me that can’t help but be disappointed. I hate to admit it, but against my better judgement, I’d started to hope. That between the comfort and the care and the shared history, that he’d started to come back to me. That his feelings for me had started to come back to him. But I was wrong.

He’s not looking for that.

What we have—what we are—is the farthest our relationship will ever go. And I have to be okay with that.

Even when I’m not.

“Stop doing that,” he says, searching my eyes. “I know you’re convincing yourself of something that’s not true.”

“No,” I say. “Just accepting something that is.”

Peeta sighs. “I don’t know what you want me to say to convince you that I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t think you can,” I say sadly. “We’re just not—”

My words are cut off by his lips pressing against mine with a gentle urgency like I’ve never felt from him. It’s sweet, yet desperate. Tender, but needy. I relax into his touch instinctively, my hands moving up to cup his face as we kiss, his own hands travelling down to their usual spot on my waist.

After what feels like only a few seconds, he pulls away. “Now will you believe me?” he breathes.

The kiss is over far more quickly than I would’ve liked, but I suddenly find that every excuse I had prepared to argue dies on my lips. So instead, I just nod.

This is far from over, but he’s exploited my biggest weakness: him. And there’s no coming back from that anytime soon.

“Good,” he says, wrapping me in his arms and holding me there for a moment. “I have to go back to work. Can you promise me you’ll behave around the customers? Even the ones that try to flirt with me?”

“I’ll try,” I grumble.

Peeta smiles. “I’ll take that.”

I move to return to the front of the shop, snatching my half-eaten sunshine bun off the counter as I pass by, but his voice catches my attention one last time before I turn the corner. 

“Oh, and Katniss?” he calls.

“What?”

“I never thought I’d see you act jealous,” he says. “I kinda like it.”

I roll my eyes, striding back to the front of the shop right as Thom’s entrance sets the bell ringing.

Fine, I decide. Two can play at that game.

“Hi, Thom,” I say, uncharacteristically friendly. And a bit louder than I normally would.

“Hey, Katniss! How ya doin’?” he says, matching my tone.

“I’m all right,” I say coyly. “A little hot is all.” I fan myself lightly to emphasize my words. “Better now that you’re here, though.”

“Oh, well—uh—” Thom rubs the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “I hope Mellark isn’t working you too hard in here,” he responds.

I hear a muffled laugh from around the corner.

“No, no, he’s not,” I say, slightly mortified. “Never mind. What can I help you with today, Thom?”

Another laugh.

My cheeks redden. “I mean, what would you like? Bread? Buns? Peeta just made some lovely ones with custard this morning.”

“That sounds great,” he says, offering me an awkward smile. “I’ll take a wheat loaf too. In exchange for two more hours on your old place?”

I nod once, grabbing him a loaf from the baskets behind me. “Sounds good. Just give me a second to get the buns from the back.”

I shuffle back to the kitchen area to find Peeta doubled over with silent laughter, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.

“Shut up,” I hiss quietly, grabbing a few of the sunshine buns off the cooling tray.

He wipes away the tears on his cheeks, his grin never leaving his face. “What are you doing?” he asks incredulously. “No, sorry, let me rephrase that: what are you trying to do?”

I bump his shoulder as I brush past him. “Doesn’t matter. Obviously it’s not working.”

“You can say that again.”

I glare at him over my shoulder as I walk back into view of the shop area. 

“Sorry about that, Thom,” I say, packaging the buns in a little paper bag and passing them over. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Nah, that’s good,” he says. “Thanks, Katniss.” He hesitates a moment, as if contemplating if he should add more. “I hope you feel better.”

I must be asleep. Yes, that’s it. I must be asleep. 

Because this is a nightmare.

“Thanks, Thom, I appreciate that,” I say, trying to keep the embarrassment out of my voice. “I’ll see you around.”

“See ya,” he says as he finally exits, the bell ringing behind him.

I sigh loudly at the same time that howling laughter sounds from over by the ovens.

“It’s really not that funny!” I call out.

Peeta suddenly appears beside me, still smiling ear-to-ear. “No, you’re right—it was absolutely adorable.” He sneaks in close, planting a peck on my cheek before I can protest. “Though maybe I should be grateful you’ve never tried any of those moves on me.”

I scowl, but it only makes him smile wider.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “Mostly. But I adore you and your pathetic attempts at making me jealous, and this in no way affects the fact that you’re the only one I want.”

My scowl deepens. “So that's it then? You just don’t get jealous?”

“Baby, you know I do,” Peeta says, as if the answer is obvious. 

“When?”

He sighs. “Was me all but telling Gale that we’re sleeping together not enough of a display for you?”

“You were jealous of Gale?” I ask, unable to keep the note of surprise out of my voice.

Peeta looks at me, and there’s no humor in his voice when he says, “Yes, Katniss, I was jealous of him. I hated that the only other person who knows what your kiss tastes like was flirting with you so openly, as if I wasn’t even there.”

I knew he’d been protective of me that night. Knew that he saw my blatant discomfort and rescued me from the awkwardness of the situation. Defended me when Gale’s compliment turned backhanded. Lied about the state of our relationship in order to hold further come-ons at bay.

But jealous?

“But, Peeta,” I say. “You have nothing to be jealous of.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to kiss you. In front of Gale, Jo, Haymitch—everyone. Just to show that I could. That you’re mine.”

There it is again.

Mine.

His .

“Am I, though?” I ask quietly.

“Are you what?”

“Yours,” I say. “Am I yours?”

His eyes take on a pained look that I’ve never seen in them before. Pity, probably. “In a lot of ways, yes.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. 

Right. Because I’ll never have him in every way. Never get to love him wholly—only in the bits and pieces he’ll allow me.

Because he’s not looking for anything like that.

Chapter Text

“I’ll see you later.” I stand on my tiptoes, brushing my lips quickly against Peeta’s cheek. And then, before I can second-guess my words, I add, “I’ll miss you.”

His eyes soften. “I’ll miss you too. But I’ll be here when you come home,” he says, leaning against the doorframe in the entryway of his house. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever,” I say.

Peeta nods at the window behind me. “And you should probably leave before Jo throws a rock through the glass.”

I follow his stare, peering out the floor-to-ceiling window to the left of the door, and sure enough, Johanna is standing out on the street in the fading light, glowering at us with crossed arms. 

She can wait another minute or two, I decide.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” I ask Peeta as I drag my gaze back to his. 

“I’m sure,” he says, reaching across and giving my hand a quick squeeze, clearly conscious of our audience. “Now, go. Before I carry you over there myself.”

“Fine,” I say, scrunching my nose in annoyance as I approach the door, though the idea doesn’t sound all that bad to me as I rest my fingers on the handle. “But you’ll owe me for this.”

“Deal.” Peeta smiles.

Pushing the door open, I sneak one last glance at him before turning to a very irritated Johanna. 

“You finally done saying goodbye to your boyfriend?” she calls out loudly as I stride across the yard to her.

I scowl at her. “He’s—”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she mimics in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like mine. “Sure, Katniss. Let’s pretend I believe you. Whatever it takes to get you to leave.” She hikes up her bag higher on her shoulder, sending the glass bottles inside clinking against each other.

“Please stop,” I say, giving her a light push in the direction of the road leading out of Victor’s Village. Jo’s teasing is nothing new. But my bitterness at having to contradict her? That’s only been growing recently.

“You’re no fun,” she says, sending a small stone skidding across the dirt path with a kick of her boot.

My jaw clenches, but I manage to hold my tongue while we walk. If she keeps pushing the subject of Peeta and me, however, she’ll see how not fun I can be.

When we get to town, I sneak a glance in the bakery as we walk past it to get to Delly’s house, even though I’m fully aware its owner is nowhere to be seen, and I can’t help but feel a small pang in my heart when I see our aprons hanging up beside each other against the back wall. 

Wooden stairs lead up the side of the cobbler shop to the apartment over it, the smell of wood shavings and the pallor of the wood betraying the novelty of the staircase. 

Before I can even raise my hand to knock, Delly’s at the door, greeting me with a hug. 

“You’re here! I mean, I know you said you’d come, but you’re actually here!” she squeals. I hold still in her arms—not embracing her back, but not shrugging her off either.

“We’re here,” I say neutrally. “Thanks for the invite, Delly.”

Delly takes a step back, ushering us in and scanning me up and down as I pass by her into the living room. “I stand by what I said—it’s weird seeing you without Peeta. But I’m glad you’re here,” she says, smiling widely.

“Katniss, catch!”

My attention snaps away from Delly, just in time to snag the airborne matchbox someone’s thrown at me, trapping it against my chest. “What’s this for?” I ask no one in particular, twisting the small, red box in my hand. 

“It’s the game,” says a Seam girl whose name I can’t recall. “100 Questions. We go through a list of a hundred questions, and whoever fits the answer best gets the matchbox.”

“So what’s this for?” I repeat.

Another girl, this one from 13, I think, smirks. “The question was, ‘Who’s most likely to get engaged first?’”

My cheeks redden slightly. “Technically I’ve already been engaged.”

“Exactly,” says the girl from the Seam.

“But you’re supposed to take a sip of your drink if you get the matchbox!” someone else chimes in. “She doesn’t have a drink.”

“I can fix that,” says a friendly-looking woman with pretty dark skin, wide hazel eyes, and curly black hair. Her voice is low and smooth, with a drawl that sounds similar to ours, but not quite District 12. Maybe she’s from 11? “Hey, I’m Holly.” She offers me a hand, and I shake it. “Come with me?” she asks me. I nod and she links her arm through mine, pulling me into Delly’s kitchen.

An open bottle of white wine sits on the counter, a flask of white liquor beside it. “I’d rather not have either of those,” I tell the girl, gesturing at the alcohol. 

I have plans to go home to Peeta tonight, and that involves taking it easy on the drinking. Turns out he’s somewhat of a stickler about that stuff. Not the drinking itself, but its effect. He’s expressed that he doesn’t care when I have a glass or two with Johanna, but even though I’ve explicitly told him that I trust him unconditionally, he refuses to touch me out of fear of taking advantage of me. Whatever that means.

“Ain’t a problem,” Holly says, opening the refrigerator and crouching down to the bottom drawer. She holds out a dark bottle of amber liquid to me a moment later. “Want one of these instead?” she asks. 

I eye the bottle suspiciously. “What is that?”

“Just cider,” she says with a smile.

“Apple cider?” My mouth waters at the mere thought.

She nods.

“Yes, please,” I say, accepting the bottle gratefully and twisting off the top. “How do you already have cider? It’s not apple season yet.”

“It was bottled a couple seasons ago,” she explains as I take a swig. “Someone stashed a few crates in one of the houses in Victor’s Village before the war. Lucky us.”

I wrinkle my nose at the taste. It tastes similar to normal apple cider that I’d had before at the Harvest Festival, but there’s an underlying sour taste, as if the apples had been left out to overripen before being pressed and spiced. “I can tell,” I say, laughing lightly. “It’s still good, though.”

I take another sip, and the sourness is already dissipating, blending in seamlessly with the taste of chilly autumn evenings, when I’d walk with my hand in my father’s and Prim on his shoulders as we made our way to the town square for the harvest celebrations. It’s there that Greasy Sae would trade her stew pot for a slightly less banged up one, ladling out steaming mugs of apple cider to everyone made from apples that my father and I had plucked together over the previous few days.

I’m grateful, however, that this particular cider is cold. Firstly, because it’s hot and muggy outside (even the short walk to town had me breaking out in a sweat), and secondly, because even though it’s refreshing now, I don’t want to imagine what it would taste like when heated.

Holly claps a hand on my shoulder, beaming warmly. “That’s the spirit, sugar.”

While we’ve been in the kitchen, everyone has shuffled around their seats into one large circle, and it’s only now that I realize just how many people Delly’s invited. As I look around the room, I think she must’ve invited all the girls still alive in our year, plus a few strays from 13, and finally Holly and Johanna. 

How does one person have this many friends?

“Okay, next question!” calls out Johanna as we reenter the living room. “Who lights up every room they walk into?” Instead of retrieving a glass herself, Jo has simply uncorked one of the flasks of wine she brought with her and is now sipping directly from the bottle.

In everyday life, I’d know who I’d give it to immediately. But he’s not here.

I suppose his surrogate sister is the next best option.

I toss the box to Delly, and she beams at me. “That’s so sweet!” she gushes.

“Don’t mention it,” I respond, taking another swig of cider as I flop down in the empty space next to Jo on the sofa.

“Personally, I’m offended you didn’t give it to me,” she says to me as I scoot in beside her, squishing myself between the arm of the couch and the shoulder of my friend.

I lift an eyebrow at her. “Believe me, you are the last person that comes to mind. If anything, your presence darkens the room considerably.”

“You say the sweetest things to me, Everdeen,” Jo says, pretending to swoon.

It’s surprisingly easy to get past the sour taste of the cider, and it’s not long before I’m actually enjoying myself.

I get a few more tosses in my direction:

Who’s going home with someone tonight? Johanna gives me this one, making a kissy face and throwing her arm around me before saying, “It’s you and me, baby.”

Who has the best chance of surviving a bear attack? The question is barely read aloud before the matchbox flies in my direction.

Who’s hooked up in the weirdest place? I take a long drink for this one, pretending not to notice as Johanna mimes a cave kiss from my first Games. Extremely overexaggeratedly.

Best singer? Apparently more people have seen my propo at the lake than I thought.

Biggest romantic? That one stings.

Biggest heartbreaker? That one stings even more.

Considering how often the matchbox is tossed my way, it’s a small wonder I’ve only gone through two ciders by the hundredth question.

Poor Holly has staked out a chair right next to us with enough space to actually move around, so she is the unfortunate victim of me asking her for a new drink every time I finish off my current bottle of cider. But, lucky for me, she’s gracious, and doesn’t complain once.

By the time she passes me my fourth cider, I’m feeling a bit warm in spite of the wide-open windows (probably because of the large group of girls crammed in such a small space), but other than that, Peeta was right—I am having fun, even if it is a little embarrassing at times.

Someone proposes we play a game called Never Have I Ever, and it’s then that things start to get interesting. 

They start off innocuous enough: Never have I ever traveled to the Capitol. Never have I ever crossed the fence into the woods while it was still illegal. Never have I ever eavesdropped on a private conversation.

And then they start getting personal.

“Never have I ever been in a secret relationship.”

I freeze, the mouth of my fourth cider against my bottom lip. It’s one of the unfamiliar girls who says it, but I don’t miss the sly glance Delly sends my way from where she sits across from me, even as several others around the group take sips of their own. I wait until she looks away, until the next girl is saying her piece, to take my drink. It would be just as easy to not sip at all, but I’m not about to break the rules now. 

And before I know it, it’s my turn.

“Never have I ever,” I say, pretending to stroke my chin in thought, “had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend, for that matter.”

Immediate uproar ensues.

“No fucking way.”

“Drink, Katniss!”

“You’re such a liar!” says Jo.

“Am not!” I protest.

Delly looks at me, her face half-pity, half-amusement. “Katniss, the point of the game is to say something you haven’t done.”

I put my cider down on the side table to my right and cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I haven’t, so drink up, everyone.”

One of the other girls finally braves the question. “What about Peeta?”

“Wasn’t real,” I say, picking my drink back up for another swig. 

“Bullshit,” says Johanna. “You two sleep in the same bed every night.”

“They do?”

“Way to go, Katniss!”

I grit my teeth. “I never said anything about what we do . I just said he’s not my boyfriend, nor has he ever been. I have never had a boyfriend,” I repeat. “Who’s next?”

“No, you don’t get off the hook that easily.” Johanna’s face lights up with mischievous glee. “Tell us more about what exactly it is that you do.”

My fingers tighten on the bottle in my hand. “Jo, please don’t do this right now,” I say, lowering my voice so only she can hear.

“But—”

“I’m not kidding. Please don’t make me answer that,” I plead, putting a hand on her arm to emphasize my begging.

Jo grabs my wrist. “Unfortunately for you, brainless, your complaining is answer enough,” she hisses. 

“I’ll explain everything to you later,” I whisper. “Please, just stop.”

Johanna sighs. “Okay, fine. But I expect details,” she breathes. Then, louder, she calls out, “My turn! Never have I ever slept with a man.”

I shoot her a glare, and she returns my scowl.

“What? It’s less specific, at least,” she mutters.

She has a point, and her statement gets everyone except for a couple girls from the Seam and one of the girls from 13, but I still don’t love the confession her words expose when I raise my cider to my lips and drink.

“I thought so,” she tells me quietly, a look of superiority on her face.

I roll my eyes, tipping my bottle back and sucking out the last dregs of the drink before setting it down on the coffee table in front of me. Holly is nowhere to be found, so I wriggle out of my seat next to Jo, and push myself to my feet.

But after a few steps, I’m sent stumbling over my feet, my head suddenly feeling dizzy and my stomach rolling with nausea. Delly throws an arm out to steady me as I pass by, but I shrug her off after a moment. “I’m fine,” I say with a tight smile.

I take a few more steps to the kitchen, bumping into the doorframe on my way in. 

What the hell is happening to me?

I yank open the fridge door, grabbing another cider and sinking to the kitchen floor, leaning my back against the cabinets behind me as I twist it open and let the icy, sweet taste flood my mouth. Laughter rings out from the other room, but I stay where I am. My limbs feel like they’re made of lead and the world spins slightly around me, but the tiled floor is cool against the backs of my thighs as I stretch my legs out in front of me and close my eyes, savoring the quiet.

After what feels like only a few seconds of this, I am interrupted.

“Katniss?” Delly’s voice calls softly, breaking me out of my trance. “Are you okay? You’ve been in here for a while.”

I look up to see her standing a few feet away, her face full of concern.

“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Just a bit lightheaded.” It’s nice of her to check in on me, I think. Delly’s nice. I can see why her and Peeta would get along. They’re both so . . . nice.

“No, sweetie,” she says gently, crouching down beside me. “I think you’re drunk.”

I blink at her in confusion. “I can’t be,” I tell her. “I’ve only been drinking apple cider.” I hold up the mostly emptied bottle clutched in my fist as evidence.

She shakes her head and carefully takes the bottle from my hand, placing it on the counter, out of my reach. “You’ve been drinking hard cider. Double percent, actually. How many have you had?”

“I can’t be,” I repeat. “I wasn’t going to drink tonight. I can’t drink tonight. I have to go home to Peeta. I can’t drink tonight.”

Delly steps over my outstretched legs and opens a cabinet, taking out a glass that she fills up at the sink. “I think it’s a bit late for that, Katniss,” she says, handing me the cup of water. “But knowing Peeta, I doubt he’ll hold it against you. How many did you have?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe five?” I grab her arm. “And no, Delly, you don’t get it. I can’t do this to him.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously? Five?”

“Is that bad?” I ask her, icy fear gripping my chest.

“No, no,” she reassures me as she sinks down beside me. “It’s just a lot for someone of your size. But you’ll be fine. Both with the cider and with Peeta.”

I bury my face in my hands. “No. I can’t go home like this. He’ll hate me.”

“He won’t hate you,” Delly consoles me. 

“No,” I insist, shaking my head violently from side to side, the movement making me even more dizzy. “You’re not getting it. I can’t be drunk. He’s been through enough.”

“Fuck.”

I look up in surprise at Delly, meeting her eyes; I don’t think I’ve ever heard her swear.

“You know,” she says to me, a dark look in her expression.

I nod. 

“Then you have to know he could never hate you , Katniss. Not for this.” She takes my hand, interlocking our fingers.

“You don’t know that,” I whisper, tears starting to swim in my eyes.

“I know he cares about you more than anyone,” she says. “And I know he would never hold it against you, especially knowing it was an accident.”

“I was the one who kept asking for the drinks,” I say miserably.

“You had no idea the effect it would have on you. Besides, look at you—you’re so much harsher on yourself than he could ever be.”

“Oh, shit.” A familiar voice sounds from the doorway. “I had a feeling something like this would happen,” says Johanna, striding in and joining us on the floor, sitting on my other side.

I shift my gaze to her, just as the tears start sliding down my cheeks.

To her credit, Jo doesn’t say anything. She just puts an arm around me and doesn’t flinch away when I lay my head against her shoulder.

“Tell us what’s going on,” she says, her voice surprisingly soothing.

It’s embarrassing how quickly my resolve crumbles with the fog settled in my brain.

“Peeta and I have been . . . you know . . .” I trail off, gesturing suggestively.

“Yeah, we kinda figured,” says Delly, exchanging a glance with Jo. “But why is that a problem? You guys are cute together.”

“Because I love him,” I whisper.

“We got that too, brainless,” says Johanna. “You haven’t exactly been subtle about it. But it’s like blondie said—why is that a problem?”

“Because he doesn’t love me.” I’m crying freely now. And I hate it.

Johanna leans forward, staring at me in blatant disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She looks at Delly. “Do you believe this?”

Delly has the nerve to look down and smile .

“It’s true!” I sputter.

“If you believe that, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were,” Johanna says, shaking her head.

I look at Delly for help but she just holds her hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m with her,” she says. “That boy’s been in love with you since day one.”

“He used to be,” I grumble. “Not so much anymore.”

“I can’t even have this conversation with you if you’re going to be so stupid,” says Jo, knocking back a large gulp from her wine glass.

“She’s right, Katniss,” Delly chimes in.

“Of course I’m right,” she says. “I’m the one who has to deal with them giving each other bedroom eyes constantly.”

Bedroom eyes? “We do not—”

“Yes you do.”

I take a sip of the water Delly handed to me.

“Even if he did love me—”

“He does,” say Johanna and Delly simultaneously.

“—he won’t after I come home to him like this,” I blubber. My eyes flood with saltwater. “I just love him so much, y’know? I never wanted to do this to him.”

“I know,” says Delly. 

“You know what’s worse?” I mumble. 

“Please, enlighten us,” Jo drawls.

I sniffle loudly. “I wish he was here right now. You guys are great, but he’s just . . .” I stumble through my speech, struggling to find a word that begins to describe Peeta.

“He’s him,” offers Delly.

I point at her, straightening up my posture from where I lean against Johanna’s shoulder. “That. Exactly.”

“Katniss, please try to drink some water,” pleads Delly, giving me a wary look. 

“I can’t,” I say. “It’s funny—my stomach hurts, but my mouth is watering. Water sounds disgusting.”

Jo and Delly exchange a worried look.

“Why don’t we move you to my bathroom, Katniss?” says Delly gently, but her voice sounds like less of a suggestion, and more of a request.

“C’mon, kid,” says Johanna, half-lifting me off the ground. Even when I do get on my feet, I’m still leaning most of my weight against her. Problem is, now that I’m on my feet, the world spins faster and my stomach starts churning.

The hallway feels a million miles long as Johanna drags me along, following Delly into a private bathing chamber attached to her room. 

Life starts to move in bits and pieces after that.

One second I’m on my knees in front of the toilet, my throat burning and my eyes watering as my stomach rejects the cider from my body. I’m vaguely aware of Johanna pulling back my hair. And then my vision goes fuzzy. 

Then I’m lying on the kitchen floor again. No, not the kitchen. These tiles are different. These ones are pink and shimmery. I’m still in Delly’s bathroom, my cheek pressed against the cool ceramic beneath me. “I think I’m dying,” I relay to Johanna. I don’t hear her response.

I come to again, this time propped up against the side of the bathtub, and my cheeks are wet again with tears I don’t remember shedding. Delly leaves us shortly after that. To rejoin the party, surely. I hear her speaking in the other room, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

But next thing I remember, she’s back at my side, rubbing my back as I retch the remaining cider out of my system.

“It’s okay, Katniss, he’ll be here soon, honey,” says Delly. 

He?

I swear I blink and she’s gone again.

Johanna forces a glass of water down my throat at some point, shoving a mint in my mouth.

“Is this really necessary?” I complain, sinking down to the floor again and using her thigh as a pillow as I let the mint dissolve against my tongue.

“Yes,” she says bluntly. “For both of us.” But in spite of her biting words, her hands are soft as they brush back my hair from the cold sweat on my forehead.

Delly says something quietly just outside the door, and I long for her to come back, but it’s the person she’s speaking to that really piques my interest. 

“Thanks, Delly.” Peeta’s voice overwhelms my senses. 

That can’t be right. He’s at home. I’m here, being an absolute nuisance to two of my only friends.

But then there’s someone crouching in front of me, and a pair of dark, sapphire-colored eyes come into focus. “Rough night?”

I nod my head seriously, just as I break out in a fresh bout of crying.

“Oh, baby, come here,” he says softly, gathering me in his arms. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer him. I can’t. So I just shake my head.

“Do you wanna go home?” he asks.

I nod.

“A woman of few words tonight, huh?” he says lightly as he steps back, offering me a hand to help me up.

I grab onto his hand with both of mine, swaying a bit as I try to pull myself into a standing position. “Just trying not to say something I’ll regret,” I slur. 

“Take care of our girl, Lover Boy,” says Jo.

“Will do,” he says. His tone is lighthearted and there’s a smile on his face, but he tugs me into his side, tightening his arm around me, and I know there’s no joke in his words.

I try to take a step forward and stumble almost immediately, but Peeta’s there to steady me as he leads me through the house. I pretend not to notice the prying eyes of the gaggle of girls when we walk through the living room, but I echo their chorus of goodbyes as Peeta kneels down in front of me, lacing up my boots.

Once we’re outside, I barely have time to make sense of my surroundings before I’m being lifted into the air and carried down the stairs leading away from Delly’s apartment.

“I can walk, y’know,” I tell him stubbornly, taking a few wobbly steps away from him when he puts me down at the bottom.

“That’s questionable at best,” he laughs. “I don’t want to test you on the wet stairs.”

“The stairs aren’t—” I stop myself when I look up, and sure enough, there’s a cool rain sprinkling down on us that I hadn’t previously noticed. 

Huh.

I tilt my head to the side. “Since when do you care so much anyway?”

I’m not sure why I’m suddenly giving him so much attitude. He’s being so . . . nice by coming to get me. I give him a once-over and realize that other than his boots and his jacket, he’s in a pair of threadbare blue and gray flannel pajama bottoms and an old wrestling t-shirt. Not only did I interrupt his evening to himself by forcing him to come retrieve me, but I apparently dragged him out of bed too.

“Since always,” he responds as if the answer is obvious, holding his hand out expectantly. “Now, are you coming or what?”

Between the heaviness I feel in my body and the fact that I’m having to remind my own lungs to breathe, it’s a small miracle when I manage to stagger back over to him. But I skip his outstretched hand entirely, crashing into his chest and burying my face in his shirt as my arms snake around his lower back underneath his unzipped raincoat. 

The air outside is not cold by any means. In fact, it’s one of those relatively warm, late-summer rains that I used to wish would come, refilling the dried creekbeds and making the rivers run boundlessly in its wake.

But now I’m shivering, and I’d give anything for it to go away.

I lean into his steadiness, allowing his warmth to radiate across my torso, along my arms, even against my cheek. I inhale deeply, and I can smell the clean scent of our laundry detergent, but there’s also the fresh scent of summer breezes, and I know this shirt has been hung up outside to dry. And underneath that, a faint hint of his lavender-chamomile soap. 

“I’m sorry,” I eventually whisper into his chest.

He strokes a hand down the back of my head. “What for?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised at my confession.

“All of this. Everything,” I mumble. “I never meant to drink that much. I never meant to make you come get me. I certainly didn’t mean to come home to you like this . I’m so sorry, Peeta.”

He pulls away just enough to meet my eyes and leans his forehead against mine; he’s so close that I can see the droplets of water beading together on the tips of his curls. “I don’t care, Katniss.”

“But you got so mad at Haymitch,” I say tearfully.

“Honey, you accidentally had spiked cider at a party and had no idea what you were doing at that, you’re not actively reliant on it in a way that’s hurting you or the people around you. How could I be mad at you for something that’s not even your fault?” he says in exasperation.

“You still had to come get me though,” I point out. “I didn’t want to do that.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly getting fed up with me. “I didn’t have to do anything. Delly called me and said you accidentally got drunk and were asking for me, so I wanted to come and make sure you got home safely. Nobody made me do anything.”

I frown. “But you wouldn’t have come if I didn’t ask for you.” No, he’d be warm in bed instead of being stuck arguing in the rain with his friend.

“Obviously not! But you did, so I’m here, because I—” he stops himself, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice. “I care about you. So much. Don’t you get that?”

I nod slowly, the action still sending the world spinning, but infinitesimally steadier than I had been earlier on the kitchen floor.

“Good,” he says, gently extracting himself from my arms before wrapping his own arm around my shoulders, steering me back toward the road to Victor’s Village. “Let’s get you home.”

Every step I take feels clumsy, like my feet don’t want to listen to my brain, and I feel like a fawn learning to walk as we slosh through the rain. “I never thought you’d be the more surefooted one between us,” I say truthfully.

Peeta snorts. “If it makes you feel better,” he says, “neither did I.”

I become entranced in watching the pattern the raindrops make in the mud, the small ripples they form when dropping in the larger puddles, and before I know it, the world is fading out once again.

Next thing I know, I’m wrapped up in Peeta’s jacket, and we’ve somehow made it all the way to the outskirts of town without me remembering a single step between the edge of the town square to the road to our neighborhood. We don’t talk much as we shuffle down the last quarter-mile stretch to Victor’s Village—after all, what is there to say? Guilt still gnaws in my abdomen, in spite of Peeta’s reassuring words. Or maybe it’s just leftover cider upsetting my stomach. 

This time, I regain consciousness in Peeta’s bathroom, sitting on a stool. I don’t remember how we got here, only a vague memory of the ghost of a kiss lingering on my lips.

My hair is damp, but my clothes are dry. Not my clothes, I realize. His clothes. And I smell like his lavender soap. He hasn’t bothered with the overhead light either, choosing instead to light several candles to illuminate the space, and I could kiss him for opting for the visually gentler option—the lights in Delly’s house were far too bright.

Fingers comb expertly through my hair, separating it into sections and pulling it back in a twisting motion, gathering hair as he moves down my head. 

“There,” he says finally, tying off the bottom of my braid and draping it over my shoulder before kissing the top of my head.

I run my hand over the braid that starts at the crown of my head and runs down my back in a way I don’t even know how to do on myself. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” I ask.

“Turns out I can plait just about anything,” he says. “I’ve been doing it my whole life in the bakery, but I only figured it out on hair a few years ago when Delly broke her wrist and her actual brother couldn’t be bothered to help.”

My already-puffy eyes begin to water again. “Haymitch was right—I don’t deserve you,” I say.

Peeta furrows his brow in confusion. “Whoa, wait. What did he say to you?”

“It was a long time ago,” I say, waving him away as I wipe my eyes on the hem of my shirt. His shirt. Oh, who cares.

“What did he tell you, Katniss?” he asks, more urgently this time, crouching down in front of me and taking my hands in his.

I look up at him. “He told me that I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve you,” I mutter, snatching my hands away and staring at the floor. “And he was right.”

“He was not right at all,” Peeta says quickly. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“No, he is,” I say decisively. “And you wanna know the worst part? The very worst part?”

“What?”

“For whatever it’s worth,” I say, taking a shaky breath as I meet his eyes again. “I love you. Ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?”

The world grows hazy again, and while I don’t quite catch his reply as unconsciousness claims me once more, I feel a distant, overwhelming sense of disappointment at his response, and it’s not hard to guess at his reaction to my confession, only confirming what I already know to be true—he hasn’t loved me like that for a long time.

Only one phrase sticks in my brain from whatever explanation he gives me: I can’t.

And there’s no amount of alcohol in the world that could soften that blow.

Chapter Text

I’m brushing my teeth when my phone starts ringing. Considering Haymitch is probably drowning in a bottle of white liquor right now, Katniss and Johanna aren’t home, and I know it’s way past Ronan’s bedtime for him and Annie to still be awake, that leaves only one person who could be calling. And only one reason why she would call at this hour.

The phone has barely started on the second ring when I pick up, wiping away stray toothpaste at the sides of my mouth from hastily spitting it out only a moment ago. 

“What happened?” I ask anxiously.

“Hi, Peeta!” says Delly cheerfully, if a bit slurred.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s nothing serious, hon’, she’s just had a bit too much to drink. She thought the ciders were normal apple cider, and, well . . . she’s thrown most of it up now, but she keeps asking for you,” my friend says. “It’s really sweet actually.”

Asking for me?

The familiar fluttering in my chest starts up the way it always does when it comes to her, but I ignore it, caging it away with the rest of the feelings that are getting harder and harder to hold at bay every time I see her.

“I can be there in 20 minutes,” I say immediately.

I hear crackling on the other line, then Jo’s voice in the background. “Tell him what I said.”

Delly clears her throat. “You don’t have to come. Johanna will take her home if you’d rather not walk over in the rain.”

“Delly, be serious,” I say. She knows almost as well as I do exactly how deep my feelings run for Katniss. Johanna’s definitely guessed.

More crackling, followed by a muffled “I told you!” before Delly says, “Yeah, I figured we couldn’t keep you away. But Peeta?”

“Yeah?”

“Just be aware, she’s a bit . . . emotional at the moment,” Delly says, choosing her words delicately.

“I don’t care,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll be right there.”

I hang up the phone in its cradle without another word, making a beeline for the entryway. 

I’m worried about her, for sure, even though Delly’s assured me she’s fine. But there’s a small part of me that’s incredibly touched that she’s asking for me. An even smaller part hopes against hope that her reason for doing it has to do with her harboring her own feelings for me.

Katniss would never admit it—to herself or anyone else—but there’s a long list of people who care about her, any of which would happily take care of her tonight. Two of them are even at the party themselves, yet she still wants me.

I finish lacing up my boots and grab my rain jacket from where it hangs on a hook by the door, zipping it up as I walk out onto my porch. The rain’s lulled slightly since it started up about an hour ago, but what really puts me off is the thunder and lightning. Lightning flashes far away, deep in the mountains, and the beats between claps of thunder tell me I’m in no danger of it striking anywhere nearby. But still, I find myself pausing before I step into the rain.

I’m not in the arena. There’s no debris raining down on me. No web of electricity branching out across the remaining roof of the arena. There’s no blood staining my hands from killing my way to get to her. No scratch in my throat from screaming her name as they raise her limp body into a hovercraft.

Shinier memories start to bubble up in my mind, but I shut them down quickly. Her steel-tipped arrows were never raised at me. Silver eyes never narrowed in malice. 

Not real.

I take a deep breath.

I can see Katniss’ house. The primroses I planted in her front yard. Her usual hunting boots are airing out on the porch, forcibly traded for a pair Johanna deemed more fashionable for a night out. I can see Haymitch’s house too, the only other residence on the street with a light still glowing in the window. I watch the smoke curl skyward from the chimney, the ashy soot blending in with the stormy sky.

Breathe .

I brush my fingers against the crinkly, tough inside of my rain jacket pocket. Feel the wind blow against my skin, the accompanying spray from the rainfall. The soft, worn cotton of my t-shirt against my torso. 

Breathe .

I hear the rain pitter-pattering against the overhang above my head. Listen to the occasional goose honk coming from Haymitch’s backyard. The rustle of my jacket with each breath.

Breathe .

The smell of wet earth reaches my nostrils, along with a whiff of the night-blooming jasmine Katniss planted outside the bedroom window.

Breathe .

And finally, there’s the taste of mint in my mouth, leftover from brushing my teeth.

These things are real .

As is the girl waiting for me at my friend’s house.

I take off from my porch without another thought, heading out into the rain.

I’ve walked the road from Victor’s Village to the town square countless times before, especially recently when helping with the rebuilding, but I think tonight is a new personal best in terms of how quickly I arrive at Delly’s doorstep, even with the dull ache in my left knee that always turns up when it rains. 

I’m already unzipping my jacket, unlacing my boots when the door swings open, tossing the former onto the coat rack and stepping out of the latter haphazardly within moments of passing Delly in the doorway.

“That was fast,” she comments.

“Where is she, Dells?” I ask, unable to keep the concern out of my voice.

Delly smiles. “She’s back in my bathroom. C’mon,” she says, and I follow her down the hallway.

I’d been to the Cartwrights’ probably thousands of times over the course of my life, but walking down the newly rebuilt hallway is absolutely surreal. We don’t turn off into the first door on the right—what I know will be a little bedroom, and what I’ll probably always remember as Delly’s room. Instead, we walk all the way down to what used to be her parents’ room, a place I was never allowed to go in.

Whatever it looked like before, my friend has certainly made it her own now. The walls are painted lavender, the bedding a floral, feminine pattern, and violet, gossamer curtains drape around the windows. One of my paintings hangs on the wall—an older number I’d found in storage upon returning to 12 of the ancient apple tree in the bakery backyard, the same view she used to share from her old room. 

Delly points to the adjoining bathroom with a cracked door. “She’s in there with Johanna.”

I give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Delly,” I say.

I push open the door to find Katniss sprawled across the pink tiled floor, her head resting in Jo’s lap while she strokes her hair in a surprisingly nurturing gesture.

Jo’s eyes dart to mine. “You tell anyone I did this and I’ll kill you.”

I just nod, no questions asked. If she’s going to help me in the near-impossible task of keeping Katniss safe and out of trouble, I’m not going to complain.

Jo pushes a very limp, but still awake Katniss into a sitting position, and I crouch down in front of her. It takes her a moment or two to focus her gaze on mine, and I have to fight to refrain from reaching out and doing something stupid like stroking her cheek, or tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Instead, I just say, “Rough night?”

I could swear her expression softens as soon as she registers it’s me and nods, but panic rises in my chest when tears start to well up in her eyes. 

What did I do? Should I have stayed home? Have I made things worse? 

“Oh, baby, come here,” I say gently, gathering her in my arms and praying that I’m not somehow escalating the situation by trying to comfort her. “What’s wrong?”

She just shakes her head.

Fuck.

As much as I love everything about her, I hate it when she won’t just tell me what’s on her mind. Guessing only ever gets us so far.

“Do you wanna go home?” I ask.

She nods, then furrows her brow as if the motion had taken all of her concentration.

I take a step back, offering her my hand to help her up. “A woman of few words tonight, huh?”

She clings to my hand with both of hers, and I end up having to flex my arm a bit more than usual to keep her stable when she pulls herself up and sways slightly, taking a moment to find her balance. “Jusssst trying not to sayyyy something I’ll regrettt,” she says, her words slurring together.

“Take care of our girl, Lover Boy,” says Jo, looking at me pointedly and giving me a vaguely threatening stare. 

“Will do,” I promise her, tugging Katniss close into my side and tightening my arm around her.

She tries to take a clumsy step forward, but I catch her before she can tumble to the ground. It’s surprisingly easy to lead her back through the hallway after that, considering she puts up little to no resistance, leaving me to practically drag her to the living room.

Delly’s friends watch us closely, apparently utterly enraptured by my propping up Katniss against the wall by the door and then lacing first mine, then her boots up before grabbing my jacket as Katniss herself waves some surprisingly enthusiastic goodbyes to the other girls. 

Once the door is closed behind us, I don’t wait for permission—I scoop Katniss up in my arms and carry her down the steps, even as she makes sounds of protest. I’d carry her the whole way home if she’d let me, but unless she was physically incapable of walking, she’s far too stubborn to let me (although if I really wanted to make her mad, I could point out that she practically is incapacitated at this point). The slick stairs, however, were something I could at least argue myself out of.

“I can walk, y’know,” she huffs, staggering a few steps away from me when I set her down.

I don’t bother holding in the laugh that surfaces in my chest at the way her movements contradict her words, even as they leave her mouth. “That’s questionable at best. I don’t want to test you on the wet stairs.”

She scowls at me. “The stairs aren’t—” She stops, turning her face to the sky, her mouth slightly parted, no doubt only just now noticing the rain misting down on her.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud at her cluelessness.

Fuck me, she’s absolutely adorable.

She tilts her head to the side accusatorily, entirely unamused by my antics. “Since when do you care so much anyway?”

I’m genuinely unsure as to how I could somehow be more straightforward with her, so I just say, “Since always,” I remind her. I offer her my hand, eager to get back to the warm, dry house. “Now, are you coming or what?”

Katniss veers back toward me, but at the last second, she brushes aside my hand, tackling me in a tight hug. She leans against me with all her weight, her breaths coming in tiny, muffled gasps against my chest, as if each one was a massive effort to release. Her hands are freezing, her skin cool to the touch, but I merely cradle her against me, wrapping my arms around her at an angle where my jacket blocks her from the weather too. She needs my warmth more than I do.

After a minute or two like this, I hear her voice, barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

I run one of my hands down her silky hair, now ebony in the night. “What for?” She doesn’t know it, of course, but I seriously doubt there’s anything she could do that I wouldn’t forgive her for. I forgave her for everything in our past a long time ago, and I’ve already forgiven anything she could possibly do in the future. Her presence in my life is too important to dwell on such trivial things as grudges.

“All of this. Everything,” she mumbles, tightening her grip around my waist. “I never meant to drink that much. I never meant to make you come get me. I certainly didn’t mean to come home to you like this . I’m so sorry, Peeta.”

Oh.

I didn’t even think about that.

Not once in this entire evening had it crossed my mind to be angry with her for getting drunk. Concerned, yes. But never angry. And all this time she’s been guilt-tripping herself to the point of tears.

Of course she’s been beating herself up about it—I’ve never met anyone who loves as deeply as her, even if it’s purely platonic. I should’ve known better. 

But she doesn’t know that it’s different. She’s different. 

I don’t fear for myself or what she could do to me in this state, I fear for her . She doesn’t smell like the moonshine that my mother bought, the same kind Haymitch buys now. No, she smells like cinnamon, slightly soured apples, and mint. The only marks she’s ever left on my skin have never contained even a trace of malice, and I’ve gladly accepted them. She doesn’t dwell on everything she hates about the people she’s supposed to love, but instead wallows in misery when we’re not there, softening immediately when we are.

But most of all? I trust her unconditionally.

In spite of the fact that she’s been through horrors that would drive most people to the bottle, she still refuses to become a slave to its numbing embrace. Utterly unprompted, I know that Katniss will be harder on herself than I could ever imagine, holding herself to a standard that I would never enforce upon her.

Besides, it wasn’t even her fault, and there’s a difference between a bad night and a bad habit. 

I pull away from her embrace ever so slightly, leaning my brow against hers in a way that forces her to meet my gaze. “I don’t care, Katniss.”

“But you got so mad at Haymitch,” she cries as more tears begin to well in her eyes, and it feels like someone’s tightening a vise around my heart.

“Honey, you accidentally had spiked cider at a party and had no idea what you were doing at that, you’re not actively reliant on it in a way that’s hurting you or the people around you.” I shake my head in exasperation, sending droplets of water flying from the tips of my hair. “How could I be mad at you for something that’s not even your fault?” 

“You still had to come get me though,” she whines, the misery in her voice shattering my heart. “I didn’t want to do that.”

How has she still not realized that I’ll do anything for her, entirely of my own volition? That she could never be a burden to me?

I roll my eyes, and I can’t help the pained frustration that seeps into my voice. “I didn’t have to do anything. Delly called me and said you accidentally got drunk and were asking for me, so I wanted to come and make sure you got home safely. Nobody made me do anything.”

Katniss frowns, scrunching up her eyebrows. “But you wouldn’t have come if I didn’t ask for you.”

“Obviously not! But you did, so I’m here, because I—”

Because I love you.

Whoa.

Too close. Way too close.

I take a deep breath in an attempt to steady my heart, praying she doesn’t catch my slip. “I care about you. So much. Don’t you get that?”

She nods her head slowly, but I can still see a trace of doubt clouding her eyes.

At least my words have soothed her tears, I suppose.

“Good,” I say, gently pulling her away from my waist and slinging my own arm around her shoulder and under her other arm, crooking my elbow in a way that’ll catch her when she inevitably steps a little too overconfidently, but is inconspicuous enough that she won’t shrug me off. “Let’s get you home.”

We’ve only been walking for a minute or two when, sure enough, she stumbles slightly and my hand splays across her ribs, holding her against me before she can drop to the mud.

“I never thought you’d be the more surefooted one between us,” she mutters as she regains her footing.

I can’t help the half-snort, half-laugh that escapes my mouth. “If it makes you feel better,” I tell her, “neither did I.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, she stares at her feet, as if carefully planning out each step she’s going to take. 

Knowing her, she probably is.

The wind starts to pick up, the rain starting to come down harder, and that’s when she starts to shiver. I don’t think—I pull back, tugging Katniss to a stop as I slip off my jacket.

“I don’t need it,” she protests, even as she twists her body to allow me to push her arms through the sleeves, zipping it up to her chin and tucking her tied-back hair into the hood.

I shrug. “I don’t either,” I say, the rain already making my shirt stick to my chest. 

Her shivering ceases almost immediately, but the color doesn’t quite return to her lips, even after a few minutes of walking. Luckily, our neighborhood swims into sight a moment later, lights glowing in the night from Haymitch’s living room and my porch. 

I do a quick assessment as we turn down the road. Leaving her by herself is out of the question, especially if she’s been sick. Not that I’m sure I’d be able to stay away even if I wanted to. But now she’s cold, vulnerable, and sought me out to be with her. The least I can do is ensure she survives the night.

I assume she’ll want to go to her own house, so I’m surprised when she pulls me toward my own.

As I fumble with my keys at the door, I suddenly find her pressing against me, running her fingers up my chest sensually.

Dammit, this woman is going to be the death of me.

I push her away gently, taking a step away as I swing the door open. “No, baby, not tonight.”

Genuine heartbreak shines in her eyes. “Why not?” she pouts.

I look at her pointedly. “You know why.”

“You’re not taking advantage of me if I want it,” she says stubbornly.

I chuckle. “That’s not how that works, Katniss,” I say, taking her hand and leading her inside. “C’mon, we need to get you warmed up.”

She follows me reluctantly through the dark house and into the bathroom attached to my room, crossing her arms over her chest. “I had a perfectly good idea for warming up. You,” she says, jabbing my chest with her index finger, “are the one ruining it for both of us.”

I smile at her, leaning in to quickly press my lips against hers, but that’s as far as I’ll indulge her like this. “Silly me,” I say, turning away from her to twist on the faucet for the bath.

Arms wrap around me from behind, as I reach for a box of matches and begin lighting the candles I keep scattered around the room in case of a blackout. I saw the way she squinted uncomfortably at the bright lights at Delly’s—I’m not about to subject her to the same at home.

“Will you at least join me?” she pleads, nudging her head under my arm. 

“I want to,” I say. “But I won’t.” It pains me to deny her like this, but all the same, I’d hate it far more if I did anything that she’d come to remotely regret the next day.

“You’re no fun,” she grumbles when I don’t budge. She reaches for the zipper of my jacket, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her undress so sadly as she abandons it on the floor, growing even more frustrated when her shirt gets stuck halfway off, trapping her arms, and she requires my help to peel it off. It’d be almost comical if I didn’t hate disappointing her so much, even in ways as trivial as this.

A groan escapes her lips as she sinks down in the tub, her hair floating around her in inky tendrils, her smooth, caramel-colored skin glistening in the dancing candlelight—

Nope. No. If I let my thoughts go there, I don’t trust myself enough to come back from that.

I grab my shower stool, setting it down at the head of the tub. Katniss sits up and leans back, allowing me to lather up my hands with soap, massaging it into her scalp. I catch her peering up at me on more than one occasion as I run my fingers through her hair, her normally silver eyes now glittering obsidian pools in the darkness, but her stare flits away just as quickly.

I leave her to finish washing herself as I walk into the other room to retrieve a dry set of clothing for her to sleep in; I’m not prepared to reject any of her advances if I have to keep looking at her naked (or even semi-naked) form—her usual sleepwear be damned. It’s here that I strip out of my own wet clothes and into a dry t-shirt and sweatpants too. I don’t think the way they were clinging to my skin was particularly helping to fend her off either.

When I return to the bathroom, her body sags against the edge of the tub, a towel wrapped around her chest, and when she looks up, it seems as if all the energy has been drained from her eyes in the short time I was gone.

“I’m so tired, Peeta,” she laments, her fingers lingering on mine for a moment as I pass her the clothes.

I smile sympathetically. “I know.”

She drapes the towel over the tub before slipping one of my old t-shirts over her head, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers to follow.

I slide the stool I’d previously been sitting on over in front of the vanity. “Sit down. I’ll do your hair and we can go to bed—how’s that sound?”

A smile blooms on her face that sets my heart fluttering. “I’d love that.” She trudges over to me, standing up on her tiptoes to give me a peck on the cheek before taking a seat on the stool.

Electricity seems to pulse through my nerves, radiating out from where her lips touched my skin as I reach for a fresh towel and comb.

She closes her eyes as I first squeeze out as much water as I can with the towel before beginning to rake the comb through her hair. A humming sound escapes her mouth, and at first I think it’s just an involuntary sound as a result of the sensation, but then I realize there’s a melody in it. A song.

I don’t know the name of it, but I know it’s one of her father’s songs. A love song.

Words begin to slip in between verses. The lyrics are disjointed, out of order, but still sweet as sugarcane on her lips.

Ain’t nothin’ better, we beat the odds together.

I’m afraid to move too erratically or breathe too loudly, let alone say anything that could interrupt the moment.

You’re still the one that I love, the only one I dream of.

If only she knew how true that is.

It doesn’t take her long to run out of remembered words in this state, but she continues to hum the melody for the rest of the time it takes me to brush the knots out of her hair. 

The music stops as I abandon her for a moment to dig around in my drawers, searching for one of the myriad of stray hair ribbons she’s left here over the past few months. My fingers catch on a length of satin, and I tug a navy blue ribbon out of the drawer before returning to her and parting her hair into three sections at the crown of her head.

It’s almost a second nature to weave her hair into a braid, pulling tightly enough to ensure it will hold, but gently enough for it not to hurt.

“There,” I say softly as I get to the end of the braid, tying it off and draping it over her shoulder. Before I can overthink the gesture, I accompany it with a kiss to her temple.

She runs her hand over the braid, her expression almost surprised at my work. “Where’d you learn to do that?” she asks me.

“Turns out I can plait just about anything,” I respond with a smile. “I’ve been doing it my whole life in the bakery, but I only figured it out on hair a few years ago when Delly broke her wrist and her actual brother couldn’t be bothered to help.”

Her eyes fill with tears again, and my stomach lurches.

Oh, no.

“Haymitch was right,” she says solemnly. “I don’t deserve you.”

What the fuck?

Why is she talking to Haymitch about me?

What has he said?

And in what world is she the one who doesn’t deserve me ?

“Whoa, wait. What did he say to you?” 

“It was a long time ago,” she mumbles, waving me away and wiping her eyes on the hem of my shirt. As if that even begins to explain what she’s just said.

“What did he tell you, Katniss?” I ask her as anxiety creeps into my voice. I crouch down in front of her and take her hands in mine.

She struggles to meet my eyes. “He told me that I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve you,” she mutters, snatching her hands away and staring at the floor. “And he was right.”

I’m going to kill him. Or at least have a serious conversation with him tomorrow.

“He was not right at all,” I counter her quickly. “If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“No, he is,” she says decisively. “And you wanna know the worst part? The very worst part?”

I’m not sure I do, but now I have to. “What?”

“For whatever it’s worth,” she says, taking a shaky breath before meeting my eyes once more. “I love you. Ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?”

My heart stops beating in my chest for a moment.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Suddenly, I’m feeling rather dizzy myself and I have to lower myself the rest of the way to the ground, leaning back against the vanity to refrain from falling to my knees before her.

I should be overjoyed.

This is it. The three words I’ve hoped to hear for thirteen years.

But in a way, it is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.

Not because I don’t want it—I want it more than anything in the world, more than life itself—but because it doesn’t count.

It’s not real.

“You don’t mean that,” I whisper.

“I do.” Her voice is strained with emotion. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

Ice runs through my veins, piercing my heart, and I have to look away. “Stop saying it, please, Katniss. I’m begging you,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, to keep tears from sliding down my own cheeks.

She’s starting to get upset now. “But it’s true!” she exclaims in exasperation before quickly falling quiet. “If you don’t love me, you can just say so.”

I make direct eye contact with her. “That is not the problem here. I can guarantee you that,” I tell her. “The problem is you’re drunk, Katniss. How do I know you’re not just saying it because it’s what I want to hear? Or that you feel it now, but eight hours from now you won’t?” Her face falls. “I can’t—” I pause. “I can’t do this again.”

“It’s not now,” she cries, “it’s always! I’ve been trying to keep myself from blurting it out for months!”

Months?

I mean, I had my suspicions, but to hear it straight from her mouth . . .

It’s not real. Not yet.

I inhale sharply. “If you really mean it,” I say, “then tell me again.”

“I love—”

“Not now. Tomorrow morning. Tell me again tomorrow. No alcohol in your system. Tell me then. If you don’t, I’ll know you didn’t mean it. If you do . . .” I smile. “Well, we’ll get to that if it happens. Okay?”

Katniss nods. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

I hate whoever invented alcohol.

I roll over, covering my head with my pillow; the curtains are drawn and the morning light dulled by the dark stormclouds that linger in the sky, but the windows are open, and even the crack of sunlight they let in are too bright for my sore head.

But I know no amount of hiding in bed is going to ease what will undoubtedly be an agonizing conversation with Peeta whenever I finally get up. To face him after what I told him last night is the absolute last thing I want to do right now. Putting it off will do me no good, however.

I give up on trying to fall back asleep and instead steel myself to get out of bed, but when I toss my pillow to Peeta’s side and sit up, there’s a glass of water and two little rust-colored tablets on the nightstand, along with a slice of plain, buttered bread. 

I’m a bit disappointed at the choice for breakfast (especially when I know he’s got cheese buns in the refrigerator), but as soon as I take a sip of water and knock back the pills, soothing my parched mouth but reactivating my nausea, I’m suddenly extremely grateful for the bland food.

Well . . . bland’s not the right word. It’s delicious, really—the bread is infinitely better than any of the stuff I used to eat as a kid, it’s just a bit boring in light of all the other baked goods I’ve become accustomed to. Living with Peeta is making me soft.

Maybe that’s not the worst thing.

Even if I put it all at risk last night.

The food, the drink, the medicine . . . it must be a good sign, right? That even after my failed confession the night before, he can still be bothered to take care of me. He may not love me, but at least he likes me. At least I mean something to him.

His words from last night come back to me, and whatever bits of my heart had managed to scab over while I slept are ripped open again.

“I can’t.”

Maybe he meant that he can’t love me right now? That everything that’s happened to us is just too fresh, too jarring to think about me that way.

I don’t want to think about the alternative—that he’ll never love me in the way I crave.

The pain pills are starting to work, but it still takes me a few minutes to finish off my buttered bread and gather the nerve to see him before I get to my feet, still a little lightheaded, and venture into the hallway. 

He’s not in the kitchen, where I expect him to be. Nor is he in the living room. The garden. The bathroom.

It’s not until I climb the stairs to the guest bedroom he uses as an art studio that I finally find him sitting beside the window, brush in hand as he paints the stormy sky outside. Blonde waves fall across his forehead, but unlike the usual calm that his art brings him, his face is screwed up in concentration, his eyebrows knit together worriedly, and dark circles under his eyes betraying what must’ve been a worse sleepless night than I thought.

He relaxes ever so slightly when he sees me in the doorway. “Hey,” he says softly. “How are you feeling?”

I cross over to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Better. Someone was kind enough to leave me some supplies to help get over my hangover.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” he chuckles.

“The nicest,” I say earnestly, still hanging on his shoulder. “Thank you, though. For everything.”

He shrugs. “You called, I came. Or rather Delly called. But you asked for me. Of course I wasn’t gonna leave you by yourself.”

“I still appreciate you,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. “And I’m really sorry about everything that happened after we got home. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I really care about you and I don’t want anything to get in the way of what we have.”

Peeta pulls away from me slightly, drawing back to search my eyes. “So you regret saying it?”

“If I could take it back so we could go back to normal, I would,” I tell him.

He sighs sadly. “I need to talk to you about something,” he says nervously.

Nervous? Peeta doesn’t get nervous.

I nod slowly and back away a few steps, taking a seat on the bench at the guest bed as icy anxiety creeps into my own chest. 

He hesitates a beat. “I think we should stop sleeping together.”

My heart drops into my stomach.

“Why?” I say, my voice coming out as a near-whisper.

“I don’t think I can handle it anymore,” he says. “We’re not good at being casual. I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, panic rising in my voice. 

“I mean I’ll sleep beside you forever, if that’s what you want. But I won’t sleep with you. There were always going to be strings attached with us, Katniss, and I can’t ignore them anymore. You mean the world to me, and I’d do almost anything for you. But not this. I can’t keep doing this.”

There’s those words again. I can’t .

“If that’s what you want—”

“It’s not what I want,” he says in frustration. “It’s not at all what I want, but don’t you see? I have to.”

I’m gonna be sick.

Of course I see. He’s only just now figuring out what I’ve known for a long time—that my feelings were always going to ruin the casual nature of our relationship. And I can’t even be mad at him for it. I know he’s only cutting things off now to make it as painless for me as possible. He’s still trying to protect me from my own feelings, even when he hasn’t had any sort of emotional obligation to me for ages. 

The very thought of it makes me want to cry, but I stare up at the ceiling, holding them at bay. To cry now would only confirm that I can’t handle the physical advancement between us without my emotions getting tangled in it. 

My lip quivers as I speak. “So this is it then?” I ask. “One night was all it took to lose you forever.”

I could swear I see tears welling up in Peeta’s eyes too, but he blinks them away.

“You haven’t lost me, Katniss,” he says tiredly. “Just my body. You’ll be all right.”

I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle the choked sob that threatens to work its way out of my chest. “Then I can’t be here,” I say. “I have to go.” I’m hit by a wave of dizziness when I stand, and Peeta lunges to steady me, but I push his hand away, bracing a hand on the bed frame instead. “Don’t touch me,” I snarl as I back away toward the door.

He has the nerve to look hurt at my words, but he respects my wish. After he’s the one who decided for the both of us that I can’t handle the physical aspect of our relationship.

“I have to go,” I repeat, keeping one hand trailing against the wall for support as I stumble blindly down the stairs, my watering eyes blurring my vision. My hand fumbles with the handle on the front door for longer than I’d care to admit, but a moment later, I’m standing on the porch, swaying slightly as the too-bright sunlight seems to shine directly into my eyes. 

It’s a small break of blue sky between onyx clouds, a short pause in the storm brewing in the air. I don’t even bother putting on my muddy shoes from last night, I just sprint clumsily across the lawn, making my way to my own house.

Peeta calls out my name from an open window, but no footsteps follow mine as I run up my front walkway and into the entryway, slamming the door shut behind me. I’m embarrassingly winded from the short sprint, but I don’t stop to let my breathing slow, I just carry on running down the hall to the bathroom, where I perch on the edge of the bathtub and screw on the faucet, watching the dirt and grass wash off my feet and swirl down the drain.

It’s here that my breaths turn to gasps, and my gasps turn to sobs that turn into full-blown crying.

I hear someone approaching, and even though the footfall is far too light and steady to be Peeta, I can’t help but hope that he’ll come around the corner any second, begging to take it all back.

But I have no such luck.

“Oh, shit,” says Johanna softly, taking a seat beside me on the edge of the tub, facing the opposite direction. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “We’re done. Peeta and I are done,” I say, my voice breaking.

“What? Why?” she asks, her voice a genuine blend of surprise and concern.

“I told him I loved him last night, and this morning he told me he couldn’t do it anymore.” I swing my feet in the water, desperate to look anywhere but my friend’s eyes.

“He didn’t say it back?” Jo inquires.

“Obviously not,” I snap.

She raises her hand, and I brace for her to push me into the tub or something, but she surprises me by wrapping her arms around me and leaning her head against my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Katniss,” she says. “I didn’t think he had it in him to do something like this.”

“Me neither,” I whisper into her short tufts of pine-scented hair.

Jo withdraws before either of us can get too uncomfortable with the length of the hug and stares awkwardly at the vanity. “I just can’t believe . . .” she trails off. “He’s somehow stupider than you are, that’s for sure.”

I reach up with the hem of my shirt to dab at my tears, and I’m struck by a feeling like I’ve done this before. 

Not my shirt.

I start breathing more quickly, fighting to pull off the shirt as fast as possible.

“Whoa, why are you getting naked?” asks Johanna, jumping to her feet and pretending to shield her eyes. “You know I don’t like you like that.”

I glare at her as I pull the shirt over my head and toss it in the corner of the room. “I can’t wear his clothes right now, Jo,” I pant.

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “No. You can’t.” She disappears into my bedroom, returning with a buttery soft, baby blue lounge set from Cinna and throwing it at my bare chest. “Here. Do us both a favor, huh?”

I swing my now-clean feet out of the tub and onto the mat, letting them dry as I slip on the sweater before replacing Peeta’s boxers with the pants.

“Better?” my friend asks me.

I nod as I screw off the faucet to the bath.

She grabs my hand, dragging me out of the bathroom, down the hall, and all the way to the kitchen, where she pushes me to sit on top of the counter and starts taking various ingredients out of the pantry and fridge.

Or at least bread and butter. And different variations of a lot of the same ingredient.

“Gruyere, gouda, cheddar—obviously, provolone . . . do you want havarti too? Oh, and I could do a crust of parmesan on the outside if you want.” Jo looks at me, a question in her eyes.

“Uh, just do whatever you want,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s your food. Have an opinion.”

I scowl at her, but she just scowls right back. “Fine, sure, yes, I’ll have the parmesan crust. Just cheddar for the rest.”

“Bo-ring!”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “You just told me to have an opinion!” I exclaim.

“Yeah,” she says, “That was before you had a bad one.”

As bad of an opinion as she considers it to be, she still cuts two slices of bread, buttering both sides and sprinkling parmesan on the outside of each before layering slices of cheddar on the inside and sticking the whole thing on a frying pan. 

Busying herself with the assembly of her own grilled cheese as mine sizzles on the pan, this time she actually gets to use the array of cheeses she retrieved from the refrigerator. “See, some of us have a little something called taste .”

“Please, it’s not taste if you’re just going to be a snob about it,” I retort lazily.

“It most definitely is,” she says, flipping my sandwich with a spatula before wagging the utensil at me. 

I sigh, giving up on the fight. “Whatever, it’s still better than what I had for breakfast before I got here.”

“What’d you have?”

“A slice of buttered bread. A glass of water,” I say. “Oh! And a couple of pain pills.”

Her eyes dart to mine, her expression more than a little judgemental as she shakes her head in disappointment. “The more I learn, the more Baker Boy continues to disappoint me,” she says. “ He’s the one who’s good in the kitchen.”

“In all fairness, I was not feeling up to anything else,” I say somewhat defensively. “He was just trying to help.”

“As far as I’m concerned, he can take his help and stick it where the sun don’t shine,” says Jo, scraping my grilled cheese off the pan and transferring it to a plate before passing it to me.

I shake my head at her. Too far.

“Okay, well, he definitely could’ve done better for the food,” she says. “And for all his help, he still hurt you, and I’m not forgiving him for that just yet.”

“Now that first part I can agree with,” I reply, taking a large, crunching bite out of the grilled cheese as she slaps her own on the pan. It’s salty, greasy, and so, so good . “Especially if you’re outdoing him so easily.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” she grins. 

We sit in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the searing sound of her sandwich in the pan and my occasional bites breaking the quiet.

When she finally pulls her own sandwich off the heat, she turns to me and asks, “What’d he say to you anyways? I just can’t imagine him rejecting you.” She takes a bite of her own grilled cheese.

My stomach twists as I think back to the events of last night and this morning. “I told him I loved him last night. He told me ‘I can’t.’ When I tried to take it back today, he said it again. Told me he can’t keep doing this,” I say. “He was right. There were always gonna be strings attached with us. I just didn’t think he was going to cut them off.”

Johanna scowls. “What is going on with that kid?”

“I don’t know,” I say solemnly. “How’d you get home, anyway?” I ask, changing the topic to her. 

I don’t want to talk about Peeta. Not now.

“I spent the night at Delly’s and walked back this morning when it stopped raining. Looks like it was just in time, too,” she says, nodding out the window at the downpour that’s started up again outside.

“Oh?”

She glares at me. “Not like that, you weirdo,” she snaps.

“Is it so wrong for me to want my friends to be happy?” I ask innocently.

“Yes,” Jo says. “Focus on your own problems—you’ve got plenty to choose from.”

Ouch. She’s not wrong, though.

“Actually, I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I might go take a nap.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to deal with this,” Jo rushes to say. “I never thought he’d actually turn you down.”

That makes two of us.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I really am tired, though.”

She nods. “I’ll join you. Just gonna take a shower first. Peeta may be an asshole, but at least you don’t smell like a sweaty distillery.”

Except I still smell like his soap, which I think might actually be worse at this point.

Johanna tells me to leave the kitchen clean up to her, and I do, but when I get to my room, I realize I have a fair amount of cleaning of my own to do. 

It’s almost pathetic how nearly everything in my room has a touch of Peeta to it.

I start with closing the windows, slamming them shut and locking them. The wind’s howling and it's pouring rain outside—at one time in my life, I’d be doing this anyway because of the weather. Now, I’m trying to protect myself from more than the weather.

I yank Peeta’s hoodie from where it hangs on a hook on the back of my door and I pause. What do I do with it? Half his closet lives with mine, and vice versa. I can’t throw it out, but I can’t keep it either. Not if I want to keep my sanity too.

Moving quickly, I upend my clothes hamper on the floor, sending soiled clothing flying everywhere. But at least I have somewhere to shove Peeta’s stuff.

His hoodie’s first. Then everything in the two full drawers he’s claimed in my dresser. The book on his nightstand. I walk to the bathroom. Soap. Toothbrush. Hair brush. Curl cream. Deodorant. Cologne. The clothes I tore off and threw on the floor when I came home. They all go in the bin.

I erase every trace that he was ever here.

I can’t bear to keep his stuff with me, so I stash it in the study—between Johanna and me, it’s arguably the least used room in the house, save for Prim’s. 

When I return to my room, I finally flop into bed. But I’m not done yet. I rip back the covers just as quickly as I got under them and begin tearing the sheets off my bedding.

Of course I can’t escape him, not even his smell.

My frenzy is interrupted as I scramble to pull clean sheets onto the bed by a scratching sound at the window. It’s followed by a pitiful mewl, and I turn to find Buttercup sitting in the windowsill on Peeta’s side, crying to be let out.

“I’m not opening the damn window,” I tell the cat.

He answers with a complaining yowl, scratching again at the window, the earsplitting sound of his claws against the glass, only antagonizing my already-frayed nerves further.

“It’s over, you stupid cat! Don’t you get it? He doesn’t love me!” I yell.

Buttercup leans back, but he doesn’t retreat. He only sits on the sill and blinks at me with his big, yellow eyes. 

“He’s not coming around anymore,” I say quieter. “It’s not my fault that all the people you actually like leave you.” 

The cat meows again, softer this time, and hops off the window ledge, down onto the freshly changed sheet. He sits his chubby body down on the duvet as I try to pull a new cover on it, forcing me to wrench it out from underneath him and earning a hiss in response. 

“That was your own fucking fault,” I mumble, moving on to the pillowcases.

He moves on to the pillow on Peeta’s side, pawing at the down until he deems it a comfortable enough shape, and then laying down, tucking his paws and tail underneath his body. Another meow, this one sounding somewhat impatient.

“Give me a second, asshole,” I say, fluffing out the pillow on my side before joining him in the bed.

The jolt from me flopping down beside him sends him jumping to his feet and glaring at me sinisterly. But I just pull the covers up to my chin. He gets his revenge, though, by climbing on top of my chest and shifting back and forth on his paws before settling down on top of me, his weight knocking a majority of air from my lungs.

I strain for breath, but I can’t bring myself to push the awful animal off of me. “I hate you, you know,” I tell him, scratching the side of his cheek.

“Downgraded to screaming at animals, have we?” Johanna asks from the door, now dressed in pajamas of her own. “I heard you from upstairs,” she says as she crosses to Peeta’s side, taking up the space that Buttercup had been in only moments ago.

“Buttercup doesn’t count,” I say. “He actually deserves it.”

“Makes sense,” she says. Her eyes scan my bedroom floor. “You ever heard of cleaning, by the way?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “This is me cleaning up. I got rid of Peeta’s stuff. As far as I’m concerned, that’s your side of the bed now.” I don’t care if she only sleeps in here when it rains—she’s now the only other person sleeping in here at all. I know Peeta said he’d sleep beside me forever, but I can’t sleep beside him, even if it means I have nightmares every night. I can’t do that . 

I don’t know how to be just friends anymore. If I’m honest with myself, I never really did. Not with him.

“And that made you feel better?” 

“Not exactly,” I say stubbornly. No, actually, it feels like I have a gaping hole in my chest. Thanks for asking. “Does it matter? It’s not like he’s given me a choice.”

Johanna doesn’t answer. She just exhales, long and low, before rolling onto her side.

The room goes quiet, save for the rain hammering at the window.

I close my eyes, but there’s no escaping it. His words follow me into the dark. 

I can't.

Chapter Text

The storm didn’t stop for four days.

Johanna and I spent the whole time lounging around in pajamas, eating junk, and watching garbage television.

Peeta didn’t come by once. Not even when I didn’t show up to help him at the bakery on Monday morning.

When the rain finally ended, I was gone.

I told him I wouldn’t run away to the woods again. He told me as long as he has me that he’ll be all right.

I guess we both lied.

I start to kick my boots off at the door to the ruins of the lake house before quickly realizing that I’ve got a fair amount of work to do before I can go barefoot in here.

Piles of ash have collected beneath the bare windows, undisturbed by the storms that have largely cleared the rest of Twelve of the painful reminder of the firebombs that decimated our district. Just as when I first visited the ashes of my home, I’m incredibly apprehensive at what or who I might be tracking around and breathing in; I can’t leave it sitting and coexist with it. No, I need it washed away if I am to live here in any capacity.

It takes me a moment to locate the tiny broom my father made me in my childhood, as it’s been moved since the last time I was here.

I’d nearly forgotten why.

The weather that had erased the scars of the bombings had taken with it the signs that some 800 people took refuge at this lakeside last year, leaving the few belongings that remain in the house somewhat misplaced.

I hadn’t brought Peeta inside last time because, well . . . I’m not entirely sure.

For one thing, we didn’t stay long enough to need it. It was only a day trip when I’d shown him the lake, and we’d brought our own picnic. No need for the shelter the house offered, nor its hearth.

Maybe it’s better this way. I shared everything with him. There’s nowhere, nothing that doesn’t contain some memory of Peeta. Not even my own body. 

Except for within these four walls. 

Maybe here I can be by myself without feeling the omnipresent weight of his absence so heavily.

In the hours that follow, I try to prove as much. I sweep the house out entirely, clear out the damp firewood that had started to grow moss, lay out my bedroll and toiletries. By the end of it, between my own provisions and the remaining amenities (a few pots, metal cups and plates, and a couple of tools), it’s a more luxurious shelter than any other I’ve ever had. 

I retrieve the ax from the corner of the room, using it to chop some fresh firewood outside before I turn my attention to securing myself a meal for the evening. The waterfowl turn out to be just as easy pickings as ever, and their eggs just as plentiful. I even dig in the swampy shallows for my namesake plant, but it’s not until I get back to the stone house that I realize my problem.

I’ve taken too much; I’ve become so accustomed to gathering enough food for others that I’m no longer a very good judge of what I need for just myself.

And suddenly the loneliness is back.

I lost my father. My ally. My sister. Three of my closest friends. My mother. And now . . . I don’t even know what to call him.

‘Friend’ is too casual. Even when we tried to be friends after our first Games, it was never enough to encapsulate everything I felt for him, even before I had a name to put to the feelings. ‘Friend with benefits’ isn’t much better. It never really fit us anyway. The benefits went far beyond sex. But ‘boyfriend’ doesn’t sound right. Nor does ‘lover’ begin to cover our closeness.

Not that it matters, not when he’s just another name added to the list of the people I’ve loved and lost. Even if this loss is inherently different from all the others—this one I’ve driven away because I love him.

And now I’ve made enough dinner for the both of us knowing damn well he won’t be joining me to eat it.

How pathetic I’ve become.

I used to yearn for these days, these decadent, luxurious meals that we could only indulge in in the summertime. Now it’s just another reminder that I am wholly and truly alone.

It doesn’t matter that I want him here, though. Him keeping his distance the past few days has been enough of a statement that he won’t be following me anywhere, let alone several miles into the woods along a path he probably doesn’t even remember.

The food tastes like ash in my mouth, and even after I eat more than my fill, there still remain several unbroken eggs, a dozen katniss tubers, and the other half of a roasted duck. At least I won’t have to go far for food tomorrow, I suppose. 

My sleep that night is more restless than it’s been for months. I haven’t slept by myself in just as long, so I can’t say it’s a surprise when the nightmares descend in full force to dominate what little shut-eye I manage to get.

In my dreams, I’m back in the Capitol, watching in vain as I catch that glimpse of blonde hair flashing in the watery morning light. See those blue eyes widen as they meet mine, mouth forming my name. 

Except the hair is short and curly, not braids. Eyes deep cobalt instead of icy blue. Lips as familiar as my own. 

It’s my sister’s death, but it’s Peeta in her place.

I’m screaming his name, but smoke chokes my lungs and no sound comes out as I scramble down from my viewpoint, trying desperately to reach him before the parachutes can detonate.

But as is always my luck in my nightmares, the second explosion goes off before I get to him, and heat singes my face, consuming us both in fire.

When I awake an hour before the dawn, I don’t try to go back to sleep again.

I want to find the fishing poles, catch some trout or catfish like I used to, but I can’t bring myself to do it when I already have an abundance of food in front of me. I get through about half of my leftovers before I start to grow nauseous—I never could eat very much food early in the morning without worrying about it coming back up. 

Leaving my hunting boots abandoned at the door, I pad across the stone threshold and walk from the grass to the wood of the dock, careful to tread in a way that avoids splinters. 

Even the boots were yet another reminder of Peeta’s presence in my life, and if I couldn’t control his haunting me in my dreams, then I am at least going to limit it in my waking hours. 

I’d already come to terms with the idea that I’d have to wear the horrible Capitol-made boots that pinch my toes after leaving my worn, comfortable hunting boots at his house in my rush to escape, but when I opened the door to leave yesterday morning, they were sitting on the porch. Cleaned of mud.

Why does he have to make it so damn hard to hate him?

Whatever the case, I don’t need them now, not as I sit myself down at the end of the dock, allowing my feet to soak in the cool lakewater as I watch the sun crest on the horizon. Mist gathers over the surface of the water as the sun climbs steadily higher over the mountains. It’s probably an hour before the heat will burn the rest of it off, giving way to yet another sweltering summer day, but until then, it’s almost peaceful, especially as the larks and the mockingjays start up their morning tunes.

I sigh, watching my breath become a cloud in the chilly morning air, puffing out into the air before dissolving into the mist.

Any animosity I had toward Peeta the past few days has disappeared with every mile I put between us. It’s my own fault. All of it. I knew I had feelings for him when I suggested we start sleeping together. I ignored them. I was a damned fool to keep digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole I knew I’d never be able to crawl out of; it only makes sense that he wouldn’t want to be dragged down with me.

Only now I just feel empty.

Even with the staggering beauty of my favorite place surrounding me, there’s a numbness in my chest that I’m not sure will ever really go away.

As the day drags on, I try to fill it with the things I love. When the air grows hot, I strip and go swimming, letting the familiar rhythm of my strokes lull me into monotony. I spend my afternoon picking berries, grazing off of my spoils, basking in the sunlight.

None of it’s enough to ease the chasm inside me.

I fucked up bringing Peeta here, I think, as I sit out on the grass where I’d watched him swim laps. Where I’d sat beside him. Laughed with him. Sang for him.

That’s where I went wrong.

I’d become accustomed to coming to the lake on my own in the years following my father’s death. Found solace in it. It used to be a source of blissful solitude. But this was always a place that was meant to be shared, and I forfeited any enjoyment the isolation gave me the moment I invited someone else I love to come here with me.

My first mistake was letting him be that person for me.

My second was believing things would stay that way.

Wallowing does me no good, however, so I force myself back into routine tasks. Swimming in the lake and working up a sweat on my walk in the woods has left my skin feeling rather sticky, so I decide to bathe in the river before I make myself some dinner and settle in for the night.

The banks of the nearby river overflow with recent rainfall, the current strong and insistent as I choose a shallow spot and I wade into the water, abandoning my clothes on the rocky shore.

I sit in the rushing water, letting it flow over my body, washing away the dirt and sweat of the couple of days I’ve been out here. I catch myself humming as I draw the peppermint-scented soap across my skin, basking in the kiss of cool air that tingles my skin in its wake. My voice is the only thing I can really hear as I submerge my head and ears under the surface, the water drowning out the background noise of the world around me.

At some point my brain starts to trick me into hearing a voice calling my name. At first it weaves in seamlessly with the flow of the river, no more than a gentle whisper. Then it grows louder, interrupting my thoughts entirely with a voice I’d know anywhere. 

“Katniss.”

I open my eyes to find Peeta standing only a few yards away, and I sit up quickly, awkwardly scrambling to my feet and lunging for my towel. I pull it tightly around my chest, even as he pretends to be very interested in the tree next to him while I rush to cover myself. Not that he hasn’t seen every inch of my body probably hundreds of times, but that’s just not our relationship anymore. I’m back to being shy with my nakedness, and he’s back to blushing as if he’s never seen my bare breasts, looking away respectfully as if he doesn’t know what I taste like.

I tuck the corner of the towel in on itself, making sure it’s taut enough to hold itself up before I speak. “You can look.”

Peeta turns back to me slowly, and I try to ignore the way his gaze devours me like a man starved. “I’d hoped you’d only gone so far,” he admits by way of greeting.

I shrug. “No point in going north. They want me dead. And I’m not too keen on heading south at this time of year.”

“Right,” he says.

Silence.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him tiredly as water droplets drip down my spine. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I wanted to tell you that I was right,” he begins.

I cross my arms over my chest. He’s always been honest with me, but I didn’t think he was cruel, especially not enough to follow me all the way out to the lake just to prove his point. “So you've come to gloat?”

“No,” he says, dropping his pack to his feet unceremoniously. “I’ve come to apologize.”

“For what?” I ask. “You don’t seem too sorry.”

“Can you please stop assuming everything I feel or say?” he asks. 

“Okay, then what? What are you apologizing for if you’re so correct?” I ask accusatorily, putting my hands on my hips.

He looks away. “Delly took your place at the bakery this week, y’know. And Johanna took over from her when the rain stopped. And you left.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll be sure to thank them when I get back. Is that all?”

“Stop it, Katniss,” he says. “I’m being serious.”

I scowl. “As am I.”

“I’ve spent all week being chewed out by two of my closest friends for not saying something when I should’ve,” he says, “and I’m trying to fix that now.”

His expression tells me he’s starting to get irritated with my attitude, but I don’t care. In fact, I welcome it. Maybe it’s enough to get him to leave me alone before I’m forced to sacrifice my pride and ask him to go home for both of our sakes.

“Spit it out, then,” I tell him stubbornly. “I need to get dressed and make dinner.”

“I love you.”

Heat surges through my veins, but not the kind I’m used to him eliciting.

I stand by what I felt before—I’m not angry with him. I’m furious. 

How dare he say that to me. 

He’s had days to come to this conclusion, and it’s only after I’ve run away and my disappearance has proved to be an inconvenience to him that he seeks me out and tells me what I want to hear. That’s not reciprocation; that’s guilt. Or worse.

“You are not funny,” I seethe, bending down to snatch up my clothes from the rocks next to me in preparation to storm back to the lake house, my fingers trembling. Whether they shake in rage or pain, I don’t know.

He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist and turning me back to face him. “I am not joking.” 

I try to wrest my arm from his grasp, but he holds fast. “Let me go!”

“No!” he exclaims, his voice starting to raise in frustration. “You can run away from me all you want afterward—hell, I’ll leave you alone, myself—but I need you to listen to me.”

Once he seems satisfied that I’m not going anywhere, he releases my wrist.

“I was right when I said that there were always going to be strings attached with us and I can’t ignore them anymore. Not because of you, but because of me. Because I love you, and I can’t keep fucking you and playing house, only for you to claim to reciprocate those feelings while drunk, and then take it all back the next morning,” he says. “I want to be able to be that person for you, but I’m not strong enough, Katniss. And I’m sorry for that.”

For a moment, I think I must be drunk again. My head feels dizzy and my face feels hot, the world seeming to shift beneath my feet. My stomach turns and I place a hand on the tree nearest me for support.

“You love me?”

“I do.” 

He loves me.

I stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded by the thought. “Now what?”

“‘Now what?’” he laughs incredulously. “I don’t know. You tell me. Between the two of us, I’ve been led to believe that you maybe haven’t been entirely honest with me either.”

I’m going to murder Johanna. Delly too.

“I already told you I loved you,” I remind him. “You’re the one who didn’t say it back. Who cares if I was drinking?” I jab a finger at his chest and he takes a step back. “I bared my feelings to you, and you rejected me.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “I asked you to say it again in the morning if you meant it, and you did nothing but plead with me to take it back.”

“No, you didn’t,” I scoff. “I told you I loved you, and you distinctly said ‘I can’t.’”

He scrunches up his brow in confusion. “That’s not what I said at all. I mean, I used those words, but not in that way. I told you ‘I can’t do this again’ as in ‘I can’t cope with you confessing feelings for me when you don’t mean it’ anymore. You agreed to repeat it again the next morning if you meant it. You never did.” His eyes widen slightly in realization. “How much do you remember from that night?”

I press my lips together. “Not a lot after I ended up in Delly’s bathroom,” I tell him honestly. “I remember throwing up. Johanna choking me with a mint. You coming to get me. Somehow ending up on a stool in your bathroom, confessing my feelings for you. And that’s about it.”

Peeta swears softly. “You blacked out,” he whispers, his voice raw with revelation.

I’m not familiar with the term, but it sounds like a rather fitting way to describe the gaps in my memory from that night, so I nod. “I think so.”

“I can’t believe . . . Katniss, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I had no idea.”

“Wait,” I say, a gnawing ache developing in my chest. “You thought I wanted to take it back because I didn’t mean it. Real or not real?” 

Sorrow flashes in his eyes as he nods. “Real.”

I bury my face in my hands. It’d be laughable if it weren’t so painfully tragic. “I thought you didn’t feel the same way, and I didn’t want my feelings getting in the way of what we have.” I pause before realizing my mistake. “Had.”

I feel his fingers curl around mine, drawing my hands away from my face. “Have,” he corrects. “Trust me, I’ve been spending every second of every day since I got back struggling to keep my feelings to myself. I screwed up when I first told you how I felt during those first Games, and all it did was drive you away; I told myself I’d wait for you to come to me this time, and if you didn’t, then I’d let you go.” He smiles ruefully. “I should’ve known it was never going to be that simple between us.”

“I was certain you’d fallen out of love with me,” I confess. “I thought I’d lost that part of you forever.” It’d be the least I deserved after everything he’s been through as a result of being loved by me.

“Then I suppose we both have some lost time to make up for,” he murmurs, tucking a damp, curling strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering along my jawline. “That is, if you’ll still have me.”

“Have you? Peeta, I love you.”

There it is. Maybe the one phrase in the universe that could so wholly destroy and heal us simultaneously. The source of all of our problems, but perhaps the answer to them too.

“Good,” he says, lowering his voice. “Then let me show you how much I love you.”

Chapter Text

I don’t quite remember how we get back to the stone house. I’m honestly surprised I even register the change in scenery at all considering how distracted I am.

He loves me.

Nothing else matters.

It’s irritating just how many layers remain between us, even as I drop my towel. I reach between us to unfasten his belt, but he just pulls away, laughing lightly.

“How ‘bout I let you do my shirt instead?” he chuckles.

My cheeks redden, thinking back to the last time I tried to take off his pants myself. Considering I actually want him to get naked, I decide it’s no use arguing with him about it. I don’t have the patience for that right now. 

And besides—even though I don’t think either of us can handle the discussion quite yet—I’ll hopefully have a lifetime to figure out maneuvering his pants over his prosthesis. This is only the beginning.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” I mumble in agreement, moving my fingers up to fumble with the buttons on his shirt.

“But your efforts are appreciated nonetheless,” he insists, leaning down to press his lips lightly against mine as his own hands work on first his belt, then his button and fly. 

When I open my eyes, both his trousers and underpants are around his ankles, and he’s kicking them off to the side. I loose a sigh. “It’s annoying how easily you do that.”

“It is my body,” he laughs.

“Trust me,” I say, pulling him flush against me, “I’m not complaining.”

His lips crash into mine a second later and I wrap my arms around his neck. As if reading my mind, Peeta already anticipates my next move, his hands sliding to the backs of my thighs as I jump up slightly, locking my legs around his hips without ever breaking the kiss. He pushes me back against the cabin wall, the freezing stone biting into my bare skin as he braces one hand behind me, leaving the other to roam my body freely.

Fingers tremble as they cup my cheek, then trace down to my breast, my waist.

I’d ask him why, but I already know the answer.

We’ve had sex countless times before, but this is different. 

Before, we weren’t being honest with each other, let alone ourselves. Biting back what we really meant while trying to make up for it with our bodies, pretending what we had between us was nothing more than physical. A most exquisite torture.

And one I never want to experience again.

But he loves me, and I love him, and this is anything but that. And I tell him as much.

I break away, whispering breathlessly against his lips, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he responds, his mouth curling into a smile. He pulls me away from the wall, kneeling slowly before lowering me down onto my bedroll, my head hitting the pillow softly as he descends on me.

“I love your lips,” he says, punctuating his words by giving me a featherlight kiss. “And your eyes.” He brushes his lips on the bridge of my nose, just between my eyes.

“I love your hair,” he continues. Peeta’s fingers graze along my jawline, tangling in the roots of my hair where he gently tightens his grip, pulling my head at a slight angle that bares my neck to him entirely, making my breath catch and my scalp tingle.

“I love how soft your skin is,” he whispers against my throat, his warm breath and smooth lips tickling the sensitive skin there. He’s got the ghost of a scruff on his face, and it scrapes tantalizingly as he trails down my neck, sucking at a spot on my collarbone that makes me gasp at the sensation. “I love the sounds you make,” he says, “especially when I’m the cause.”

He continues traveling down my body, brushing a kiss between my breasts, just over my heart, and I feel my pulse quicken. Apparently I’m not the only one.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I love that I can make your heart race just as much as you make mine.”

“Of course,” he says, “not all of my thoughts are equally as . . . pure.” Before I know what he’s doing, he’s lowered his mouth to my nipple and swirls his tongue over it, sucking it lightly in a way that has me whimpering for more, utterly melting at his touch. There’s a slight suction sound as he pulls away, grinning wickedly as he moves to do the same to the other side. “I love these. Absolutely adore them.” Peeta flicks his tongue over my other nipple, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

His eyes flit up to mine, noting my distress. “Baby, there’s no one around for miles. We can make as much noise as we want.”

Heat rushes to my face, but I’m oddly not embarrassed by his words. On the contrary, they’re unbelievably attractive.

He continues lowering himself down my body, and I help things along by pushing myself into a semi-sitting position against the wall. “I love this,” he says, sliding both hands to my waist. “And these.” He moves them to my hips. “These are absolutely magnificent.” He curls his hands around my thighs, spreading my legs apart as he settles between them, laying down on the lower half of my bedroll.

“This too,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he presses a light kiss to my inner thigh.

Wait, what?

I give him a confused look. “What was that for?”

His grin widens. “You have a freckle here. You didn’t know?”

“No,” I shake my head. 

“It’s cute,” he says matter-of-factly. “I missed it.” He finally turns his attention to the spot I’ve been aching for him to touch since—

Well, since last week, now that I think about it. But since the first second he kissed me today, it’s quickly morphed from a yearning want to a visceral need.

“Now, this,” he mutters, “I think I might love the most.” He pauses, looking up for a moment, as if lost in thought. “No, I’ve changed my mind—it’s my second favorite.”

“Second to what?” I ask.

Peeta removes his hand from my right thigh, snaking it up my torso, right to the center of my chest, and taps twice.

If I wasn’t absolutely head over heels for this man already, I certainly am now.

“You’re terrible,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief, even as my lips twist into an involuntary smile.

He gazes up at me under lowered lashes. “Maybe. But you love me for it.”

He doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, lowers his mouth to me, licking all the way from my dripping core to my clit, where he sucks lightly at it before circling it with his tongue.

“Fuck me, I missed that,” he groans, pulling away just far enough so he can speak, but still close enough that his words vibrate against the skin there. “I missed you. I love you.”

“I lov—oh, fuck,” I whine as he cuts me off with another stroke of his tongue. But this time, he doesn’t let up; he falls into an infernal rhythm, swirling his tongue and sucking at my clit in a way that makes stars explode in the edge of my vision. I lace my fingers in his curls, my legs attempting to involuntarily clamp shut at the sensation, but his fingers just press harder into my thighs, and he holds them wider still.

The pressure, the pace—it’s all too much after being forced to go without, and I’m already panting, writhing underneath his touch. But what really drives me to the edge is when he withdraws a hand from one of my legs, sliding a finger inside me. Joins it with a second. Curls them inside, scraping against my walls as he pumps them in time with the strokes of his tongue, eliciting a loud moan from me.

White-hot pleasure coils in my core, and it doesn’t take long before my whole body is shuddering, my hips attempting to buck against his grip as release explodes across every nerve ending in my body.

I’ve come to expect him working me through my climax, but what I don’t expect is that even after he’s wrung what I’m sure must be every last ounce of pleasure from my body, he doesn’t stop.

He slows his pace to agonizingly leisurely strokes, circling my clit with his tongue with devilish precision. And that blazing pressure begins to build again.

“Peeta, please,” I moan. I need him inside me right this instant.

He doesn’t so much as lift his mouth to answer me—he only looks up at me, his midnight eyes glazed over with some unfamiliar emotion, and gives me a small shake of his head.

No.

It’s almost unbelievable how well he knows my body, how he knows exactly what to do to make me ache and beg for his touch.

Occasionally, he flicks his tongue over my hypersensitive clit, causing me to cry out and my legs to spasm, but he holds me tight through it all, letting that raw tension pooling in my core build, build, build.

My breathing becomes ragged, my chest heaving as I try to retain even a hint of composure, but I can’t hold on. Not even to him, not like this. I release my fingers from his hair, grasping wildly for anything—the wall, my sleeping bag, anything. It’s only then that he finally lets go of my other thigh with his free hand, reaching up and lacing his fingers with mine, pressing down with our intertwined hands to pin my hips to the ground.

My legs start to shake as I reach a threshold of euphoria I’ve never imagined possible, and I cry out loudly, my voice seeming to echo in the small space as I finish on his tongue a second time, my knuckles going white as I grip his hand tightly.

Peeta’s fingers withdraw slowly and then—of all things—he fucking kisses my clit, sending a final shiver down my spine as he pushes himself to his knees, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before crawling over me. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he swears. 

It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I finally do, it’s raw as I say, “I didn’t know you could do that,” entirely unable to keep the awe out of my voice.

“Mm, only for you,” he says, leaning forward to briefly press his lips to my forehead. “Give me a second?”

I nod. If I’m honest, I’m not sure I could handle going into another round so quickly, even as badly as I need him right now.

He pushes himself to the side, leaning next to us to grab his pack, and procuring his own pillow from inside of it.

“Lift your hips.”

It takes a mortifying amount of effort and both of my legs trembling to lift the lower half of my body enough for him to slide the pillow underneath my hips, collapsing pitifully on top of it the second his hand has cleared my lower back.

Peeta lays down next to me on his side, studying my face. “Are you all right, love?”

I genuinely fear my heart might very well combust at his use of the pet name, but I manage to reply, “Never better.” My voice is weak, my body limp with exhaustion, but my words are no lie.

“Me neither.” He smiles softly as he climbs on top of me again, careful not to crush me with his weight as he settles between my legs once more. “I love you.”

Fireworks ignite in my chest.

“And I love you,” I whisper, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek.

He twists his face to plant a kiss on the inside of my palm before leaning into my touch. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’d be better if you’d just stop talking!” I exclaim. I pull his hips roughly against mine. “Now, please, I need you.”

“If you insist,” he says with a sly grin, lining himself up at my entrance. The pillow underneath my hips lifts my back off the ground, providing enough space for him to encircle my waist with his arm, allowing him to push inside me with astonishing control.

I gasp as I take every inch of him, arching into the delicious stretch, the wondrous weight of him. And just when I think he’s filled me as much as he can, his arm tightens around me, pushing even deeper.

I whimper with pleasure, the pillow beneath me providing a whole new angle that’s so achingly lovely I can barely breathe.

He withdraws slowly with a groan of his own before plunging back in with more force this time. 

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, thrusting inside me once more, starting to gain a rhythm in his movement. 

He meets my eyes, and I realize there’s something intangible between us that’s impossible to describe. Something underneath all the heat that’s clear and bright and glowing. Obviously part of it has to do with what we’ve just confessed to each other, but there’s an element to it that has its own effect entirely, amplifying every single sensation, every sound, every emotion tenfold.

It’s not the pillow (although I very much enjoy that change), or the fact he made me finish twice before ever considering his own pleasure (not that I mind that aspect either). No, physically, very little has changed between us. It’s not purely emotional, however. I’d already loved him deeply every other time we’ve slept together, and apparently so did he. I really don’t know what’s different. I only know that it is. That what we have between us now is unlike any other sex we’ve ever had.

Maybe Peeta would be able to put it in words, ‘cause I sure can’t.

I silence his next moan by pressing my lips to his, slinging my arms around his neck and running my fingers through his hair. Fuck, I’ve missed him. The feel of him, the taste of him. The faint, almost undetectable taste of myself underneath it all.

He’s mine. All mine.

And even though I may not deserve him, he loves me, and I won’t be letting him get away a second time.

“You’re perfect,” he says, pulling away from my kiss for a split second to whisper against my lips.

Me? Perfect?

Not a chance.

And I’m about to tell him as much, when he hits me with a particularly hard thrust that has my fingernails digging into his shoulders and gasping for oxygen. The early evening light streaming through the window seems to fractilize in midair, and I’m suddenly finding it extremely difficult to recall exactly what I was going to argue with him about.

Outside, the sun has dipped in the sky to a time that Peeta refers to as the golden hour. I’d never really understood it—to me, it’s always fallen under the same category as sunrises and sunsets—but he’s always insisted to me (in vain) that it’s its own phenomenon entirely.

I think I get it now.

The lack of curtains or glass on the windows allows the lazy rays of sunshine to illuminate the one-room house, lighting up Peeta’s honey-colored hair and casting an amber glow over the smooth, tanned skin of his shoulders and the side of his face.

My breath catches in my throat from looks alone, but it sure doesn’t help my case when he glides a hand onto my lower abdomen, and pushes.

All of my senses seem to cease working altogether—the only thing I’m able to register is the sudden weight from his fingers on the outside meeting the throbbing, molten pressure on the inside, and how if I were to die right here, right now, I wouldn’t care one bit.

Whimpering cries escape my mouth, and I fall back against the pillows, incapable of anything except surrendering to his touch. He pushes me closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, heat rising to my face and coiling in my abdomen as my vision starts to blur. I shut my eyes tightly, straining to maintain even a vague semblance of control over my body.

I never stood a chance.

My legs spasm, my hips bucking uncontrollably as my walls close in around him, and he groans my name when I arch against him. His arm tightens around my waist, holding me in place as he continues pumping inside of me, even as every wave of pleasure that washes over me sends another shudder running down my spine until I’m not sure I’ll ever regain control over my own muscles again. 

“Katniss, I can’t—” Peeta exhales sharply. “I can’t keep this up for long.” His eyebrows knit together, his expression screwed up with the effort of holding himself together for my sake. 

I smile coyly. 

It’s not exactly hard to tell—each movement of his hips is becoming more erratic than the last, his chest rising and falling in short bursts.

I reach up with both hands, cupping his face and meeting his glazed-over eyes. “Then don’t, love.”

His gaze softens, but he doesn’t reply, he just quickens his pace, removing his hand from my abdomen and pulling me flush against him so tightly that my shoulders lift completely off of my pillow, my hair tumbling behind me.

So. Fucking. Good.

He presses his forehead against mine, leaning in as close as he can without our lips touching and stares into my eyes. “I love you, Katniss,” he pants. “So fucking much. You have no idea.”

“I love you too,” I whisper breathlessly, my chest fluttering rapidly as I close the gap between us.

I feel his body tense against me; even his jaw tightens under my fingertips as he slams into me over and over again, filling me up as he finally finds his own release, my name a desperate shout on his lips as he spills into me. He lays me back down against my pillow with gentle, trembling hands, backing away slightly as he withdraws, and I reach up, pulling his face against my chest as he collapses on top of me.

We spend a few moments this way, both of us struggling to catch our breaths, when a loud growl from my stomach interrupts us, and we both burst into laughter.

“Hungry?” Peeta asks. He lifts his head to peer up at me, his chin brushing my sternum as he gazes at me with pure adoration, humor twinkling in his eyes.

“Starving,” I confirm.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I mean, I just ate, but I guess we should probably find dinner, huh?”

My mouth falls open in disbelief, my cheeks going red. “Peeta!” I chastise.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. I swat at him and his facade of purity cracks, giving way to smug laughter. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. But we really do need to get some food in you.”

“I have some leftovers from yesterday,” I say pointing to the katniss tubers, eggs, and scraps of duck that remain from last night’s dinner. “But I don’t think it’s enough for both of us.” I decide to leave out the part where I don’t think I can hunt anything fresh for tonight. I’m not sure I can even walk, at least for a few more minutes.

“It’s more than enough,” he says, pushing himself up and leaning forward, pressing his lips against my forehead before climbing off of me and retrieving his boxers. Once he’s covered and I’ve pulled up my sleeping bag around my waist after shoving my shirt from earlier between my legs, he rummages through his pack, pulling out a small canvas bag that he tosses it in my lap.

It’s filled to the brim with cheese buns.

“This was my back-up plan,” he confesses, crawling back over to my side. “If you didn’t want me, I was prepared to at least bribe you back to town.”

“And since I do want you?”

He grins. “Then my girl still gets her favorite snack. Either way, it’s a win-win.”

“Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?” I ask him, taking a large bite out of one of the ones on top.

“Once or twice,” he says. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

“I love you,” I say around my next mouthful.

He scrunches his forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. What?”

“I love you!” I repeat, swallowing hard.

“What was that?”

I put my cheese bun down, pushing myself into a full sitting position so that we’re nose to nose. “I love you with all my heart, Peeta Mellark,” I say softly.

“And I love you, Katniss Everdeen,” he says, bringing his hands up to cup my face. “With all my heart.” He gives me a featherlight kiss before drawing back and studying my face. “Do you remember when we had sex in my office?” he asks suddenly.

My stomach dips at the memory. “Yes.” Of course I do. But what does that have to do with anything?

“And I asked if you recall the day we spent on the rooftop before the Quell? I said I wanted to live in that moment forever, and you agreed to let me. You remember that?” he asks.

I nod.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says quietly. “I want this moment instead. I thought I wanted it when we were in my office, but I was wrong. This is the one I want. You. Like this. Telling me you love me.”

My heart swells. I can’t seem to find the words to say, not without dissolving into a puddle of tears. “All right,” I whisper.

“Then you’ll allow it?” he asks, his mouth curving into a smile.

“I’ll allow it,” I say, repeating the same words I told him a lifetime ago as I return his smile.

I’d been so afraid of what he meant by it back then. Terrified of his feelings for me. Scared to death of my own feelings that I didn’t dare voice aloud.

I’m still frightened of what he makes me feel, if I’m being honest with myself. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and the people I love have a tendency of leaving me. 

But he hadn’t left me; he went six miles out of his way through a forest he’s not yet familiar with to find me.

He’s fighting for me.

So I will for him.

Chapter Text

“What made you finally come out here anyway?” My voice is low as we make our way down to the end of the dock at dawn, the sky stained with purple.

He huffs a laugh, shifting the fishing poles he insisted on carrying across his shoulders. “I wanted to come after you since the second you left my house,” he says. “I was trying so hard to respect your space those first few days—it was absolutely miserable. After being harassed by Delly all week, and Johanna all day Thursday, I finally worked up the nerve to stop by after work, but you were already gone.” He runs his free hand through his curls. “I stopped by your place in the Seam too, but when I saw you weren’t there either, I figured you’d come out here.”

What the fuck? “You came all the way out here on a hunch?” I stare up at him in disbelief.

He nods.

“How the hell did you find your way through the forest?” I crouch down at the end of the dock, removing my dad’s filet knife from its sheath at my hip to begin slicing up some leftover duck liver for bait.

“Not easily.” Peeta grimaces. “I left work early yesterday and it still took me twice as long to find it as it did when I went with you. Lucky for me, there’s not too many paths to choose from and the lake is kinda hard to miss.”

I cock my head in confusion. “Wait . . . how’d you find me in the river then?”

“I may or may not have somehow found the lake from the other side and had to walk through the forest to get to this side.” His cheeks flush. “Imagine my surprise when I stumbled across you bathing in the creek.”

“So you just came out here? No plan?” I ask, piercing a couple of fishing hooks through the small bits of meat.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, passing the fishing poles to my now outstretched hands. “My plan was to tell you I love you, and if that didn’t work, I had cheese buns as a peace offering.”

“I thought you said they were a bribe,” I remind him, raising my eyebrows.

He grins. “They’re whatever you want them to be.”

I smile at the ground, turning my attention to the grape-sized stones before me. I pack them up neatly in small strips of linen before I knot them into the line to use as weights, a bit higher than I’ll tie the hook. Part of me regrets not buying some of the fancier gear while we were still in 4, but then again, there’s a certain nostalgia in fishing the way my dad taught me. Plus, Mags showed me I didn’t need any of that stuff anyway.

Tying off the line on the end of one of the poles, I rinse my hands in the lake water before rising to my feet. After quickly explaining to him the basics of what I’m doing, I cast the line off the dock, letting it sink toward the bottom. The dock dips beneath me and I cringe at the clunky sound of Peeta’s prosthesis against the wood, but I feel his arms reaching around me and I can’t help but lean into his touch. 

“Something like this?” he asks me, covering my hands with his, wrapping them around the pole.

“Mmhm,” I agree, but I’m really struggling to focus on anything except for his warm, steady presence behind me.

No, no, no. He asked me to teach him how to fish, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to follow through if he keeps touching me like this.

I duck out from underneath his arms, leaving him holding the pole on his own as I take a couple steps back. “Basically, you just stand still like that,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and nodding, praying he has the good sense to keep his hands to himself. Catfish aren’t like trout—this is a waiting game more than anything else.

Disappointment flashes in his eyes, but luckily he listens to me, and stays where he stands.

Problem is, he keeps moving from foot to foot every couple of minutes, and it becomes increasingly difficult to keep my thoughts to myself as the ancient wood creaks beneath him, coupled with the thunk of his prosthesis when he shifts his weight.

“I think you should maybe just sit down and stop moving,” I finally say, attempting to keep my voice low and level as I nod down at the dock beside me after Peeta shuffles around on the dock for what feels like the hundredth time in the ten minutes we’ve been out here.

“I think you’re right,” he agrees, lowering himself with a sound level at which I still consider to be abnormally loud, but he probably thinks is near-silent.

Bless his heart.

To make things fair, I join him in sitting, albeit with far quieter movements. The position’s not ideal for pulling up a catch, but if this is what it takes to limit our sound, then I couldn’t care less.

“Sorry,” Peeta says quietly, rubbing his knee just over his prosthesis. “I swear I’m fine, I’m just a bit sore after the hike yesterday. I’m okay if I’m moving, but I can’t stand still for too long right now.”

I feel a pang in my chest. How could I ever be remotely upset with him for that?

Especially when Peeta’s not entirely at fault for the excess sounds either—there’s been more than enough noise other than his uneven steps to scare off all the fish for the rest of the day. He’s just the nearest and most recent culprit.

I’d barely been awake two minutes this morning before he was already kissing his way down my body, nudging my legs apart and burying his face between them.

So, no, his clunky steps on the dock are by far not the loudest sounds echoing in the surrounding area this morning. Our responsibility is at the very least shared.

“I don’t mind,” I tell him, brushing my hand against his. “I can take over for a bit if you want.”

“Thank you.” He passes the pole to me before leaning back on his hands and looking me up and down. “I’ll never understand how you manage to make even fishing look good.”

I roll my eyes, even as I feel heat rise in my cheeks, and I clench my legs together, feigning a sudden interest in holding the pole as still as I can.

When I don’t respond, the dock moves beneath me once more, and Peeta shifts closer with surprising stealth. A moment later, I feel his warm breath against my neck, the shell of my ear and it sends a wave of electricity through every nerve ending in my body.

“You sure I can’t convince you to find something else to occupy our time?” he whispers, causing me to shiver involuntarily. 

I turn my head slightly, glaring at him. To accidentally stomp around is one thing. To provoke me into jumping him on the dock is another. “You’re the one who asked me to show you how to do this.”

“Did I?” he asks playfully, creeping his fingers along my waist. “Don’t listen to me, I’m full of terrible ideas.”

I turn to fully face him, careful not to move the pole around too much as I shift it to one hand. “You’re also the one suggesting we do something else,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively on the last words.

“In that case,” he says, “you should listen to me. I have some really good ideas.”

I try to stare him down, but my efforts are limited in the dim light of the dawn. His deep blue eyes are near-pearlescent in the silvery mist, his lightly freckled skin and amber hair giving him an ethereal look, and I can’t help but think of what a nuisance it is for me that he looks so damn good far too easily. 

And then there's the way he’s looking back at me. Fuck me, I’d do just about anything for him to drag me right back to that cabin. 

My gaze lingers a second too long on his bright pink lips, still the slightest bit swollen from—

I feel a sharp tug on the line, but I’m sorely distracted when the fish finally bites, and I’ve only got it anchored loosely in one hand; I can only watch in vain as my father’s fishing pole slips right out of my grasp and goes crashing into the lake.

Shit.

I waste no time brushing Peeta’s fingers off my waist and vaulting off the edge after it. The fish is already long gone by now, but I don’t care about that, that’s not the problem here—the pole doesn’t float. Lucky for me, it hasn’t drifted too far down into the depths and I dive into the water quickly enough to catch it, but any chance of catching a fish before the sun rises is long gone. If the moaning and footsteps didn’t scare them off, the cacophony of the fishing pole followed by me jumping in after it has surely finished the job.

Gasping for air, I hoist the front half of my body back up onto the dock, pushing the pole a healthy distance away from the edge before letting myself fall back into the water. May as well enjoy it if I’m already wet.

I lay back, closing my eyes as I push my chest out and starfish my limbs around me so that I’m floating on the surface. I hear rustling from the dock, followed by the sound of the wood groaning seconds before a shadow flits over my head. I open my eyes just in time to scramble out of the way and cover my face from the impressive splash that results from Peeta jumping less-than-gracefully into the water after me.

He surfaces a moment later, shaking water droplets from his hair. I try to scowl at him, but it dissolves into a strange giggle at the back of my throat as he pulls me into his arms, cupping my face in both of his hands and pressing his lips to mine sweetly.

It takes me a moment to gather myself enough to push away from him, sending a splash of my own in his direction as I swim a few feet away. “This is all your fault,” I accuse.

“My fault?” he asks incredulously.

I nod. “You were being far too . . . distracting.”

“‘Distracting?’ By asking you if you wanted to do something else?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You knew what you were doing.”

“And what exactly was that?” His mouth curves into a mischievous smile.

I turn away, starting to paddle slowly on my side back toward the shore. “You know. Whispering in my ear. Touching me with your hands. It’s like I said—not my fault.” I blow my hair out of my face. “Now we’ve got no food, all the fish are scared off, and it’s getting too light for them to come back.”

Sure enough, the first rays of sunlight are streaking the lavender sky with pink.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It wasn’t an entirely unsuccessful endeavor if you ask me,” he says, moving in and easily closing the distance between us.

“Oh?” I ask.

I don’t have enough time to react as I’m lifted out of the water and hoisted over his shoulder as he wades—wades—the rest of the way to shore.

“At least I managed to catch something,” he says as I wriggle in his arms, trying not to think about the way he’s got one hand splayed on my waist, the other on the back of my thigh.

This time, I scowl for real as he sets me down on the quilt he’d left out on the grass last night after we laid together to watch the sunset. It’s slightly damp from the morning dew, but I can’t bring myself to be bothered by it, not when I’m the one with water flowing off of my hair and clothes in rivulets.

He’s been extra cruel to me—he had the good sense to take off his shirt when he decided to join me on my unplanned swim. His shorts too.

And now with the morning light peeking over the horizon, water droplets glisten on his bare skin, and I’m seething at how difficult I’m finding it to stay irritated with him right now. What is happening to me?

“What—do you want a prize or something?” I say, glaring at him as he lowers himself down beside me.

He grins. “Nah, I’m all right. The catch was prize enough on its own.”

Why does he have to be so charming when he’s being annoying?

“You’re impossible,” I tell him, rolling my eyes even as I’m unable to keep a smile from creeping onto my face.

“You love it.”

Problem is, I really do.

Oh, fuck it.

I press a hand against the center of his chest, pushing him back against the blanket, and his smile falters into something like awe. 

I can tease him too if I want.

I climb on top of him, straddling his hips and leaning over him in a way that makes my hair dangle in damp, wavy strands around our faces. “You ruined my plans this morning.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. “I had nothing to do with that.”

Then it hits me—he’s finally figured out the full effect he has on me.

I’m starting to wonder the extent of the effect I supposedly have on him too.

I lean forward, mirroring his closeness from earlier as I let my lips and the tip of my nose brush his skin, my breath warming his neck as I say, “You’re telling me this wouldn’t distract you?”

“Nope,” he says, inhaling sharply as gooseflesh starts to rise on his skin. “Not one bit.”

Lies, pure lies, I think as I feel him already starting to harden beneath me.

I spread my knees a bit more, letting my full weight settle against his cock, and I grind against him slightly as I pull back enough to expose his bare torso, earning a groan in return.

“Then I suppose this would be no good either, right?” I ask, tracing my fingers lightly down his body, letting them linger over the V-shape of his hips, causing his muscles to tense and his cock to twitch beneath me. 

“Definitely not,” he says breathlessly, shaking his head for emphasis. But his smug smile from earlier is nowhere to be found.

Interesting.

Intertwining my fingers with his, I push both of our hands to the ground on either side of his head and lean forward, removing my weight from him entirely, eliciting a near-whimper at the sudden lack of contact. Instead, I hover my lips only millimeters above his—close enough that I can feel his breath, but far enough away that a kiss is out of the question unless I’m the one initiating.

“Really?” I whisper against his lips before settling my hips back down and rolling them against him. He’s rock-hard beneath me, and my lips curve into a feline smile. “‘Cause it sure doesn’t feel that way.”

“You wicked woman,” he hisses through gritted teeth as his act finally starts to crack, “I was never so mean to you.”

“Maybe not,” I tell him. “But at least I don’t lie about the effect you have on me.” Even if his body betrays every word.

“Was last night not enough? This morning? The whole damn summer?” he asks in exasperation, his eyes wild. “Katniss, I love you. Obviously you fucking distract me, or have an effect on me, or whatever point you’re trying to make here. You have taken over my every waking thought as well as my dreams. I can’t paint a storm without thinking that it’s the exact same colors as your eyes. I can’t sleep on your side of my bed because it’s your side even when you aren’t there beside me. I get disappointed every time I look up at the bakery counter and you’re not there making grumpy faces at me for dragging you out of bed at five o’clock in the morning. So—to answer your question—yes, you distract the hell out of me, and no, I can’t focus on the activity I specifically asked you to teach me, love, because the only thing I can think about is the way you were moaning my name only a few minutes before that.”

I blink in surprise, my cheeks heating at his last words. I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that.

“I couldn’t sleep on your side either,” I admit quietly.

His expression softens immediately.

“And I love you too,” I say, leaning in and pressing my lips against his.

Abandoning my initial goal of testing my effect on him, I release his hands from where I’ve kept them pinned against the quilt, and he immediately rushes to pull me harder against him. With surprising gentleness, he grips my thigh, bringing his other hand to the small of my back, ensuring that no space remains between our bodies.

He tugs my leg higher, lining himself up so that the full, hard length of him is rubbing up against my clit, still-aching from this morning’s activities.

“Peeta,” I whine, pulling back slightly. My panties were soaked even before I dove into the lake, and the friction now sure isn’t helping.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That sound right there is why I never stood a chance at paying attention to anything but you.”

My heart flutters and I lean forward, kissing him deeply.

In all fairness, I never stood a chance either.

Fingers pull at the hem of my shirt, and I lift my arms and chest away from him just enough to allow him to peel off the borrowed t-shirt and toss it to the side. 

Peeta expertly slides his good knee between my legs, flipping me from on top of him to laying flat on my back beside him and turning on his side toward me, his fingers already making quick work of the button on my shorts.

But instead of moving to pull them down like he usually does, he slides his hand inside of my shorts, rubbing a singular knuckle lightly against my clit through my panties. 

“Stop messing around,” I snap.

He grins slyly. “What? You can’t take a little taste of your own medicine.”

“No.” As a matter of fact, I can’t. 

“Whatever you say.” He submits, dipping his fingers underneath the fabric and stroking them lightly, one on either side of my clit. His eyes take on a feral quality in reaction to the slickness he finds there as he adjusts the pressure of his fingers until I’m writhing underneath his touch.

This morning, his attention was somewhat . . . occupied. Interspersed with eye contact, but primarily focused at the task at hand.

From this position, however, he attentively watches my reaction—from the rise and fall of my chest to the breathy moans that escape my mouth, he looks at me as if I’m the only thing that matters in his world.

The intensity is entirely different as well. He already knows I’m still sensitive from his earlier actions, and he reflects as much with his motions. His fingers are slow. Gentle, yet firm. Avoiding pressing too hard, too direct. He knows what I need almost better than I do.

“You’re so beautiful,” Peeta murmurs.

It’s almost embarrassing how effortlessly three little words from him can turn me on so much.

“I love you,” he adds a moment later. “So, so much.”

And how easily their effect pales when replaced by three more.

“I love you too,” I breathe, clutching at his chest as the pressure in my core starts to build to a breaking point.

But even when shuddering gasps wrack my body as electricity runs through my veins like a livewire, he doesn’t cease his touch or his pace, moving his hand just as leisurely, just as gently, carefully toeing the fine line between all-consuming pleasure and numbing rawness without ever crossing it. 

“You’re amazing,” he mumbles, slowly pumping his fingers through the final aftershocks of my climax before finally withdrawing them.

He lets me lay back, catching my breath and staring up at the sky as he shifts to the side and sets to work pulling off his own underpants before turning back to me. I lift my hips, allowing him to tug down my shorts and panties, but the second they’ve joined the rest of our pile of clothes, I’m rolling back on top of him and aligning myself over his cock.

As opposed to my usual fondness for teasing him in this position, I’m afraid I’m just as desperate as he is right now, and I waste no time in sinking down on top of him. All. The. Way. Down.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, his hands automatically finding my hips. From there, they drift up my sides, my waist, cupping my breasts as they bounce ever so slightly with movement when I rise and slide back down the length of him, rolling my hips as I lower myself.

I don’t bother keeping my own voice in check, allowing every little gasp, groan, and whimper to escape my mouth as I ride him.

His hands quickly find my hips again, his fingers digging in sharply, and he begins to pull me against him at the same time as I sink down, pushing into me even deeper than before and causing me to cry out in ecstasy. The pressure is so visceral, so far inside me I feel like my body is going to split in two—and I’m not sure I’d mind if it did.

“Fuck, you take me so deep, love, you feel incredible,” he pants, his grip tightening on my skin as he moves his hands from my hips to my ass. 

I can feel how close he is, how tense he is beneath me, and I quicken my pace, bracing a hand on the center of his chest and rocking my hips harder with each thrust. Instinct tells me to toss my head back and close my eyes, but I ignore it entirely, fighting to focus on my own pleasure and instead directing my attention to the face of the boy I love coming undone underneath me, which brings its own sort of satisfaction.

“Look at you, baby, fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, his body starting to lock up in euphoria.

“I want all of you, Peeta,” I breathe.

Before I can even think about the implications of what I’ve said, his eyes start to widen, but he shuts them tightly a split second later as he wraps both arms around my waist and tugs me forcefully against him, his hips bucking intensely as his climax claims him and he finishes inside of me in a series of rough thrusts. 

I lean forward, giving him a light kiss before raising myself off of him and tumbling in a barely-controlled flop to his side where I curl up encircled in his arm, resting my head on his chest. Tracing a finger across the scars on his abdomen, I try to slow my racing heart, try to pretend I didn’t just say what I said.

Peeta sits up slightly as he regains his composure, briefly pressing his lips to my brow before leaning his chin on top of my head. “You’re . . . something else, y’know.”

I don’t say anything, I just keep drawing my fingertips over the silvery marks on his skin, illuminated brilliantly in the early morning sunlight.

“Are we not going to talk about what you just said?” he asks me bluntly.

My hand freezes. “Do we have to?”

“Typically, I wouldn’t say anything, but it’s not a very normal thing for you to say when I’m literally coming inside of you. Not unless . . .” he trails off. “Katniss, say something, please.”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, resuming my whorling patterns across his chest. “It’s not like I was thinking that hard about it. Or at all. But it’s nothing I haven’t told you before. Obviously I want all of you. You know I do.”

“That’s really it?” he asks.

Nope. “What else would it be?” My voice is a little too innocent for my own good.

I’m not even totally sure what I meant by it, I just know it’s far too soon to bring it up. We’ve been together—what? A day? It’s too much, and way too soon, to talk about exactly just how much I want from him.

I haven’t completely lied. I do want him in every way that I’ve told him. For the most part, I know how I feel. What I want. But part of me is worried about how he views the permanence of our relationship. What he wants from me.

I’m not sure I could handle letting myself fall for him completely, only for him to suddenly decide one of those damn girls from 13 suits him better than I do. Or worse, he wants a future with me that I won’t be able to give him. 

I feel him shake his head. “Nothing,” he says, planting a kiss on top of my head. “If that's the case, I want all of you too. From your terrible cooking to those wonderful sounds you make when I’m inside you.”

His words shouldn’t soothe me as much as they do, but I risk tilting my head up to peek at him, only to find him already gazing at me intently, and—oddly enough—I find myself relaxing against him.

“My cooking isn’t that bad,” I say softly, only a hint of defense in my voice.

“No, you’re absolutely right, love,” he says, offering me a goofy smile. “It’s really your baking and the seasoning of your cooking that needs work.”

I push him playfully, but he just laughs and tightens his arm around me, and instantly that old, familiar glow is back in my chest.

Suddenly, his face falls, his brows knitting together in concern as his hands glide over my hips. I look down to see what he’s doing, only to see pale purple marks blooming on my skin in the precise shape of his fingers.

Something unreadable flashes in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, love,” he murmurs. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Why?” I ask. 

He looks at me strangely. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I laugh. “Hurt me?” I was feeling anything but pain when he grabbed me that way.

“It’s not funny, Katniss,” he says, “I’m serious. I never want to leave a mark on your skin that you don’t want.”

“Who says I don’t want them?” I challenge him.

He sighs in frustration.

“Peeta, I’m serious. It didn’t hurt.” Not to mention that I get an odd sense of gratification at knowing where and who they came from. “I trust you,” I say softly. “I know you’d never intentionally cause me pain.”

He pushes himself down the quilt and presses his lips lightly against the bruises. “Still,” he says, staring up at me seriously. “I want you to tell me if I ever hurt you. I never want you to feel unsafe with me.”

“Of course,” I promise him. I don’t tell him I don’t think he ever would. At least not physically. 

Emotionally, however . . . my heart is in his hands. 

We’re perfect here at the lake. Untouchable. 

But I’m starting to think Peeta has the right idea in wanting to freeze a moment and live in it forever; once we return home tomorrow, there’s no telling what might come for us. 

So I sit up and I kiss the boy I love. Because no matter what tomorrow brings, we’ll always have this. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

“Oh, goody, the lovebirds are back,” says Johanna sarcastically when she stops by the bakery late on Monday afternoon. “I’d congratulate you, but I’m not sure I want to encourage the unmentionable activities you undoubtedly got up to while you were away.”

“Missed you too, Jo,” says Peeta warmly, joining me at the front counter when he hears our friend’s voice.

My cheeks heat slightly, but it’s not as if she’s said anything untrue. It’s just weird hearing it out loud.

We got home yesterday evening after having a later start on our journey home than I’d initially planned on (a delay that may or may not have involved Peeta, me, and being pinned to a tree), and we’d gone straight to Peeta’s to shower and sleep, utterly exhausted from the weekend’s activities. 

This morning was like any other day this summer since the bakery reopened. Peeta woke up with the dawn. I whined about it. He brought me my tea. I brightened infinitesimally. I managed to . . . convince him to rejoin me in bed for a short while. We both brightened considerably.

Only this time, as he dragged me out the door and we began walking down the road that would lead us to the town square, he caught my hand, lacing his fingers in mine.

And for some reason, I panicked.

Not outwardly, of course. I would never brush off his touch, not after I waited so long for us to get to this point again, but there was a telltale pit in my stomach whenever we’d encounter an occasional passerby on our way through town.

I still don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want this. I want him. I love him. So why does it feel taboo to do something as innocent as hold his hand in the street?

I suppose I should be used to Peeta and I being presented as a couple to others; after all, we did a lot in the name of trying to convince everyone of our love. 

Only now we have no one to convince, and we are entirely in charge of what we choose to present. Jo and Delly know. Probably Annie too. Haymitch likely suspects, though the thought of him knowing even the vaguest detail about our private life makes my skin crawl. But everyone else? They only know what we choose to share. 

The issue is—who are we now? And what do we want? What do we share? What don’t we?

We’d spent the weekend all over each other, but in an odd way, the mere idea of holding hands in the town square now seems far more intimate somehow. At the Reaping Day memorial party, when we’d pretended to be together to fend off Gale’s advances, I’d been fine with his hands on my waist and thighs, entirely unbothered that it was in front of all our friends and family. It was just another part of the show. But this?

What’s worse is I’m not sure what I want. 

On one hand, he deserves to be loved loudly. If he’s telling the truth that he’s loved me all along, the poor guy’s been nothing but patient and kind when I’ve been . . . less than appreciative at times. And I’ve kept my own feelings from him for a long while, to both of our detriments. The least I can do is show him how much I care for him, and be proud to do it. Because I am. I’m proud that of everyone he could have, he’s chosen me. Not that I particularly deserve to be the object of his affections, but somehow I am, and the thought alone is enough to set my heart on fire.

But then there’s our history to contend with. We’re not a normal couple. We never will be. There was a time when every little detail was broadcasted to the rest of the country. Giving away bits and pieces of ourselves—an excruciating combination of truth and lies—until not even we knew what was real anymore.

We fell in love. We were engaged. People thought we were married, and they believed I was pregnant too.

That one I’m still slightly annoyed about. All of the drama surrounding teenage pregnancy without any of the fun of experiencing how I theoretically ended up that way.

Regardless, we’ve had enough of our relationship staged for everyone else, and we deserve to reserve what we now know to be real for just us after everything we’ve been through.

But then there’s the even bigger problem: he’s so devastatingly easy to love.

Peeta and I could be together for years. Well-established in the district. Living together. The star-crossed lovers everyone always thought we were.

And then we’ll have the inevitable conversation. He’ll want marriage and kids. I’ll tell him I can’t give him that. He’d never pressure me into it. Then we’ll be over. Just like that.

I’ll never deserve him because he could always do better. He’ll never deserve me for the same reason—I’ll never be enough.

I’m too selfish to let it stop me from loving him now, but a few years down the line? He’ll finally figure out how much better he is than me, and all of this will have been for naught.

The worst part is that I’d rather go through the heartbreak of loving him and the dread of knowing it’ll end than the anguish of pretending I don’t feel anything at all. Either way, I’m fucked.

“So you’re together now?” Jo asks, gesturing between the two of us. “Like, officially?”

Peeta rests a hand on my lower back, and even though it’s an easier affection to accept, and a somewhat easier audience to accept it in front of than this morning, I can’t help but tense slightly. I feel his eyes dart to my face, but he’s back to smiling at Jo just as quickly. “I guess so,” he says good-naturedly, but I can see the way his jaw tightens.

Johanna nods once. “Well, good for you, I suppose. Remember you’re not the only ones in the house. Or stick to his. I’ve already seen too much of both of you—I don’t need to be scarred with more.”

“We’ll do that,” I say, my cheeks heating as I push her usual loaf of sourdough across the counter with a little too much enthusiasm. “Bye, Jo!”

She shoots me a suspicious look at my apparent eagerness to get her to leave, but just grabs her bread and shoves it in her pack before looking at Peeta semi-expectantly. “You coming?”

“I’ll meet you in a bit,” he confirms vaguely.

Meet her where?

“See ya then,” she says, turning to leave.

I relax slightly as the bell on the door signifies her departure, but I don’t even have time to ask him about his mysterious rendezvous with Jo before he turns on me.

“What is it?” he asks me directly, not bothering to dance around the subject.

“What do you mean?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not stupid, Katniss. You know what I’m talking about.”

I sigh. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I tell him honestly, leaning my elbows against the counter in front of me and threading my fingers through my hair, unable to stop the angst that creeps into my voice. “I don’t know how to act anymore.”

“What are you talking about, love?” Peeta asks gently. 

“I just . . .” I say, looking up at him as I stumble over my words. “I know how I am when I’m with you. I know how I am with others. I don’t know how to be us around others anymore. Not like we are now.”

His gaze softens. “You don’t have to be anything. Just you.”

“What about us? What—”

“What about us?” Peeta asks, cutting off my spiral. “Forget ‘us.’ Forget what you think I want from you. Forget what you think other people expect from us. None of it matters. What we have is between you and me. That’s the only thing that counts.” He cups the side of my face with one of his hands, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone and undoubtedly leaving a streak of flour in its wake, judging by the powdery feeling it leaves behind. “I love you. Stop getting in your own head. All right?”

I nod. “I’ll try.”

He smiles. “Hey, I’ll take what I can get,” he says. 

His eyes flick to the clock, and he suddenly drops his hand from my cheek, backing away a few steps. “But as much as I love reminding you how much I love you, I have to go to the train station and pick up some more ingredients for the week,” he says as he unties his apron, hanging it up on the hook on the wall next to the office door. “It’ll probably be a little while, so you can just go home—you don’t need to wait for me. You have your key? You good to lock up?”

I tilt my head in confusion. “You’re going to the train station and you’re not expecting to make it back before closing?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s a big order. That’s why Jo’s helping.”

The train station can’t be more than a few minutes away. But if it’s as much inventory as he claims it is, I suppose it could take them a bit longer.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Someone had to be here,” he says as if the answer is obvious. “And considering you’re almost the same size as the sacks of flour, I figured it might be a bit faster if I go instead of you.”

I can’t even be mad—he’s completely right.

“Yeah, I can lock up,” I say, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Only fifteen minutes until closing.

“You’re amazing,” he says, washing his floury hands at the sink before drying them on his pant legs. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I can think of a few ways.” I purse my lips, my cheeks reddening even as the thought crosses my mind. 

His eyes light up with mischief. “And I am very interested in hearing you out as soon as I get home.”

I stand before he can take another step toward the door, intercepting him and wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’ll see you soon,” I tell him, standing on my toes to give him a light kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he murmurs, straightening up slightly to plant another kiss on my forehead before pulling away and making for the front door. “Can’t wait to hear about those ideas of yours.” He grins slyly over his shoulder before the bells ring again, signalling his own departure.

My lips tingle in absence of his kiss, and I’m instantly struck by how natural that was in comparison to our earlier contact. In my defense, nobody was here (even if there is a very large display window exposing us to the busiest part of town). But mostly I was distracted by the weight of him leaving, plus some very loaded promises for later—I didn’t have the mental faculties to overthink my actions. 

But I’m starting to think that might be the key. He makes it so easy to forget everything around us. Maybe I should let him have that effect more often.

I lock up as promised at closing, but as it turns out, that’s practically all Peeta’s left for me to do. He’s turned off the ovens, wiped down the counters, and cleaned all his equipment—all that’s left is sealing up all the leftovers, turning my key in the lock, and I’m done.

Johanna’s still not home when I get to my house—no surprise there—so I just shower and change my clothes before heading over to Peeta’s and letting myself in. 

I can’t have been there for more than five minutes when someone knocks on the door.

At first, I consider not opening it. After all, it’s not my house. But after peering through the window, I pad across the wooden floors to the entryway, and open the door.

“Hey, Delly,” I say in greeting.

“Katniss!” she says, giving me half-hug around the pitcher in her hands. “Where’s Peeta? I made y’all some sweet tea.”

“Oh, uh, he’s in town with Johanna, I think,” I tell her. “Something about picking up ingredients from the train station.”

She nods, but there’s something hidden in her expression I can’t quite place. “Of course, that makes sense,” she says. Her expression shifts into one of friendly teasing. “Can’t imagine he’s too keen on leaving your side now that you’re together and all.”

“You heard about that already?” I ask, already feeling an ancient, familiar uneasiness returning to my stomach.

Fucking Johanna.

“Well . . . I kind of assumed,” she says with a small giggle, “considering Jo and I were the ones who pushed him to go find you. And now you’re in his house answering his door after spending the weekend in the woods. Doesn’t seem like a friend role to me.”

I exhale a sigh of relief and manage to curve my lips into a smile in spite of myself. “Yeah, Delly. We’re together,” I confirm.

“I know,” she says cheerfully. “I just wanted to hear it from y’all. That’s why I made tea—to celebrate!”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I tell her hastily as I step back, begrudgingly letting her in. 

She brushes past me, striding toward the refrigerator to stick the tea inside. “Course it is.”

Uh oh, I think, as I shut the door, tailing her into the kitchen. 

Here comes the comment about everyone waiting for us to get together for ages.

“It’s a big step for both of you, compared to how things used to be,” Delly says softly. “I’m proud of you for getting to this point. You both deserve some peace. I know he finds that in you. I hope you do in him.”

Damn. Delly Cartwright is going to make me cry.

“I do,” I say, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t expect that.

The front door opens again a moment later, and the sound of Peeta’s familiar, uneven gait follows. “Katniss?” 

“In the kitchen!” I call out. “Delly’s here.”

Peeta appears a moment later, wrapping me in his arms and giving me a quick peck on the cheek, conscious of our audience. “I missed you.”

As he envelops me in his arms, I swear I catch a whiff of sawdust on his t-shirt, but I decide I’m imagining it and instead just roll my eyes. “You were gone for an hour. Two at the very most.”

“My point stands,” he says to me before finally pulling away to greet his friend. “Hey, Dells!”

“Just a hug will do for me,” she jokes, accepting his embrace with a laugh. 

Peeta returns to my side, leaning against the fridge. “So what brings you out here?” he asks her. 

“You do, of course! I figured some sort of celebration was in order, no?” She beckons at him to move away from the fridge and pulls out the pitcher, causing Peeta’s eyes to light up immediately. 

“Is that what I think it is?” he asks in awe. 

She nods. 

“I have the best women in my life, I swear.”

Delly and I exchange a look before bursting out in laughter. 

“What? I do,” he says defensively. 

“Okay, cheeseball,” Delly chuckles. “Grab us some glasses will ya?” she asks him before turning to me. “Y’know he used to call it ‘sweetie?’ He didn’t figure out until probably sixth grade that it was actually called sweet tea. Two words.”

“Really?” I ask. 

“I was a kid,” he says, handing us each a glass from the cupboard. “What do you want from me?”

A smile plays on my lips as I curl my fingers around the glass. “Say ‘sweet tea,’” I tell him.

“Sweet tea,” he says, enunciating a little too clearly. 

“Okay, now say it at a normal speed,” says Delly.

“Sweetie—”

“I told you!” Delly laughs in triumph and I join her giggling, even as Peeta’s cheeks become rosier by the second.

I stand on my toes, covering the side of my mouth as I whisper in his ear. “Hey, I think it’s cute, sweetie,” I say.

“Just because you’re you doesn’t mean you’re not just as awful as her when you say such mean things,” he responds, his voice at a normal volume.

Delly holds out the pitcher in silent offering and Peeta gladly accepts it.

“Scratch that,” he says, filling first my glass, then hers, then his own. “At least Delly makes up for being a nuisance by making good tea. What is it you do around here again?”

“Really?” I ask, lifting a singular eyebrow as I sit down at the dining table, gesturing for them to do the same. “You can’t think of one thing?”

His eyes widen and he immediately turns away, quickly taking a sip before changing the topic. “The tea is amazing, Dells, thanks for bringing it by. Tastes like home.”

I bring my own glass to my lips, letting the rich, sweet flavor flood my mouth. It’s not like any tea I’ve had before. The underlying taste of my normal black tea is there, but it’s blanketed in a lovely sugary flavor that’s just short of being sickeningly sweet. This must be some sort of merchant drink, I think. We’d never have been able to get our hands on this much sugar, and my mother would never allow honey or syrup to be wasted so pointlessly.

“Just thought a milestone like the two of you getting together ought to be celebrated. After everything, it makes me glad to see the two of you happy,” she says. “Figured I couldn’t go wrong with a childhood favorite.”

Peeta glances up at me as if he half expects me to bolt out of the room at her words, but I stay where I sit.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about being around Delly that makes me feel all right about showing glimpses of affection for Peeta. Maybe it’s the vulnerability of knowing she’s seen both of us at our very worst. Or the fact that even as observant as she is, she’s never been judgemental. Perhaps a tad nosy, but never in a way that makes me feel bad. 

Either way, I get the feeling her excitement at us being together comes from a place of genuine joy that—what was it she said? We find peace in each other? And she’s not just invested in the details of our relationship for the purpose of entertainment.

Johanna and Haymitch can joke all they want, but I know they feel the same. Besides, if anyone knows what it’s like to have your personal life exploited for the cameras, it’s them. Annie too, however, I reckon her support would align a bit more closely with Delly’s.

“Thank you, Delly,” I say, but my eyes are on Peeta. “It’s taken us a while to get here, huh?”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” she says, and I turn to look at her. “I’m the one who had to deal with him pining for you for years.”

Peeta’s cheeks flush. “Dells, I don’t think—”

My chair scrapes on the ground as I scoot closer to Delly. “No, Delly. Please, tell me more.”

I listen intently as she tells me how he used to wake up extra early to get glimpses of me through the bakery window when my dad and I would come to trade. After the incident with bread, he started walking an extra half-mile out of his way everyday to make sure Prim and I made it home. He’d try to find excuses to be outside when he knew I was coming to trade, even if he wouldn’t ever gather the nerve to talk to me. Tried to spot me in the crowd at wrestling matches, hoping I was there.

“Aww, you loved me,” I tease him.

“Love you,” he corrects. “But yes I did. Though some of this was supposed to be a secret.” He looks pointedly at Delly.

“Hey, Katniss was just as bad.”

Delly’s words stop my laughter short. “Huh?” I splutter.

“Oh? Now this I’m interested in,” says Peeta.

“I saw you ogling in the gym at wrestling matches. In class, you somehow always ended up with a seat facing him too. You lingered longer at the Mellarks’ than any other merchant you traded with.” Delly smirks. “I watched you idiots turn to look at each other whenever you thought the other wasn’t paying attention for years. And this one,” she points to Peeta, “wouldn’t listen when I told him he stood a better chance than he thought.”

“I was not ogling,” I defend myself, heat rising to my cheeks.

Delly grins. “What do you call it then when he’s on the mat in nothing but his wrestling singlet and you can’t take your eyes off him?”

“I like the sport,” I say stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest.

Peeta’s laugh echoes around the dining room. “Name one rule. Any of them, and I’ll let you get away with your horrible, horrible excuse.”

“Um . . .” I bite my lip, trying to remember anything from gym class or the matches I attended. But I come up blank.

“Oh, love . . .” Peeta says gently.

“No! I can think of something!” I protest. “I just can’t remember right now.”

Delly giggles. “Whatever you say, hon’.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I plead.

“Fine,” says Peeta, a smug smile spread across his face. “But this isn’t over.”

We end up finishing off the pitcher with Delly’s help, and the next hour is filled with more laughter and memories. Not a trace of the pressure I’d expected to feel, the pressure I’d come to know the last time we were together. 

I’m not entirely stress-free, however. Not when the second we’re done saying our goodbyes and the door swings shut behind Delly, Peeta leans back against the wood and crosses his arms, drumming his fingers and looking at me with an expectant grin.

“Imagine you being sweet on me at school,” he says. 

Nope.

“Imagine this conversation being over,” I tell him, turning to walk into the living room.

His arm loops around my waist, pulling me against him, trapping me in the entryway. “Not a chance.”

I rest my palms flat against his chest, avoiding his eyes. “I may have kept tabs on you sometimes. Hard not to after you saved my life and all.”

“That's it?” he asks teasingly, as if he knows it was never that simple.

“I also may have convinced Madge to come with me to a match or two,” I admit. Or three. Or four. Or any of the rare moments during lunch breaks when I had time between worrying about school and hunting and Prim to peek into the gym when I knew Peeta would be competing. 

I didn’t go out of my way to seek him out. Not consciously, at least. But I’d oftentimes find myself near him, through no effort of his. Never together, but always close by.

Yes, it was largely due to the fact that he had saved me. My family. But recently I’ve begun to suspect there might have been slightly more there than I allowed myself to believe. Perhaps more than I allow even now. 

“But I didn’t have feelings for you,” I insist, gazing up at him softly as he brings his hands up to either side of my face.

“Of course not,” he murmurs.

“And I would’ve watched even if you weren’t there,” I say, letting myself lean into him.

“Naturally.” He inches his lips closer to mine.

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

I surge up on my toes, closing the small gap remaining between us and pressing my lips against his, linking my arms behind his neck.

He brings two fingers beneath my chin, tipping my jaw up and deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a sense of urgency, hunger.

Heat immediately begins pooling in my core, and I feel us shuffling backward. My back slams into the wooden panelling on the wall a moment later, my head cushioned by Peeta bringing his other hand up to cradle my hair. 

I busy my fingers with unbuttoning his shirt as his hands roam my body, travelling down my waist snaking underneath my own top. The touch of his fingers against my bare skin sends a shiver down my spine, every single nerve in my body flaring with need for him.

But I freeze when I push his shirt off his shoulders and see a short series of scratches on his upper chest, causing me to break off the kiss. Too far apart to be courtesy of Buttercup, and I know they’re not from me; my nail marks from the past few days mar the backside of his shoulders, not the front. Something tightens in my chest at the sight, but I try to shove it down. “What’s that?” I ask.

He looks down, running his fingers over the red, raised lines. “Oh, those? Thom was at the station and offered to drive the new supplies back to the bakery. You know I’m not the best on my feet—I slipped and bumped into a rake when I was climbing into the back of the truck. It’s no big deal.”

I give him a look of disbelief, but he just holds his hands up in surrender. “I swear. You have no one to be jealous of unless you count Thom or Jo, and unfortunately for them, I just don’t like them like that.”

I snort. “I imagine Jo would say the same thing about you.”

“See?” he says, planting a featherlight kiss on the tip of my nose. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He leans in, hovering his mouth so close to my ear that I can feel his lips touch my skin when he speaks. “Now, please, I’ve been dying to find out how exactly you want me to make it up to you.”

I grin deviously as heat begins pulsing through my veins once more.

But even as his caress dulls the rest of the world around me, I can’t deny the whole new wave of worry that settles behind my ribs.