Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The mirror’s a little fogged, but I can still see it.

The bruise curves under my eye like a dirty fingerprint, yellow at the edges, deep purple near the centre. I tilt my head. It’s faded since last week, but not enough. Not enough for anyone not to notice.

I dab the powder over it again, trying to be careful. The first time I pressed too hard and my hand slipped. It stung, and I dropped the compact and cracked the corner. Now the powder crumbles when I tap it, leaving pale dust on the sink. I brush it away before it can fall onto my shirt.

Tavina gave it to me during the Games—fancy Capitol stuff in a soft gold case, probably expensive. I remember the look on her face when she gave it to me after covering up the bruise on my eye. The way she looked at me like she knew there was more than I’d let on. I used to think I wouldn’t need to use it once Peeta came home.

But things changed.

The powder smells like fake flowers. It settles into the creases under my eye, clings to the places the bruise used to be darkest. I press gently with my fingertip to smooth it out, then stop when it stings. I’ve gotten better at this. Too good.

I never wanted to be good at hiding things.

After Peeta came back, I thought maybe we’d finally be okay. For a little while, we were. The first couple of weeks were exactly like he promised.

My dad let me take Saturdays off so I could stay over at his place. I’d go to the Victor’s Village on Friday nights, and we’d talk for hours. He’d bake while I sat cross-legged on the counter, stealing bits of dough when he wasn’t looking. Sometimes we’d curl up on the couch with a blanket and watch ridiculous Capitol shows—ones with flashy clothes and people with names like Glimmera and Jaxson Creed—and we’d laugh so hard my stomach would hurt.

Even during the week, he’d walk to the bakery every morning with Prim. They’d stop by our house so the three of us could walk to school together. I thought things would be awkward between them after everything we learned about the arena—how it was all just an act—but it never felt weird. Not once. Prim never pulled away from Peeta, or from me.

After work at the bakery, I’d head to Peeta’s house again, and more often than not, Prim would come too. Sometimes we’d bake, sometimes just sit around talking. Haymitch showed up a few times. The first time I saw him, I don’t know what came over me—I ran up and hugged him. He smelled terrible. Like alcohol and old clothes. But I didn’t regret it. He saved Peeta.

The one person I never saw was Katniss.

Prim never invited me to their house, and I never asked. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I think Katniss feels guilty. Guilty about what happened in the arena. Guilty about how Peeta got hurt. Maybe guilty about me. I don’t think she wants to talk about it—or about him.

Prim, on the other hand, loves talking about the love story. She rolls her eyes whenever Katniss brushes it off. “She’s out of her mind,” she said once, “Who wouldn’t want to be with a boy who bakes cookies and decorates them with the flower you’re named after?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I still don’t.

I don’t blame Katniss. Not really. I always had a feeling it wasn’t real. I mean, they barely knew each other before the reaping. Just that one rainy day when Peeta threw her the bread. Everything else… that was just him. Watching from a distance. Hoping. Loving her quietly.

But I’d be lying if I said I understood any of it. There were moments during the Games that didn’t feel like acting. When she called out his name after the rule change. When she found him by the river and risked everything to save him. When she drugged him so she could get him medicine. And at the end—when she pulled out the berries, ready to die rather than live without him—how am I supposed to believe that was just strategy?

My mind knows it, but my heart won’t accept it. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

Because it hurts him.

I see it in his face, the way it flickers a little when Prim says Katniss’s name. The way he stares out the window too long, toward the house across the yard. He never wants to talk about her. I told him he could, that I’d listen. But he just smiles, says he’s fine, changes the subject. He never used to keep things from me. But I guess there’s things I keep from him too.

At first, I thought I’d tell him later, when things calmed down, when there was time. But then “later” kept slipping further away, and it got harder to say anything at all.

Things only really started to change after the parcel days started.

The first one had been like a holiday. Everyone in Twelve was over the moon—meat and grain and oil, enough for every family. Even a little extra sugar. There were more Peacekeepers, but they weren’t cruel, just present. People could afford to spend a little on things they usually skipped—cakes, cookies, silly things we decorated just because we could.

That’s what finally made my mother happy.

Not Peeta coming home. Not him walking into the bakery with bandages still fresh on his leg. Not him winning the Games. It was the money. The extra orders. The way people looked at our family again. That’s part of the reason why she let me go to Peeta’s so often. She was in a good mood for once.

The nights were still hard, but they were easier when Rye was there. Some nights I’d curl up in his bed without even asking, and he would let me. He never said a word or made a joke like he used to. He just nodded and pulled the blanket up around me.

He was part of what helped, too. On the days I couldn’t see Peeta, Rye would fill the silence with some crude joke or a lopsided smirk that made it a little easier to breathe. It was nice, seeing them together again. Better than before. They didn’t argue the way they used to, Rye wouldn’t brush him off anymore, acting like there were better things to do. Peeta would talk about how much he’d changed since the reaping, how I’d turned him into a softie. Rye would roll his eyes and mutter something sarcastic, but he didn’t disagree. He knew.

Everything felt like it was finally going to be okay. Until the second parcel day.

This time, there was no celebration. No extra orders. No one came in asking for a lemon tart “just because.” People started saving their money again. Holding on to the Capitol’s supplies instead of buying ours. More flour and oil meant fewer customers. I didn’t think it mattered. Peeta was a victor—he had more money than we’d ever need. If business slowed, he could help.

But my mother wouldn’t take it.

She said she couldn’t accept handouts from her own son. That it was shameful. That it made her look weak. I remember the night she said it. We were in the kitchen. She told Peeta not to come by anymore. He’d been helping with the Sunday morning orders—big ones, especially for the Seam families who’d pooled their money. But that night she told him it was his fault no one bought bread anymore. That no one wanted to buy bread from a victor.

After that, everything changed.

She started keeping me late at the bakery, saying there was too much to do. By the time we finished, it was always “too dark” to walk to Peeta’s. Rye offered to take me, more than once. But we all knew that wasn’t the reason. She didn’t want me to go.

Then that Friday, when I asked if I could sleep at Peeta’s, she hit me so hard I fell over. My cheek was hot and throbbing for days. That was the first time I used the Capitol makeup. I stared at myself the whole time, trying to pretend it was just for vanity, not survival. I did my best to cover it, but Rye noticed later that night, after I got out of the shower. He pressed me about it. I snapped. I flipped out, screamed at him to leave me alone.

That was when things started to shift between us, too. He kept trying. He asked if I was okay, told me I could tell him anything. But I pushed him away. I didn’t want him to see how bad things were getting again. I didn’t want him to tell Peeta.

Because if Peeta knew, he’d feel guilty. He’d think it was his fault.

So I tried to be good. I stayed out of her way. I worked hard. I didn’t talk back. But she kept getting worse.

The only thing that kept me going was the phone.

Peeta had it installed in my room himself. It’s small, black, with a coiled cord that stretches from my desk to the floor. I’d never had my own phone before. There was one in the bakery office, for orders. But this was mine. Just mine.

I use it every day.

Sometimes I call Peeta first thing in the morning, just to say hi. Other times, I tell him about school, or what Rye said, or which customers came in that day. But most nights, it’s when I wake up thrashing, breath caught in my throat and tears already on my face. I reach for the receiver with shaking hands, and it never takes more than three rings before he picks up.

He always answers. Always.

He stays on the line until my breathing slows. Until I’m ready to try sleeping again. His voice doesn’t sound the same through the phone—it’s thinner, quieter—but it’s still his voice. It’s still him.

Now that I can’t go to his house anymore, I call him even more. I make sure to be quiet so my mother doesn’t hear.

He always asks how things are at the bakery. I always lie. I tell him they’re fine. I tell him about someone who bought three loaves and forgot their change. I tell him about what Rye said that made me laugh. I tell him everything—except the truth.

Every night, before we hang up, he says, “Maybe you can come by tomorrow.”

And every night, I steady my voice and say, “Maybe. I’ll ask Dad.”

I set the nearly empty compact down on the sink and look at myself. I did a good job. You can only tell if you really, really look. And I don’t let anyone get that close.

I’m gonna need more makeup soon.

I don’t know how I’ll get any. I can’t ask Peeta to order it from the Capitol—he knows I don’t care about that stuff. After he won, he went a little crazy with the shopping. There’s this one channel on TV where they show all the things you can buy, and the next minute he’d be on the phone, placing an order. He always had a weakness for pretty things.

He bought me stuff, too—clothes, brushes with jeweled handles, shoes I had absolutely no use for. I’d tease him about it, tell him I didn’t need fancy presents to hang around him. He’d just roll his eyes and toss another box on my bed.

Prim, though—she’s just like him.

The two of them would sit for hours flipping through Capitol catalogs, pointing things out and giggling over ridiculous designs. Peeta would let her use his address to have the stuff delivered, since she didn’t want Katniss to see it. She still has that Seam mentality—like if she enjoys anything too much, it’ll be taken away. Even though she doesn’t have to think like that anymore.

Maybe I’ll ask Prim if she’s ordered any makeup lately.

She’ll probably look at me like I’ve lost my mind, but she won’t question it. She’s been too happy to be suspicious. She’ll just assume I finally want to act like a girl.

That’s why Prim is the easiest person to be around right now, she’s in such a good mood all the time, she doesn’t assume the worst. Or maybe she does, but she never says anything about it. The only time I really smile is when I sit with her at lunch, and we can talk about stupid things like before.

I slip the makeup into my pocket, just in case it starts to fade during the school day. Sometimes I have to sneak off to the bathroom between classes just to make sure no one can see the bruise peeking out.

Not that anyone would say anything.

Most of my teachers don’t even ask. Some of them smile when I ask to leave the room and nod like I’m doing them a favour. I think they’re scared I’ll go home and tell Peeta. Like he’d storm in and get them fired if they don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.

I hate it.

I hate that people look at me like that now. Like I’m not just Peeta Mellark’s orange-haired little sister. I’m the victor’s little sister. And apparently that means something now.

I take a deep breath and practice my smile in the mirror one more time before I slip out of the bathroom. I grab my backpack from my room and head downstairs, aiming straight for the back door so no one sees me.

But Rye looks up from his place at the counter. “Ready for school?”

I nod.

He smiles, and I’m just about to turn and go when he steps forward. He’s holding a small paper bag. “I made you lunch,” he says.

I take it without a word. I expect him to turn back around, to go back to kneading or measuring or pretending everything’s fine—but he doesn’t. He just stands there for a second, watching me. Like he wants to say something. Maybe crack a joke about my lopsided braid, or tell me this shirt looks too big. Maybe even hug me.

But he doesn’t. He just gives me a weak smile and says, “Have a good day.”

I nod again, not trusting my voice.

I already know it won’t be. Most days aren’t anymore.

Chapter Text

I slip out the back door before Rye can look at me again.

Sometimes I almost wish I hadn’t let him in during the Games. It wasn’t on purpose. I didn’t mean to. But he was there, and I was falling apart, and maybe I needed someone. I don’t know if I would’ve made it through without him.

But now he can read me almost as well as Peeta can.

He notices things. The way I flinch when the oven slams shut. The way I press my fingers to my temple like it’ll stop the memories. The way I smile when I’m not actually smiling. And if he looks too long, I can’t keep it together.

The cool morning air hits me as I step outside—sharp and sudden. Most things hit me that way now.

Peeta’s been home for almost three months. It’s still warm, but fall is creeping in around the edges. The kind of cold that sinks in slow and stays. The light’s different too. Softer, shorter. The days are thinning out, one by one, and I keep bracing for something I can’t see.

I walk the familiar path to school alone.

Prim used to come by in the mornings, even after Peeta had to stop. She kept showing up, quiet and steady, like she always does. But then one morning, my mother saw. After school that day, she hit me again—right over a bruise I already had—and told me she didn’t want me being seen with Prim anymore.

I didn’t argue. I never do anymore.

The next day, I told Prim she didn’t have to come. I said it was out of her way, that we could just meet out front. She didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and showed up at the steps like I asked her to.

We always get there a little early now. Just enough time to sit by the front steps and talk before the day starts. Other than the thirty uninterrupted minutes we get at lunch, it’s my favorite part of the day.

I round the last corner. A few kids are already scattered around the yard, some in quiet clusters, others leaning against the walls with their heads down. It’s quieter than it used to be before the Games—maybe because of everything that’s changed, or maybe just because people don’t know how to look at me now.

But then I see her.

Prim’s sitting on the steps, hugging her school bag to her chest like always, her braid neat and tucked over one shoulder. She spots me right away and perks up, sliding over on the cold stone to make room.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say back, dropping my bag beside hers and settling in.

She groans immediately. “I have a math test first thing.”

“Lucky,” I say without thinking.

She laughs. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You already knew that.”

“Still,” she says, giving me a look, “math?”

“It makes sense,” I shrug. “Everything else might fall apart, but two plus two is always four.”

Prim snorts. “Alright, Miss Numbers.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now.

Prim starts to talk—easy, light. Like she doesn’t have to think about it. I don’t say much, just nod here and there, but I watch her the whole time. Her face stays turned forward, eyes on the schoolyard, but I take in every detail.

The way she lights up when she talks about how Buttercup’s been sleeping by the fireplace now that the nights are cooler. The way her nose scrunches when she mentions the squirrel Katniss brought home this morning—how she gutted it right on the counter while Prim was trying to eat breakfast.

It’s one of the things that makes it so easy to be around Prim. Everything she feels shows up right there on her face—every flicker of annoyance, every flash of amusement, every tug at the corners of her mouth. There’s no guessing with her. You always know what she’s thinking. How she’s feeling. It never feels like she’s hiding anything.

I wish I could say the same for myself.

These days, I have to think about every expression I make. Every blink, every breath. I’ve learned how to hold my face still when someone’s watching me, how to smile just enough so they don’t ask questions, how to keep my voice even when it’s shaking underneath. Hiding things is like muscle memory now. Automatic.

But it’s exhausting.

I miss when I didn’t have to think so hard. When I could just exist without someone tilting their head and asking, Are you okay? or What happened? I never have the right answers. Or at least not the ones I can say out loud.

Sometimes I wonder if Prim can tell I’m not really saying much. If she notices how quiet I’ve gotten. But if she does, she never pushes.

The bell rings, sharp and sudden, and I quickly mask my disappointment with a smile. “See you at lunch?” I ask.

Prim nods, already adjusting the strap of her bag. “Same spot.”

We both stand, brushing the dust from our skirts, and fall into step together toward the front doors. There’s a quiet understanding between us now—something unspoken that doesn’t need to be said. Maybe she does notice how little I have to say. Maybe that’s why she never leaves without a nod like this. Like she’s saying, I’m still here.

The hallway swallows us as we step inside. It smells like chalk dust and old papers. The floor creaks in places I’ve memorized. The same posters hang on the same walls, faded a little more with each week.

But even in the sameness, everything feels different now.

I slip inside my classroom and take my usual spot near the window. It’s a different room now that I’m a grade higher, but there’s still a window—still somewhere to look and let my mind drift somewhere else.

The other kids start to file in. More of them smile when they pass me now. Some say good morning. That’s another thing that’s changed.

All these people who never seemed to click with me before the Games—all the ones who used to look at me like I was insane every time my face twisted while the screen showed something awful—they look at me differently now. Like I’m someone important.

School didn’t start until a month after the Games ended. District 12 was still in full celebration mode when Peeta and Katniss came home. But when classes finally started again, I saw the difference right away. At lunch, everyone came up to me and Prim, talking about how cool it was that our siblings were victors.

At first, I thought they were just being nice. So I smiled. I told them about all the cool things Peeta buys me, what it’s like to live in a fancy house—even though I don’t. When they asked about him and Katniss, I’d wrinkle my nose and say she comes over every day and they make out on the couch. The girls would light up and giggle and talk about how jealous they were.

But then things started to change. And their questions started to sting.

Every time someone said how lucky I was that my brother’s a victor, I wanted to stand up and scream that I didn’t care. That I didn’t ask for him to come back a victor. I asked for him to come back my brother.

Because I didn’t know that winning meant everything had to change. I didn’t know I’d end up hating how people only bring him up to talk about how he survived. How they all sound so impressed—like it’s some glamorous thing. Like it didn’t destroy him.

I want things to go back. No fancy house. No shiny things. Just flour-covered hands and creaky floors. Because when it’s just me and Peeta, it still feels like before.

But I haven’t seen him in almost three weeks.

I still talk to him on the phone. But I haven’t hugged him, or heard his laugh right in my ear, or felt his heartbeat while I fell asleep. And every second that passes, every time someone asks me another shallow question, I can feel it happening.

He’s turning more into a victor, and less into my brother.

I keep my gaze out the window for most of the morning. The clouds are thick today, pale gray with just a hint of gold around the edges where the sun keeps trying to break through. They drift slowly across the sky, and I let my thoughts drift with them.

Thankfully, my teacher doesn’t ask me to pay attention. She doesn’t call my name or tell me to repeat what she just said like she would with someone else.

I think about how the leaves will start to change soon. I always liked fall. Peeta would rake up the leaves in a big pile behind the bakery, and I’d run straight into them and make a mess of everything he just cleaned. He never got mad. He’d pretend to be, chase me through the yard until we collapsed in the grass. Sometimes I think I can still hear us laughing.

I shift my gaze down to the fence in the distance. The old one, just beyond the schoolyard. Sometimes I wonder how far I could go if I just kept walking. If I slipped under it like Katniss does, kept my head down, didn’t stop. I don’t even know where I’d go—I just like the idea of it. Of walking without anyone watching me. Without anyone asking questions. Without anyone expecting me to be okay.

Just for a little while.

The clouds shift again, and I blink slowly. The bell hasn’t rung yet. No one’s looking. So I let myself stay right here, in the space between memories and make-believe. Somewhere I can breathe.

Eventually, I glance toward the clock. Almost lunchtime.

I shift in my seat and press my fingers lightly to my cheek. It doesn’t hurt as much today, but I still want to check. Make sure the makeup hasn’t faded, make sure nothing’s showing. I don’t want to waste any of my time with Prim at lunch fixing it. I want every second I can get.

I raise my hand.

“Miss Kessler?” I ask, even though I know she won’t say no.

She doesn’t even blink. “Go ahead, Briella.”

I grab my bag as I stand. I won’t be coming back before lunch, but she doesn’t say a word about it. No raised eyebrow. No reminder to return before the bell. Just a quiet nod as I slip out the door, like she’s relieved I asked instead of just walking out.

I walk into the bathroom, thankfully no one’s here. I stop in front of the mirror and pull out the compact from my pocket, then I grab one of the extra sponges I keep in my bag. It hasn’t shifted much, but I put an extra layer on just in case.

I’m about to head out of the bathroom when I hear the door open. I stop at the sink and pretend like I’m just washing my hands.

Then Minnie Undersee walks in.

She acted just like everyone else when Peeta came home—she swarmed me and Prim at lunch, asked us questions, lit up at the things we said. But I knew it was killing her. I knew she hated the fact that people were talking about us and not her. That for once, she wasn’t the most important little girl in Twelve. The only thing more impressive than the mayor’s daughter is a victor’s little sister.

She pauses in the doorway when she sees me.

“Hey, Briella,” she says casually, like we talk all the time. Like she didn’t spend years pretending I didn’t exist.

“Hey,” I say, shutting off the water and drying my hands like I wasn’t about to bolt. I don’t look at her directly—just enough to acknowledge her.

She steps fully inside now, the door clicking shut behind her. Her shoes echo a little too sharply on the tile. She moves to the mirror beside me and starts smoothing her already-perfect hair. She glances over. 

“I like your braid,” she says, sweet but measured. “It’s kind of messy-cute. Katniss wears hers like that too, doesn’t she?”

I nod once. “Sometimes.”

There’s a pause. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, not because it’s out of place—because she wants to look like she’s not trying too hard. “I heard your brother might be on TV again soon. Some kind of tour or something?”

“The Victory Tour,” I say.

“Oh, right.” She fake-laughs like she forgot, even though I know she didn’t. “Must be exciting. I mean, if my sister had won the Hunger Games, I’d be, like, freaking out.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror now. “Yeah. It’s… something.”

Minnie turns slightly, leans back against the counter like we’re friends just catching up. “So, is he still seeing Katniss? Or was that just for the Games?”

I shrug. “She’s around.”

She hums, not satisfied, then angles her head just slightly. “So… what’s it like living in the Victor’s Village?”

I shrug, drying my hands slowly. “It’s fine. A little big for my liking.”

Minnie leans back against the counter like she has all the time in the world. She tucks another perfect strand of hair behind her ear and gives me this practiced, sugary smile.

“You know,” she starts, “I think it’s really sweet how close you and Prim are. I mean, considering where she—”

The bell rings, sharp and glorious.

I smirk—an actual one. “Looks like I’ve got to go.”

I grab my bag and walk out without waiting for her to say anything, letting the sound of the door swinging shut behind me say the rest.

I walk into the cafeteria and spot Prim immediately. She’s at our usual table—the same one we sat at during the Games. Like always, she’s already unpacked half her lunch and is halfway through peeling an orange.

She looks up when she sees me and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I slide into the seat across from her and start pulling out my lunch.

“Guess who cornered me in the bathroom?”

“Who?”

I pause for dramatic effect. “Minnie Undersee.”

Her face scrunches up. “What did she want?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Calculated questions. Everyone bowing to kiss the ground she walks on.” I open the paper bag Rye packed for me. “She asked what it’s like living in the Victor’s Village.”

Prim rolls her eyes. “Like she doesn’t already know. Her house is bigger than Peeta’s.”

“Exactly. But I guess being the mayor’s daughter isn’t enough when someone else has a Capitol-funded address.”

Prim shakes her head and mutters, “She’s the worst.”

“She really is.”

We share a look, and for a second, it feels like the cafeteria doesn’t exist. Just me and her, sitting across from each other like we always used to. Before everything got strange.

I glance down at the paper bag and see the note sitting right on top of my lunch. Rye’s been doing that since I went back to school—packing me lunch every morning, always with a note. Always in that awful handwriting I can barely read, always some stupid joke or phrase he knows will make me roll my eyes.

Even after I started pushing him away. Even after things got scary again. He still kept doing it. I hate that I’m the one making things different between us. I hate that I have to.

I unfold the scrap of paper.

“Declaration of optimism, remember?”

I raise an eyebrow as I pull out the sandwich—a fresh rolls with a slice of cheese. That’s when I remember. That morning, before Peeta came home, when I was spiraling and Rye practically shoved bread and goat cheese into my hands like it would fix everything.

I roll my eyes and mutter, “Idiot,” under my breath. But I fold the note carefully and slip it into my backpack anyway. I’ll add it to the others when I get home. Even if I won’t say it out loud, I’m glad he hasn’t stopped.

I’m about to take a bite of my sandwich when I see something else sitting at the bottom of the bag. I pause, then reach in and pull it out.

It’s a small plastic container filled with something white. Icing.

There’s a lopsided smiley face drawn on the lid in permanent marker. The eyes aren’t even and the mouth is a little too high. I stare down at it for a second. My throat tightens before I even realize it’s happening.

“You okay?”

I snap my head up. Prim’s watching me from across the table, a soft crease between her brows.

I drop the container back into the bag and crumple the top shut. My voice is steady when I lie. “Yeah. Rye forgot the lettuce.”

Prim watches me for a moment, then tilts her head. “When are you gonna come to Peeta’s again?”

“What?”

“He was asking about you this morning,” she says. “He misses you a lot.”

I duck my head a little, pretending to smooth the edge of the bag. “I don’t know. We’ve been super busy in the bakery.” I shrug. “Probably next week.”

Prim smiles—soft, not teasing, just… knowing. “Well, make sure it’s before he turns into a full Capitol person. Yesterday he said ‘darling’ unironically.”

I huff a laugh. “Gross.”

We fall silent for a moment and I start to think about how she gets to hang out with Peeta and I don’t.

I’m glad they’re getting along—really, I am. Nothing makes me happier than seeing my best friend and my brother together. But that’s the thing. I don’t get to see it. I only get to hear about it when Prim talks about what he said that morning, or what he gave her, or how he laughed at something she did.

And I smile, and I nod, and I pretend it’s enough.

But I miss it. I miss those lazy afternoons—when we’d crash on Peeta’s couch, still in our school clothes, eating cookies that were too warm and falling apart in our hands. He’d listen to us gossip like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, like nothing else mattered except whatever boy Prim was blushing about that week or whatever girl I was plotting to take down in gym class.

Now Prim gets to do that. And I don’t.

But I push the thought away before it can settle, before it can sting too much. Instead, I smirk and say, “Tell Peeta if he misses me so much, he can tell me himself like a normal person, instead of telling my best friend to do it for him.”

Prim rolls her eyes. “He didn’t tell me to do anything. I was being proactive.”

I let out a quiet laugh through my nose. “Of course you were.”

She smiles, then starts rambling about something Buttercup did yesterday that made her and Peeta laugh so hard they nearly cried. I nod along, but I mostly just watch her talk. Listen to the warmth in her voice. Try not to feel too much about everything else.

Chapter Text

After lunch, it’s the same thing—more people waving at me, more of me making sure I smile the right way. I don’t think they notice how forced it is. Or maybe they do and just don’t care. Mostly, I just keep my eyes on the window. Let my mind wander somewhere else, somewhere quieter. The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Not good, not bad. Just… another day to get through.

The final bell rings, sharp and jarring. I don’t move right away. Just sit there for a second, watching everyone rush for the door like they’ve been holding their breath all day. I take my time packing up. It’s easier when the room’s emptier—less eyes on me, less chance of someone trying to talk.

When I finally step outside, the late afternoon air is warmer than it was this morning. The sun hangs low, soft and golden, brushing everything in a light that almost feels kind.

Prim’s waiting for me at the bottom of the school steps, just like she always is. She’s got one foot balancing on the edge of the curb, her braid a little looser than it was this morning. When she sees me, she grins and waves.

And just like that, the tension in my shoulders eases. A little.

We walk together, talking quietly about nothing and everything, until we reach the spot where the road splits—one way leading toward the Victor’s Village, the other toward the bakery.

Prim stops and turns to me. “Maybe you can ask for the day off tomorrow. Like before.”

Right. Today’s Friday. Which means I’m supposed to spend tomorrow at Peeta’s.

I hadn’t even realized it was Friday. I try not to keep track of what day it is anymore. All it does is remind me how many have passed without seeing him.

I force a smile, but it feels brittle. “Maybe.”

Prim smiles back like she believes me. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

I nod, and she turns to head toward the Village. I don’t move for a moment. I just stand there, watching her braid sway behind her as she walks away.

Then I turn and start toward home.

I slip in through the back door and drop my backpack by the wall. No words, no pause. Just grab an apron, tie it around my waist, and get to work.

Rye’s alone in the kitchen. He looks up when he sees me. “How was school, Crazy?”

My chest tightens at the nickname, but I don’t let it show. “It was fine,” I say, already pressing my hands into the dough.

“Did you see Prim?”

I nod. “Yeah, we ate lunch together.”

He smiles. “Good.”

He goes back to kneading, and I think that’s the end of it—just a quick check-in before silence settles again. But then his head lifts a little like something just occurred to him.

“I’ve got some laundry I need to do. Maybe we can do a load later.”

I freeze for a second, just barely. I’ve got laundry to do too. I was planning on slipping out and getting it done alone—quietly, quickly, the way I do most things now. But doing it with Rye… would be better. Way better.

I miss sitting outside while he teased me for doing it all wrong, the way he’d rip the clothespins out of my hand and take over like he was saving the day. I miss hearing him talk about dumb stuff that didn’t matter. I miss handing him wet shirts while the sun warmed our backs.

But I also know what happens if we go out there and actually have fun. We’ll laugh too loud, he’ll spray me with water, and I’ll be smiling without thinking. And she’ll see. She’ll say we’re wasting time, yell about the water, the noise, the mess. She’ll yell at me.

So I just nod and give him the word I’ve used more than any other lately. “Maybe.”

His face falters—just slightly—but it’s enough. We both know what maybe really means.

We close up the bakery and eat dinner. I don’t say anything then either. I just keep my head down, pushing food around my plate, waiting for the moment my father says I can go upstairs.

The table is quiet, the kind of quiet that scrapes at your nerves. Rye tries once to fill it with some offhand comment about a customer from earlier, but it fades into nothing. No one picks it up.

I don’t ask if I can sleep at Peeta’s tonight. I don’t ask for the day off tomorrow.

I just keep my eyes locked on my plate. Because if I look up, I might ask. And if I ask, I might hope. And if I hope, I might be disappointed. Again.

After dinner, I grab my backpack and head upstairs without a word. I don’t wait for anyone to say goodnight—no one does.

I sit on my bed and unzip my backpack. I don’t pull out my homework—no one’s going to care if I hand it in unfinished tomorrow. Not really. Instead, I reach in and pull out the note Rye wrote me today.

I read it again, just to make sure the words haven’t changed.

“Declaration of optimism, remember?”

I let out a quiet breath and open my desk drawer. It’s messy now—notes folded up and stuffed into the sides, some crinkled, some stained with flour or fingerprints. I place today’s on top, then dig through the pile until I find the one I’m looking for.

The first one.

It’s written on ripped parchment, barely legible, with a smudge of jam in the corner.

“Don’t have too much fun at school and forget about me. Actually, do. I could use the peace and quiet.”

I smile without meaning to. A real one.

I put it back and close the drawer. Then I sigh and lie down on my bed. I don’t get ready for bed, I don’t crawl under the covers—I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling.

This is the only part of my day where I don’t have to worry about people looking at me. About controlling my face. About reeling in my thoughts when they go too far. Right now, I can just exist. I can just think.

And I do. My mind drifts to Rye.

How he’s still trying—even after I keep pushing him away, keep building that space between us. It’s easier that way. Safer.

But he won’t let it go. He keeps showing up with stupid notes and gentle questions and suggestions. I hate that he still tries, but I hate even more that I want him to. Because every time I brush him off, I see the way his face falls, and it sticks with me longer than I’d like to admit.

I wish things could’ve stayed good for longer after Peeta got back. I wish the three of us had more time. More mornings. More laughter. More moments where it felt like we were just… siblings.

We did have some of those. Just not enough.

Peeta would come over on the busy mornings and help us in the kitchen. He’d always lean over Rye’s shoulder and tell him that his rolls looked like rocks, or that he wasn’t using enough butter, then he’d walk around and fix it—not to help, just to be annoying.

Rye would roll his eyes and flick flour at his face.

Then it would start.

Peeta would lunge at him and Rye would dodge, get him in a headlock and ruffle his hair like he always did. Say something like, “just ‘cause you’re a Victor now doesn’t mean you’re not still my baby brother.”

Sometimes, I’d get dragged into it. Used as a human shield.

Whenever Rye did it, Peeta would stop immediately and let me go, no matter what.

But if it was the other way around?

Rye would just shift targets. He’d throw flour in my face, sling me over his shoulder while I screamed and kicked. And he’d laugh—loud and full, like he couldn’t help it.

Those were the mornings that felt like we were normal. Like everything might actually be okay.

I wish we’d had mornings like that before the Games, back when things weren’t so complicated—back when we were just three siblings living under the same roof. I hate that it took Peeta being reaped for Rye to finally stop acting like he was too cool for us. I hate that it took me falling apart for him to start caring. If he’d gotten there sooner, maybe every morning could’ve felt like that. Still… I’m glad he got there eventually, even if things are already starting to slip again.

Maybe in a few months our mother will calm down. Maybe she’ll stop acting like this. Maybe she’ll let me go to Peeta’s again. Maybe Rye can come too.

I think about that first night—the one where we helped Peeta move into his new house in the Victor’s Village. He didn’t have much, just a couple of boxes with clothes and a few personal things. The house already came fully stocked. Rye made a show of carrying way too many boxes at once, puffing out his chest like it was some kind of competition. I rolled my eyes, but didn’t argue. It meant less for me to carry. Our father came for a little while and helped, but he didn’t stay long—just dropped off a box and left. After that, it was just the three of us.

We unpacked together, then Peeta gave us a tour. The house was huge. Every room felt too white, too clean, too quiet. Peeta said he hated the Capitol’s colours and was going to repaint everything, get rid of all the stiff couches and ugly artwork. He already had plans for what he wanted it to look like. I could picture it perfectly, how he’d take something sterile and turn it into a home. And eventually he did—just not the walls.

He made dinner that night, pulling ingredients out of a fridge that had already been stocked. I sat up on the counter and offered to help, and Peeta made some sarcastic joke about not wanting me to burn down his new kitchen. I laughed while he moved around like he’d been living there for years. Rye wandered through the house, pointing out how ridiculous everything looked, especially the framed Capitol prints. He hated them more than Peeta did, I think. Peeta kept making sarcastic suggestions like hanging up portraits of the family instead.

After we ate, I went to wash my hands. The second I turned on the tap, the water came out steaming hot. I yelped and looked over at Peeta. “Does all the water come out this hot?” I asked.

He grinned and said, “There’s a shower upstairs.”

Rye overheard and immediately shoved past me, saying, “I’m older, I get to go first.” Peeta laughed and told him there were three bathrooms.

I rushed upstairs and picked the one connected to Peeta’s new room. The shower was massive. The water pressure was perfect. Warm and steady and endless. Built-in shelves lined the wall, filled with fancy soaps and shampoos, probably delivered straight from the Capitol. Tucked at the back, I saw a clear plastic bottle with no label—the soap we use at home. Peeta must have brought it with him. He probably didn’t want to smell like anything that reminded him of the Capitol.

Still, I couldn’t help myself. I tried everything in that shower. There were way too many shampoo bottles for someone with hair as short as his. Some of them smelled like fruit, others like herbs. There was one grainy paste that said body scrub and smelled like crushed flowers—it made my skin feel ridiculously soft. I spent almost an hour in there, reading all the labels and picking my favourite.

The vanilla body wash was the one I liked best, and the conditioner in the blue bottle made my hair feel the softest.

When I finally got out of the shower, I wrung out my hair and wrapped myself in a towel that felt more like a blanket. I opened the cabinet beside the sink and found more Capitol products—creams that looked like something we’d pipe onto a cake, oils and sprays with elegant fonts and shimmer on the bottles. I grabbed all the ones that said vanilla, deciding on the spot that it was my favourite scent.

I layered them all on my skin until it felt like silk. Then I picked my clothes up off the floor, but changed my mind almost immediately. I padded into Peeta’s room and opened his dresser drawers, skipping past anything new. I wanted something old. Something that still smelled like him.

I finally pulled out a faded t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts—not Capitol-issued, just things from home. I held the shirt up to my nose and took a deep breath. It smelled like flour, cinnamon, and something warm I couldn’t name. I pulled it over my head, the sleeves drooping off my shoulders, and the shorts hanging almost past my knees. Even the floor felt colder once I left the bathroom, so I grabbed a pair of his socks too and made my way downstairs.

Peeta and Rye were already in the living room. Rye looked up from the armchair the second I walked in. “What took you so long?”

Peeta twisted around on the couch to look at me, then turned back to Rye with a smirk. “She was going through my closet. Couldn’t you tell?”

I rolled my eyes. “My clothes were dirty.”

Peeta smiled and shifted to make room for me. He opened his arms and I flopped onto the couch beside him. “Don’t worry, Tiger,” he said, wrapping me in a hug. “I don’t mind. They look better on you anyway.”

Then he paused, leaning in and sniffing. “Why do you smell so good?”

I pretended to be offended. “Is that shocking?”

Rye grinned. “Yeah. It is.”

I shot him a look and turned back to Peeta. “I used all your fancy Capitol soap. Hope you don’t mind.”

He let out a small laugh. “You can take it all home with you. I don’t want to walk around smelling like a cupcake.”

I smiled and leaned into his side. After a second, I tilted my head back. “Will you do my hair?”

He nodded and I slid off the couch to sit in front of him on the floor. As he gently combed his fingers through my damp hair, Rye stood up and stretched.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

Peeta kept working through a knot as he answered, “There’s juice in the fridge.”

Rye disappeared into the kitchen while Peeta finished braiding. I handed him the tie from my wrist just as Rye walked back in—holding a big clear bottle filled with something amber-colored.

“What the hell is this?” Rye said, amused. “Since when did you start drinking?”

Peeta shook his head. “It’s not for me. I bought it for Haymitch, in case he runs out.”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “I hope the old drunk doesn’t mind if we steal some.”

Peeta stood, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting drunk at my house.”

“You’re right,” Rye said, smirking. “We are.”

I perked up. “Can I have some?”

They both turned toward me at the same time. “No.”

I sighed and sank deeper into the couch.

Rye tossed me a little plastic bottle. “I got you juice.”

Then he turned back to Peeta. “C’mon, just one drink. If you say no, I’m letting her drink the whole thing. And we both know she will.”

I nodded, completely serious. “Yeah, I will.”

Peeta groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. One drink.”

Rye perked up and set the bottle down on the table before disappearing into the kitchen.

“I’ll get cups.”

“Don’t break anything,” Peeta called after him, then sank back onto the couch beside me.

He turned and gently tucked a damp strand of hair that already fell out of my braid behind my ear. “How’d you put up with him while I was gone?”

I smirked. “I had my work cut out for me.”

I curled up next to him, pulling my knees in, and he rested his arm across the back of the couch. A moment later, Rye came back carrying two fancy glasses that definitely didn’t belong in his hands. He set them down and poured out the amber liquid, handing one to Peeta and staying on his feet as he raised his own.

“To Peeta’s fancy new house—and his crazy drunk mentor,” Rye said with a crooked grin.

Peeta gave a tired but genuine smile as he raised the glass and took his first sip. I watched as his face scrunched like he’d just swallowed fire.

“Can I have a sip?” I asked, sitting up a little straighter.

He looked down at me. I was ready for the usual no, but instead, he held out the glass with a smile. “Just one.”

I took it carefully in both hands, brought it to my nose and sniffed, then took a small, cautious sip. I regretted it instantly.

“Eww. That’s disgusting,” I said, pushing the cup back toward him as fast as I could.

Peeta laughed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders again, pulling me close.

“Told you,” he murmured, still grinning.

I stayed curled up in Peeta’s arms, my head resting against his chest, the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath me as comforting as the warmth of the couch. He kept sipping from his cup, slow and relaxed, while Rye reached forward a couple of times to refill his own, never letting his glass go empty for long.

I just watched them for a while, smiling quietly as they went back and forth. Their banter was easy, familiar. Rye was in the middle of insisting—loudly—that Delly Cartwright definitely had a crush on Peeta back in school. Peeta kept brushing it off like it was nothing, his voice getting more and more amused.

It wasn’t until I heard Peeta’s tone shift, going a little more playful, that I perked up.

“So,” Peeta said, swirling the liquid in his glass, “when did Terra start having a crush on you?”

Rye sat up straighter. “Who’s that?” I asked, lifting my head.

“No one,” Rye cut in immediately.

Peeta smirked. “That’s the name of his girlfriend he won’t tell you anything about.”

I sat up fully now, grinning. “That’s her name?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Rye said, but his voice cracked just enough to make me raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, because you’re too chicken to ask her out,” Peeta teased.

“I’m not chicken,” Rye huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m just… taking things slow.”

Peeta laughed and leaned his head back. “Slow? Rye, you’ve been hooking up since you were fourteen.”

Rye scowled like a little kid caught red-handed. “Yeah, I know that. But we’ve only been… exclusive,” he said, like the word tasted weird in his mouth, “for a little while.”

Peeta chuckled into his glass and took another sip. “Well, you better lock her down before she realizes she’s way too good for you.”

Rye grabbed a throw pillow off the armchair and launched it across the room. It missed by a mile.

“Real mature,” Peeta said, shaking his head but smiling as he pulled me a little closer.

Somewhere around Rye’s fourth drink—and Peeta trying to convince him that he could do a handstand—I fell asleep.

I didn’t mean to. I wanted to stay up, to listen to their voices, all warm and laughing and light. But with Peeta’s arms wrapped around me, and the sound of the two of them teasing each other like idiots… I couldn’t help it. The world finally felt soft enough to rest in.

I vaguely remember Peeta shifting, gently lifting my head off his chest and settling me in his lap. After that, everything blurred.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still on the couch—but now my head was resting on a pillow instead of Peeta’s lap, and someone had draped a blanket over me. I stretched a little and blinked away the sleep. Across the room, Rye was passed out on the floor, snoring faintly, a pillow under his head and a blanket tossed haphazardly over his legs. His cup was still on the table, right next to the now half-empty bottle.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up slowly, yawning as I followed the sound of clattering pans and soft humming coming from the kitchen.

Peeta stood at the stove, wearing an apron tied loosely around his waist, humming to himself like he’d been up for hours. The sun poured in through the window behind him, catching on the golden strands of his hair and making the whole kitchen feel warm and alive.

He glanced up when I walked in. “Morning, Tiger.”

I ran a hand through my tangled hair. “Morning,” I mumbled, still groggy.

He smiled and gestured to a stool at the counter. I climbed up onto it without argument, resting my chin in my hand. He moved around like a machine, flipping pancakes, cracking eggs, plating bacon, even tossing some fruit into a bowl like he was a Capitol chef or something.

When he finally set a plate down in front of me—stacked high with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and a little pile of fruit on the side—I looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You think I’m gonna be able to finish all this?”

He grinned. “You better.” Then he turned to the fridge and pulled out a small glass bottle.

“More alcohol?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

He smirked. “Nope.” He popped the lid and started pouring it over my pancakes.

“It’s called maple syrup,” he said, like he was introducing me to some kind of Capitol luxury. “You’re gonna love it.”

I watched the thick amber syrup pool on my plate. “It smells weird.”

“It smells amazing,” he corrected. “Like sugar and trees had a baby.”

I snorted and picked up my fork. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, dropping a forkful of eggs onto his own plate.

I took a bite just to shut him up—and okay. Fine. It was good. I didn’t say anything, but Peeta must’ve seen the way my eyes widened, because he leaned back in his chair, grinning like he’d just won something.

“Told you.”

“Shut up,” I tried to scowl, but a little smile tugged at my mouth anyway.

I picked at the edge of my pancake, watching the syrup pool around it. Peeta leaned against the counter with his tea, humming under his breath like he always did in the mornings, like the whole world slowed down just a little when things were quiet.

I hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out, soft and simple.

“I wish I could move in here.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease me. He just looked at me and nodded.

“Me too.”

And he meant it. I could tell by the way his voice lost that usual lightness. The way his eyes lingered on mine for a second longer than usual. Like he really did want that—just the three of us, here in this big warm house, away from everything else.

Then Peeta smirked and set his mug down, the warmth in his eyes shifting into something mischievous. “Let’s go wake Rye up.”

Before I could answer, he was already turning toward the cabinet, pulling out two pans and handing one to me like a weapon.

I smirked, instantly understanding my task. “You want me to die young.”

He grinned. “He’ll be fine. Eventually.”

We moved through the house quietly—at first. But the moment we stepped into the living room and I saw Rye still sprawled out on the floor, snoring lightly with the blanket half-kicked off, I raised my pan a little higher.

Peeta nodded like a general giving the signal. I counted down with my fingers—three, two, one—and then we let the pans clash together with a loud metallic bang. The sound echoed through the house like a bomb going off.

Rye jerked upright, looking half-feral. “What the hell!”

Peeta was already laughing, leaning against the wall like he couldn’t hold himself up. I tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably, nearly dropping my pan from how hard I was laughing.

“Rise and shine,” I said sweetly.

“You’re both evil,” Rye muttered, falling back onto the pillow and dragging the blanket over his head. 

Peeta grinned and clapped him on the back with mock sympathy. “Breakfast is ready, sunshine.”

Now, lying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling, the memory fades. The room is quiet—too quiet. No clanging pans. No laughter. No smell of pancakes drifting from the kitchen.

Just me.

Rye’s probably out with Terra. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know when he disappears after dinner, that’s where he goes. I don’t blame him. Not really. She makes him happy. She gives him something normal. He doesn’t tell me where he’s going anymore. He used to smirk at me, all smug, and say, “I’m going to see my friend,” like I still didn’t know her name. Like it was some kind of inside joke. Now he just gets up and leaves. No smirk. No words. Just the sound of the door closing behind him.

And I don’t ask. I just let him go.

And Peeta… Peeta’s all alone in that big house. The one that used to echo with our voices, the sound of Rye teasing him, me begging for second helpings, all of us crowded onto one couch like we didn’t have a whole mansion to spread out in. Now it’s just him in there. I wonder if he’s baking something, or sitting in silence, or flipping through the channels on that big Capitol TV, not really watching anything at all.

I miss those first few weeks more than anything. When me and Rye would go over to Peeta’s and it was just us—no cameras, no tension, no one pretending. Even though we were surrounded by things the Capitol paid for, it always felt like home. Like ours. Not because of the house or the stuff in it, but because it was the three of us, together.

But now, it’s just ceilings and silence.

Chapter Text

The memory sits too heavy on my chest now. All that laughter and warmth and light—it doesn’t feel soft anymore. It feels like a bruise. I blink up at the ceiling, but the silence has started to ache. So I sit up.

I don’t bother turning on the light. I just move through the motions—get up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth like I’m trying to scrub the heaviness off.

Then I reach into my pocket and pull out the compact. One last time tonight.

I add another layer of makeup. I started showering in the mornings now—it helps me wake up, and it means I can leave everything on overnight. That way I don’t have to panic if Rye comes into my room too early.

Once the makeup’s set, I slide the compact into the drawer and shut it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I step back into the hallway. Everything’s still. The floor’s cold under my feet, and the house creaks faintly with the wind outside. I don’t stop. I just head back to my room, like maybe if I move fast enough, I won’t start remembering again.

I strip off my clothes and toss them into the pile of laundry that’s been building up in the corner. I glance over at it, the ever-growing reminder that I really should do a load soon. But not tonight. I don’t have the energy for it.

I pull out some pajamas—one of my old shirts, a pair of shorts. There are Peeta’s clothes, too. The ones I never gave back after the times I slept over at his place. I used to leave in them, the shirts too big on me, the sleeves falling past my hands. He never asked for them back. I never gave them to him. But I keep those for the really bad nights. Tonight’s not one of those.

I sit on the edge of my bed, the weight of everything still pressing down on me. I reach for my phone, my fingers lingering over the keypad for a second. There are only two numbers I could call, and without thinking, I start typing.

The line rings twice before Peeta’s voice crackles through, familiar and warm. “Hey, Tiger.”

It hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting—the sound of his voice, like a safety net dropping into place. All the tension, the tightness in my chest, drains away in an instant.

“Hey,” I say, and even the word feels lighter than it has all day.

There’s a quiet beat, easy and comfortable, before he adds, “You bored or just miss me?”

I smirk. “Maybe both.”

“Fair. I’m extremely missable.”

I let out a quiet laugh, curling my fingers around the cord. “You doing anything?”

“Just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and thinking about how weird it is I own curtains now.”

“Capitol’s finest fabric,” I tease.

“Ironically stiff,” he says.

I sink back into the bed, tucking the phone closer to my ear. “You sound tired.”

“Probably because I am. You know how exhausting it is being incredibly charming all day?”

I snort. “Must be brutal.”

“It is,” he says with mock seriousness. “You’re lucky I’m still standing.”

“You’re lying down.”

“See? Already collapsing under the pressure.”

I let myself smile, small but real. “I missed you.”

He hums. “Me too.”

We don’t say anything for a few seconds. But it’s not awkward. Just quiet. The good kind.

Eventually I ask, “You do anything today?”

“Not really. Read a bit. Sketched. Ate way too many strawberries.”

“Capitol strawberries?” I ask, as I start to fidget with the guitar pick around my neck.

“The biggest ones I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Like mutant berries. They could take out a bird mid-flight.”

I laugh. “Did they taste weird?”

“Honestly? Yeah. They were too sweet. Like they were trying too hard.”

“Sounds familiar,” I mutter.

“Oh wow.” He gasps. “Was that an insult?”

“A gentle observation,” I say, smiling into the phone.

He groans. “I’m hanging up.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I’m not.”

It’s quiet again, the good kind still. Then—knock knock.

Peeta hears it through the phone. “Who’s that?”

I glance toward the door. “Probably Rye.”

He pauses, then says softly, “I’ll let you go.”

I hesitate, the word getting caught in my throat. I don’t want to hang up. Not yet.

“…Okay,” I say after a second. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Night, Tiger.”

“Night.”

I hear the line go dead, then call out, “come in.”

Rye opens the door a second later. He pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking to the phone still in my hand.

“Prim or Peeta?”

I smile and put the phone back on the hook. “Peeta.”

He nods, like he figured, and steps further into the room.

“Did you eat your lunch today?”

I nod. “I did. Thanks for packing it.”

“Did you read the note?”

The warmth from talking to Peeta is still buzzing faintly in my chest, pulling a smile out of me before I can stop it. “Barely,” I say. “Your handwriting’s awful.”

Rye puts a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Here I am, doing something nice for you, and this is the thanks I get.”

That makes me smile for real. Just a little. “Well, maybe next time write it in a language I can actually read.”

He shakes his head dramatically but doesn’t keep the joke going. Instead, he lingers—doesn’t sit, doesn’t move, just stands there in the middle of my room.

His eyes flick briefly to my desk, then the laundry pile, then the edge of my bed. Like he’s looking for something to land on. Like if he stares long enough, the right words will appear.

I feel myself tense. I know that look. That quiet, tiptoeing way he gets when he’s about to say something he thinks I’ll run from. Part of me wants to cut him off before he starts. The other part wants to finally stop pretending I don’t need this.

Then his eyes land on me.

He hesitates for half a second. Then he takes a breath—quiet, steady, like he’s bracing himself.

“Are you okay?”

I sit up a little straighter. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me, something softer flickering behind his eyes.

“Because this is the first time I’ve seen you smile in weeks.”

I force a small scoff. “Maybe you’re just not paying enough attention.”

His expression shifts. Not angry—just… hurt. “You know that I am.” He says it low. Honest. Like my words landed sharper than I meant them to.

I look away, eyes fixed on the edge of my blanket. “I’m fine,” I mutter.

“You can’t pretend around me anymore.” His voice is steady, but there’s something fraying underneath it.

I don’t look at him. “I’m not trying to pretend.”

“Bri—”

“I’m fine.” It comes out sharper this time, like slamming a door that’s already halfway closed.

For a second, neither of us says anything. The silence presses in between us, heavier than it should be. I stare at the floor. He stays standing, not moving, not breathing too loud.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, then steps forward and sits down on the edge of the bed beside me. I shift away a little—barely even a full inch—but it’s enough that he notices. He doesn’t comment. Just stays still. Watches me.

Too long.

I glance away, knowing if I meet his eyes for more than a second, I’ll give myself away.

Then I feel his hand move. He leans in gently and brushes his thumb across my cheek—right where the bruise from earlier is. I flinch, not from pain, just from the suddenness of it. My whole body tenses.

His thumb pulls back and he looks at it, then back at me. “You don’t have to wear this stuff around me.”

My chest tightens. “What are you talking about?”

He tilts his head slightly, and then shows me the pad of his thumb. There’s a faint smudge of foundation on it.

I feel my face go hot. “Me and Prim bought it. I like wearing it now,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. Light. Like it’s the truth.

“You like wearing makeup?” he asks, gently but pointed.

I nod, but my throat feels tight. I can’t quite swallow.

He doesn’t press. Not yet. Just says, quieter now, “What did I just say about pretending?”

Something in me snaps. My voice rises without warning. “I’m not pretending, Rye.”

“Yes, you are,” he says. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not blind anymore.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going, voice low but shaking at the edges. “I know you’re stressed about not being able to see Peeta.” His voice catches on Peeta’s name. “And I hate seeing you like that. But I hate the fact that you’re not letting me help you.”

I look away, but he doesn’t stop.

“I know she’s hitting you again. And I know you think you’re hiding it.”

I freeze. The air goes still between us. Then the words come out before I can stop them—sharp, hot, cruel. “And you never thought to try to stop it?”

His face drops like I just slapped him. Like I knocked the wind right out of him. He stares at me, stunned.

Then he laughs—a short, bitter sound that barely sounds like him.

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” he says, too quietly at first. “You think I like knowing you’re getting hurt?”

He shakes his head, eyes burning. “You really think I still don’t care?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

I open my mouth, but the words won’t come out right. I don’t know how to explain any of it. I just… I don’t know. The feelings swirl inside me like a storm I’m trying to hold back. It’s like everything’s barely hanging on, and if I move the wrong way, it might all come crashing down.

I wish he never came in here. I wish he had let me stay on the phone with Peeta a little longer. I wish I could have kept staring up at the ceiling, lost in memories that hadn’t started to hurt yet. But most of all, I wish I didn’t feel the tears welling up, burning behind my eyes.

I haven’t cried in so long. I’ve gotten good at holding everything in, locking it all away so no one can see. But now it’s there, rising and growing, impossible to ignore. And I know if I let it out, if I start crying now, I might never be able to stop.

“Look, Rye, I’m really tired. Can we just talk in the morning?”

He shakes his head, firm. “No. I’m not going to sleep again wondering if you hate me.”

I bite my lip, trying to hold myself together, but he won’t let it go.

“I’m not letting you push me away anymore. Like I said, you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not. I’m your big brother. You’re supposed to lean on me. You’re supposed to let me help you.”

“I don’t need any help, Rye. I’m fi—”

He cuts me off sharply. “If I hear the words ‘I’m fine’ come out of your mouth one more time, I’m gonna lose it.”

“But I am,” I whisper.

“No, you’re not. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I shake my head and look away, trying to hide the crack in my voice. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Look at me.”

I shake my head again, voice barely a whisper. “Please, Rye, just go to sleep. I promise, everything’s fine.”

He shakes his head stubbornly. “Not until you look at me.”

Panic rises. I bury my face in my hands, desperate to block him out, to stop the tears I can already feel slipping down. Every time he pushes, my mind reels with all the things that hurt.

“Just go away.”

Then his hands clamp around my wrists, firm but not rough. He pulls my hands away from my face and gently forces me to face him.

I tilt my head away, trying to escape.

But he doesn’t relent. He cups my cheeks and tilts my head back toward him, steadying me. His eyes, full of worry and something raw—almost like desperation—lock onto mine.

I fight. I swallow hard, willing the tears to stay back, trying to hold myself together for just a little longer. But his gaze is steady and unwavering, breaking down the walls I’ve built around myself. My breath catches painfully in my throat. The tears come anyway—slow at first, then spilling freely, hot and burning down my cheeks. My lips tremble as the flood breaks loose, the weight I’ve been carrying too much to hold inside any longer.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, my voice barely more than a whisper.

His face softens instantly, and he pulls me close, holding me tight. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

But he’s wrong.

I pushed him away. On purpose. I made him feel like I didn’t need him. Like he didn’t matter. And maybe I thought that was safer—for both of us. I didn’t want him to feel guilty about how everything’s changed. I didn’t want him to see just how bad it really is.

I kept pretending. I covered the bruises, smiled when I had to, laughed when it felt fake. I thought if I could just make it through on my own, it would be better for everyone.

But I couldn’t. I can’t.

The tears come harder, full and aching, and I press my face deeper into Rye’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Rye,” I whisper again, my voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty. I didn’t want to make anything worse.”

His arms tighten around me. “You didn’t. You never could.”

And then everything comes out.

I grip the back of his shirt like I’ll fall apart if I let go, and the words tumble out of me before I can stop them. I tell him about how bad Mom’s gotten again. About the nights she doesn’t even look at me, and the ones where she does—and that’s worse. About how I started hiding the bruises, how I layered on makeup and changed when no one was looking, so he wouldn’t notice. So he wouldn’t worry. So he wouldn’t tell Peeta.

Because I couldn’t let Peeta know. I didn’t want him to feel helpless. I didn’t want to be another thing dragging him down when he’s already drowning.

I tell him how much I miss going to Peeta’s house. How I miss the pancakes and the Capitol soaps and the smell of cinnamon on his old shirts. I tell him I miss the way it felt just being around him, like the world wasn’t so heavy for a little while.

And then I tell him the part I’ve been too scared to say out loud—that everything feels different now that Peeta won. That I feel guilty for even thinking it, because I’m supposed to be happy. He survived. He came home. That should be enough.

But it doesn’t feel like enough.

Everyone acts like he’s just a Victor now. Like he’s something shiny to show off instead of someone we love. And I know he’s still Peeta—I do—but it’s like we’re not allowed to treat him the same. Like he belongs to the Capitol now, or to the story they’ve built around him. And I hate it.

I hate that it feels like he’s slipping away, even when he’s standing right in front of me. I hate that he doesn’t live here anymore. I hate that I smile when people look, and pretend everything’s fine, and I’m tired of pretending.

All I want is for things to go back to the way they were. Before the Games. Before the reaping. Before I had to be this version of myself just to survive the days.

Rye doesn’t say anything right away. He just rubs slow circles into my back, steady and grounding, the way Peeta used to when I got sick as a kid. His voice is quiet when it finally comes, warm and heavy with something that’s been sitting in his chest for a long time. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he murmurs.

I cry harder at that, my fingers still twisted in the back of his shirt. “I know,” I choke out. “I’m sorry.”

His grip tightens around me instantly, his chin resting on top of my head now. “Stop apologizing,” he says, not angry—just firm, like it physically hurts him to hear me say it again. “You don’t owe me sorry for needing help.”

I press my face deeper into his shoulder, like maybe I can hide from everything that way. My whole body’s shaking now, and still—he doesn’t let go. He just keeps holding on like he’s never going to let me fall again. I don’t know how long he can do that. I don’t know how long anyone can hold onto something this heavy.

His voice stays low, steady, but I can hear the guilt in it now too. The frustration. The way he’s grasping for anything that might help.

“I’ll try again,” he murmurs. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll make her see she can’t keep doing this.”

I sob harder, my breath hitching.

“I’ll talk to Dad too,” he says. “Make him step up. Make him let Peeta come around more. Maybe if he’s here, she’ll back off. Maybe it’ll feel normal again.”

Normal.

The word breaks something fresh in me.

“I’ll get Bannock to help out more in the bakery,” he adds, his voice tightening. “So you’re not stuck down there with her. I’ll figure something out.”

Each promise hits like a stone in my chest. Every word just makes the tears come faster, harder, until I can’t even breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop anything. The ache doesn’t let up.

Rye keeps going, like if he stops, I’ll fall apart completely.

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone, Bri. You never should’ve. I’m sorry I didn’t—” He cuts himself off with a shaky breath. “But I’m here now. I’ll fix it. I swear.”

But the more he says, the worse I feel. Because I know he means it. I know he’s trying. And I hate that it still hurts. That none of it makes it better. He finally goes quiet, and I cry harder than I’ve cried in weeks.

I was right. I knew if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

It’s like every tear I’ve been choking back has come back with interest. All the pain I tried to bury, all the times I looked at Rye and pretended I was fine, every bruise I covered up—it’s all pouring out now, raw and messy and loud.

I try to steady my breathing, counting slow in my head, pressing my face deeper into Rye’s shoulder like that’ll stop the tears somehow. But it doesn’t. No matter how many breaths I take, no matter how tightly I hold onto his shirt, the tears won’t stop. They just keep coming—hot and relentless and exhausting.

And I know Rye won’t leave. Not until I calm down. He’s like that now.

Part of me is grateful for it. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to be alone in this room, in this house, with all these thoughts. But I also don’t want him staying up all night, just because I can’t stop crying. Just because I can’t get it together.

I don’t want to be another thing he has to carry.

I try to pull away a little, wipe my face, act like maybe I’m starting to get it under control. But he doesn’t budge. His grip just tightens like he already knows what I’m doing.

“You don’t have to rush it,” he says quietly, almost like he’s reading my mind.

And just like that, the tears swell again.

Because I want to be okay—for him, for Peeta, for everyone—but right now, I’m not. And Rye isn’t asking me to be. He’s just staying. Even when I don’t know how to stop.

Eventually, he shifts a little and pulls me closer. Then he stands up, and I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking—just instinct. He holds me easily, steady and sure, and carries me into his room. I don’t stop crying, not for a second. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks, slow and careful, through the dark hall until he reaches his bed.

He doesn’t turn the light on. Just sets me down, then lies beside me and wraps his arms around me again. I curl into him, and another sob breaks out—because this? This is making me feel better. It’s making me feel safe enough to sleep. And that makes me feel worse.

Because it used to be Peeta who did this. Peeta who held me when things got bad. Who stayed up with me when the nightmares were too loud. And now it’s Rye. Rye’s the one making the bad things go quiet.

And Peeta’s all alone.

That’s what hurts the most. Not the bruises, not the yelling, not even the crying. It’s Peeta. It’s thinking about him in that too-big house with no one to talk to, no one to distract him when it gets heavy. I’m hurting too, but at least I’m not alone. At least I have Rye.

Peeta has no one.

He never wanted to talk about the Games. I tried. A few times, when I thought he might open up. But he always brushed it off, told me it was easier not to talk about it. That he was fine. But I knew he wasn’t. How could he be? How could anyone be after something like that?

But that’s just Peeta. He never wanted to burden anyone. Always put everyone else first. Always tried to make things easier for me, even when he was falling apart.

And I let him carry it all by himself.

I let myself believe that just being there was enough. That I didn’t need to fix anything, as long as I could keep him smiling, keep things light, keep him feeling normal. But now… now I’m not there. And he’s alone again.

“Rye?” I whisper, just loud enough to be sure he’s still awake.

“Yeah?” he says instantly.

“Please don’t tell Peeta about this.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

Another pause—longer this time. “Mhm.”

He doesn’t say the word. Doesn’t promise out loud. But I’m too tired to press him. The argument never happens. Sleep finds me before I can stop it.

Chapter Text

Every once in a while, my brain does me a favour. It’s rare—almost never happens—but on the worst nights, the ones where she hits me so hard the room spins, where I can’t catch my breath long enough to call Peeta, where my hands shake so badly I can’t hold my fork at dinner… That’s when it steps in. Instead of making me relive it all in my dreams—twisted memories, bruises that grow darker, Peeta bleeding out in ways he never actually did—my brain gives me something else. A good dream.

I don’t know if it was because I finally let everything out, like there was finally room in my head for something soft. Or maybe it was because I fell asleep wrapped in Rye’s arms, steady and warm in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

But last night, my dream was simple. Just a memory of before. Only better.

Rye was kind, like he is now—not angry or distant or annoyed by everything I said. Peeta hadn’t gone into the Games. He was still here. Still just Peeta, not a victor. Smiling at me over the bakery counter. Calling me Tiger for no reason—just because he could. Just because I smiled every time.

And our mother? She wasn’t there. Not once. Not in the bakery, not at the kitchen table, not anywhere. And for once, her absence wasn’t a threat. It was a gift.

I press my face into the pillow, trying to fall asleep again, trying to chase that feeling—like maybe if I lie still enough, I can slip back into the dream. Back into that version of before, where everything was easy. Where nothing hurt.

I know I should be waking up soon. I know if I stay up here much longer, my mother will come storming in, barking orders, dragging me downstairs by the wrist if she has to. But I don’t care.

For once, I don’t care.

The dream was warm. And this pillow still smells like Rye’s laundry detergent. That same minty kind Peeta used to use. It makes my chest ache in a weird, soft way.

I hear the door open, and my body tenses. My muscles lock on instinct, bracing for the sound I’ve come to dread.

But the door closes gently. No slam. No bite behind it.

That’s not her.

“Just five more minutes,” I mumble into the pillow, my voice muffled and half-asleep.

Rye doesn’t answer. I hear his footsteps instead, quiet across the floor. He doesn’t leave.

“I’ll come down soon, I promise,” I add, hoping that’s enough to make him go.

But instead, I feel the bed dip slightly near my feet. Then fingers through the blanket—tickling lightly at first.

I kick at them with a tired groan. “Rye—”

But the hands don’t stop. They trail up my legs, pinching and poking, light and familiar.

When they reach my side, I curl tighter, groaning again. Then a hand reaches my face, pinching my cheek just enough to make me swat at it.

I groan louder and yank the blanket up over my face, trying to hide from him completely. “Please, Rye. I’m still tired.”

And then—

“Rye?” the voice repeats, amused and teasing. “Wow, Tiger. You don’t see me for a couple weeks and you forget the sound of my voice?”

I freeze.

That voice—It can’t be.

It’s too familiar. Too soft. Too Peeta.

And just for a second, I think I’m still dreaming. That maybe my brain hasn’t woken up yet, and it’s giving me one last soft thing before it lets go.

My heart stutters. I lie completely still beneath the blanket, scared to move, scared to hope.

Then—slowly, like I’m afraid it’ll break if I rush—I pull the blanket down just far enough to peek out.

And I see him.

Peeta.

Smiling like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

My breath catches so fast it knocks the air right out of me. For a second, I don’t move. I just stare.

Then I launch forward and throw my arms around him.

He lets out a soft laugh as I slam into his chest, but he catches me without missing a beat. His arms wrap around me tightly, securely, like muscle memory.

I don’t say anything. I don’t even breathe. I just hold on. And he doesn’t let go.

We stay like that for a long moment, neither of us speaking. His sweater smells like cinnamon and soap and the faint trace of Capitol cologne. I bury my face in it and let myself believe it’s real.

When I finally pull back, I blink up at him, still not sure this isn’t a trick of sleep.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice hoarse from sleep—and from everything else.

He just laughs, like I asked something ridiculous. “It’s Saturday,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not watching Storms of Passion alone again.”

I stare at him for another second, still trying to catch up, still processing—but my mouth quirks up despite everything.

“Storms of Passion, seriously?”

He just shrugs. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

“Where are we gonna watch it?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he’s even here.

He smiles. “My house.”

I pause, eyebrows pulling together. “How?”

“Well,” he says, settling on the edge of the bed like he’s telling some elaborate story. “Mom is in a very good mood today. Someone made a big order at the bakery last night. Last-minute cake. No explanation, just… a lot of money and very specific icing.”

I blink. “What?”

“They paid extra for the rush,” he adds, like that explains everything. “Said it was urgent.”

My brows furrow. “Who?”

That’s when he smirks. Like he’s waiting for me to catch up. Like it’s a joke I’m not quite in on yet—but will be in about two seconds.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Peeta…”

He just raises his eyebrows, still smiling.

My mouth drops open slightly. “You ordered your own cake?”

“I like cake,” he says innocently.

I stare at him for another second—then laugh, a real laugh, sudden and surprised. I press my hand to my mouth to try and stifle it, but it’s already out there.

“You bribed your way into the house with a fake order?”

“It wasn’t fake,” he says with mock offense. “There’s a very real cake that I’m going to have to help with tomorrow.”

“You’re a genius.”

Peeta grins, pleased with himself.

“Don’t give me all the credit,” he says. “It was Rye’s idea.”

I freeze for a moment.

Of course it was. He must’ve called Peeta last night, even after I asked him not to. Even after I made him promise. And I should be mad—should feel betrayed, maybe—but all I feel is this overwhelming rush of relief. Like something that’s been tangled in my chest for weeks finally loosened.

I look at Peeta again, really look at him—alive, here, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sitting on my bed on a Saturday morning—and suddenly nothing else matters.

I don’t care that Rye broke his promise. Because he brought me this. He brought me him. And I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.

Peeta claps his hands once, like he’s sealing the deal. “Come on,” he says, already standing. “I’ve got cinnamon buns in the oven at home, and I don’t want them to burn.”

I blink. “You made cinnamon buns?”

“I live alone now. What do you think I do all day?”

I smile, my chest aching in the best way. He holds his hand out to me, and I don’t even hesitate. I take it, fingers curling into his, and follow him out of the room, down the stairs, and into the day I didn’t dare hope I’d get.

When we get to the kitchen, I see Rye already at the counter, forearms dusted in flour as he kneads dough with practiced hands. He glances up, grinning. “Well, look who’s finally reunited.”

I don’t hesitate. I cross the room and throw my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his chest. “Thank you.”

He huffs a little like he’s trying to be smug. “Told you I’d fix it.” But there’s something in his voice—something quieter, more sincere—that makes it clear he means it.

I pull back and look up at him. “Are you coming too?”

He wipes his hands on his apron and shakes his head. “I gotta stay here and work. Who do you think used to pick up the extra slack when you two ran off for your little Saturday playdates?”

I don’t hide my disappointment fast enough. It flickers across my face before I can stop it, and Rye’s smirk softens.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently. “I’ll come after we close up.”

Peeta steps up beside me and hooks an arm around my shoulders, giving me a little tug. “Alright, that’s enough sappy sibling bonding,” he says with a grin. “Come on, Tiger. Cinnamon buns wait for no one.”

I glance back at Rye, hesitating for a second.

Peeta leans in and lowers his voice playfully, “Don’t worry, you know he’ll show up. He can’t stay away from us that long. He’d get bored without the chaos.”

That earns a faint smile from Rye, and it’s enough for me too. I let Peeta pull me toward the door, warmth already curling in my chest.

Peeta drops his arm from around my shoulders and slips his hand into mine instead, fingers curling around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He gives my hand a small squeeze, like a quiet I’m here, and then we head toward the front of the bakery together.

As we walk through the door, we pass our father by the counter, bent over the display case with a tray of bread. He doesn’t look up right away, just finishes what he’s doing—then, as we step past, he gives us a small nod. Not a word. Just that tiny gesture. But somehow, it’s enough.

We step outside into the cool morning air, and it hits me right away—sharp against my legs. I instantly regret not throwing on a pair of pants before leaving the house. I hug my arm around myself, trying to keep the chill off.

Peeta notices. Of course he does.

He glances down at my bare legs with a smirk. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I bought you some more of that vanilla soap. You can take a hot shower to warm up.”

I look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to bribe me with gifts to get me to come over.”

“I know that,” he says with a shrug, eyes warm. “Doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you anyway.”

I roll my eyes and playfully smack him with my free hand. “What else have you been buying recently?”

Peeta looks up like he’s actually trying to remember, counting off on his fingers. “New dish towels. That weird Capitol honey. A sweater I’ll probably never wear. And—oh—Prim bought a tuxedo for Buttercup.”

I blink. “What?”

He grins. “Yeah. Full suit. Tiny bow tie. It’s awful.”

My eyes widen. “He’s gonna scratch her eyes out if she comes near him with that thing.”

Peeta just smirks. “Maybe if you did. He seems to like me and Prim very much.”

I roll my eyes again. But… he’s right. Buttercup does like Peeta. And Peeta likes him. Prim brings him over all the time, and Peeta lets him sit on the couch like he owns the place. Climb on the counters while he’s baking. He even feeds him scraps under the table. Basically everything Katniss yells at Prim for doing at her house, Peeta encourages.

“What does he need a suit for?” I ask.

Peeta shrugs, still amused. “Prim’s convinced he’s going to the mayor’s house after the Victory Tour. For that dinner thing.”

I pause. I forgot about that.

After the Victory Tour ends, the victors and their families are invited to a dinner at the mayor’s house. It’s this fancy, Capitol-mandated event that’s supposed to “celebrate unity.” I don’t think anyone really enjoys it, except maybe Haymitch if there’s liquor.

“Am I going to that?” I ask, quietly.

Peeta smiles. “Of course you are. I’ve already started looking at what dress I’m gonna buy you. I’m thinking bright pink and lots of sparkles.”

I groan loudly. “You are the worst.”

He laughs. “I know. But just wait until you see the matching shoes.”

We keep walking, and his grip on my hand doesn’t loosen—not even a little. He keeps talking the whole way, his voice easy and warm, like nothing’s changed.

It’s been weeks since we saw each other in person. We talk on the phone, sure, but it’s not the same. Nothing ever really is. But still—despite everything, despite the distance and the silence and the way the world feels different now—it’s not weird. It’s not awkward. It’s just… us.

He talks like we’ve never been apart. Like he’s just picking the conversation up from the last place we left it, without missing a beat. No warm-up. No hesitation.

And I realize—this is what I missed most.

Not just Peeta. But this version of him. The one who knows me without asking. The one who makes everything feel like it’s going to be okay, just by walking next to me and talking about dish towels and tuxedos for cats.

We get to Peeta’s house, and the moment the door swings open, something in me exhales.

It’s warmer here—not just from the heat of the oven, though that’s part of it—but in the way everything feels softer. Calmer. The air smells like cinnamon and vanilla, like something’s baking and something’s clean. It smells like him.

It’s different from home. Brighter. Quieter. Nothing creaks underfoot, and the corners aren’t filled with dust. But it’s not too perfect, either. Not sterile, not showy, not like the Capitol homes we’ve seen on TV. There’s no glass furniture, no glowing walls, no ridiculous gold trim.

It still feels like Peeta.

The rug in the hallway is new—simple, but soft under my feet. There’s a photo on the wall I don’t recognize, probably one of those Capitol portraits with dramatic lighting and that fake, careful smile they always push on him. And there’s a coat hung neatly by the door, one I’ve never seen before. It’s nicer than anything he used to wear back home, but somehow it still feels like him too. Like he chose it, not them.

For a moment, I just stand there, letting myself feel how much easier it is to breathe in this space. Like I don’t have to brace for anything.

Then Peeta kicks off his shoes, glances over at me, and nods toward the stairs. “I left you something on my bed.

I raise an eyebrow. “More presents?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s practical.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but I can’t help smiling a little. He grins right back.

“Go take a hot shower,” he says, already heading toward the kitchen. “You’ll warm up, and the cinnamon buns will be done by the time you’re back.”

I roll my eyes. “You act like I need a bribe.”

“You don’t,” he calls over his shoulder. “But it’s more fun this way.”

I head upstairs and slip into Peeta’s room. Technically, there’s a room here that’s supposed to be mine—he insisted on setting it up right after the Games, said it was for when I slept over. But we both knew I’d never actually use it. We both knew I’d be sleeping in his bed.

I close the door softly behind me, then turn toward the bed—and stop.

Laid out neatly across the blanket are five sets of pyjamas, folded with ridiculous care. Not the shiny Capitol kind he’s shown me in catalogs before—no silk or glittery trim. These are flannel. Soft-looking. Comfortable. The kind of thing you could almost imagine finding in one of the nicer shops in District 12. Long sleeves, buttons down the front, cozy patterns and colours—muted blue, faded green, a dusty rose, warm cream, and deep gray.

I walk over and run my fingers across one of the sleeves. The fabric is soft and warm, like it’s already been broken in. Even when he tries to be practical, he still goes overboard. He bought me five different sets, all for me.

I smile to myself, something quiet settling in my chest. Of course he did.

I linger over the pyjamas for a second longer before finally reaching for the blue set. It’s a soft, navy blue—simple, clean, the kind of color that makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier. I clutch the folded bundle against my chest and head down the hall to the bathroom.

The tiles are cool under my feet as I step inside. I shut the door behind me, twist the lock, and place the pyjamas gently on the counter before turning on the shower. Steam begins to rise almost instantly, curling around the mirror and warming the air.

I step into the shower and that’s when I see them.

Lined neatly in the corner, like they’ve been waiting: vanilla-scented everything. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, scrub—each one in a matching bottle, soft gold caps and warm cream labels. I open one, then another. The scent rises instantly—faintly sweet, warm and clean and familiar in a way that makes my chest ache a little.

I use all of them.

The shampoo lathers thick and smooth in my hands. The conditioner smells even stronger once the steam hits it. The scrub leaves my skin soft. The body wash foams into my sponge like something out of a Capitol commercial. It’s all a little ridiculous. And perfect.

I sink into the scent. The heat. The softness. The kind of comfort that feels almost too good to be real.

And then it hits me.

He didn’t know I was coming today—not until last night. There wasn’t time to buy all this. Which means it was already here. Already waiting.

The realization lands gently but heavily, he bought all of this for me, the soap the pyjamas. For the next time I came around. Whenever that would be.

I feel a twist in my chest—guilt curling in under the warmth. Because he never stopped hoping I’d come back. He just kept getting ready for when I finally did.

And I know it’s not my fault. I would’ve spent every day here if I could. If things were different. If I hadn’t had to be so careful.

But still.

He was waiting. And I hate that he had to.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, mixing with the steam. I tilt my head back under the water, trying to breathe through it. Trying to let it go.

I stay under the spray longer than I mean to. I always do.

There’s something about the water—how it drowns out everything else, how it presses against my skin like a weight and a comfort at the same time. It lets me go quiet. It lets me stop thinking. Just for a while.

I lean my forehead against the tile and close my eyes.

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

Eventually, when my skin starts to feel a little too soft and my fingers are wrinkled from the heat, I force myself to shut the water off. I towel off, tug on the blue pyjamas, and run a hand through my damp hair.

They’re even softer than they looked. The sleeves fall past my wrists, and they smell like Peeta’s laundry soap mixed with vanilla. Like something safe.

I let out a quiet breath. Then I open the door.

I stare at the fabric as I walk down the stairs, my fingers brushing over the sleeve like I’m still not used to how soft it is. The hem sways gently around my legs, warm against my skin from the shower. I just woke up and I’m already putting pyjamas back on. Of course I am. Even he knew we’d be staying home all day, wrapped in quiet, soft things, with no reason to dress for anything but comfort.

Halfway down, I tug the edge of my sleeve up and slip a hair tie from my wrist.

When I reach the bottom of the steps, I spot Peeta at the kitchen counter, icing cinnamon buns with quiet focus. I walk over and plop into the chair across from him, holding out the hair tie in one hand.

“Can you do my hair?”

He doesn’t even look up. “You know you never have to ask.”

He finally looks up—and smiles, just for a second.

Then his smile fades like a shadow crossing the room. My heart stammers, chest tightening with a sudden cold. He steps closer, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something heavier.

“What’s on your face?”

My stomach drops.

No. No, no, no.

The bruise.

I forgot to cover it after the shower. I didn’t bring my makeup. I was too excited this morning—I forgot to be careful.

My hand flies to my cheek instinctively. “What are you talking about?”

He sets the piping bag down slowly, deliberately, and walks around the counter. My pulse starts to race. I turn my head away, but his hand is already there—gentle but firm—guiding my chin back toward him.

His thumb brushes the skin just under my eye.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly, trying to brush it off. My voice is too light, too practiced. But I don’t know what else to say.

“Briella.” His tone shifts—low, steady, and sharp around the edges. He never calls me that. Not unless he’s serious.

The word stops me cold. My breath catches.

“It was… it was Rye,” I say without thinking.

His eyebrows lift slightly, disbelief flashing across his face. “Rye?”

I nod, too fast. “Yeah. He was, um… we were—”

I fumble. I didn’t think this far ahead. “We were messing around. He threw a pillow at me and I slipped. Hit the edge of my desk.”

Peeta tilts his head slightly. “Try again.”

I hesitate, eyes flicking anywhere but his. My fingers find the edge of the pyjama top and I start to fidget with the fabric, twisting it between my thumb and forefinger.

“These are really soft,” I say, my voice barely steady. I clutch the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored. “I like the blue. It’s—it’s my favourite, actually. And the buttons don’t itch like I thought they might—”

“Briella.”

Just my name, quiet and firm. But it cuts right through me.

I go still.

He waits until I look at him again. His eyes are steady, not angry—but I can’t read them. That makes it worse.

“Tell me the truth,” he says softly. “Please.”

I sigh, the breath shaking on the way out. “It was one time,” I murmur, so quiet I’m not even sure he hears me.

But he does.

“Mom,” he says sharply—too sharply. Like the word alone makes something snap in his chest. He steps back just slightly, like he needs the space to think.

“I thought she was good, Briella,” he says, his voice strained as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought she was finally trying. I thought—”

He cuts himself off before the sentence can finish, like even saying it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice catching. “I thought Rye already told you.”

Peeta’s head snaps up, his eyes locking onto mine. “He knew?”

“No—no, not until last night,” I say quickly, fumbling with the edge of my sleeve. “I thought that’s why you came this morning. I thought he called you.”

“He did,” Peeta says, his voice tight. “But he only told me you were upset about not coming over. Not that she was hitting you again.”

“She’s not,” I say automatically. The lie slips out before I can stop it. “It was one time, I swear.”

He just stares at me. The silence between us stretches.

“And I deserved it,” I add, even quieter now. “I was—”

“No.” His voice is low but firm, final in a way that makes my heart stop.

“No, you didn’t deserve it, Briella. There’s nothing you could do to deserve it.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His words hang in the air, soft but steady. I close my eyes, swallowing hard, willing myself to believe them. It’s hard—so hard—but I want to. I want to believe that no matter what, it’s not my fault.

Peeta doesn’t let it go. His voice is low but steady, almost pleading.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “It just… never came up.”

“We talk on the phone. Every day.”

“I’m so sorry, Peeta.” The words break free before I can stop them—tears slipping down my cheeks. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to worry.”

He shakes his head slowly, frustration and care mingling in his eyes. “Don’t apologize. You just have to tell me this stuff.”

I glance away, voice small. “It was one time. I didn’t think it was a big deal.” I lie again, the words tasting bitter even as they leave my mouth.

He pinches the bridge of his nose again, and I look down. Even when she’s not here, she still manages to ruin everything.

“Peeta, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Can we just not talk about it today? I want things to be easy again.”

He hesitates, eyes searching mine. “Only if you promise me you’re not going to keep stuff like this from me again.”

I nod, my throat tight. 

“Say it.” He says firmly.

I hate lying to him—more than anything, but the words slip out anyway, because some promises are safer than the truth. “I promise.”

He stares at me for a second, like he’s trying to figure out if he really believes me. His eyes search mine, hesitant but patient. Then he nods slowly and holds out his hand.

“Let’s get that hair out of your face before you get it all over my cinnamon buns.”

I huff out a small laugh through my tears. “So they’re your cinnamon buns now?”

He smirks, a little playful and warm. “I made them.”

I hand him the hair tie, and he moves behind me, fingers threading gently through my damp hair.

“I knew you’d pick the blue ones,” he says softly.

I brush the sleeve lightly over my tears. “How?”

He smiles, voice low. “’Cause it’s your favourite colour.”

His hands keep working through my hair as he teases, “So… what was that about you loving the pyjamas and letting me buy you as many as I want?”

I shake my head, half-smiling. “I never said that.”

He grins. “Too late. There’s already four more pairs on the way.”

He ties off the braid and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. Then he circles around to stand in front of me, his expression more serious again, eyes searching mine.

“Promise me you’re not hiding anything else,” he says quietly. “If you are, get it out now—so we can have a good day. No more surprises.”

My stomach twists, but I nod. “I promise.”

He holds my gaze a second longer, like he’s trying to decide if he believes me one last time. Then he smiles, small but real. “Good.”

He nudges my shoulder gently. “Now let’s eat some cinnamon buns before Rye shows up and eats them all.”

He turns toward the counter and starts pulling out plates, humming something soft under his breath.

I let myself watch him for a second. The smooth way he moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature now. The way the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. The light catching in his hair. Safe. Familiar.

A ghost of my mother’s voice tries to edge its way back in—cold, sharp, echoing in the back of my mind. But I push it away. Not now. Not here.

I’m not going to let her ruin this.

Not the smell of cinnamon in the air. Not the warmth of Peeta’s house. Not the way he just braided my hair and kissed my head like he always does. She doesn’t get to steal this too.

Chapter Text

The first bite nearly melts in my mouth.

Warm, soft, perfectly gooey in the middle—like he timed the icing to hit the exact second before it would start to harden. I let out a quiet noise, barely more than a hum, but it’s enough to make him glance over.

“You like it?” he asks, watching my face.

I nod, chewing quickly. “Your best batch yet,” I mumble around a mouthful.

He smirks. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s something proud behind it. He leans back against the counter, arms folded, watching me eat like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world. I take another bite, slower this time, and swallow before I speak again.

“So,” I say, wiping a little icing off my lip with the edge of my sleeve, “what’s with the five pairs of pajamas?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “It’s getting cold out. You need warmer stuff to sleep in.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you know what I sleep in?”

He tries not to smile. Fails. “Rye told me.”

I blink. “Rye?”

Peeta grins, pushing off the counter to grab a fork. “You’re not the only one I talk to on the phone, you know.”

I narrow my eyes, playful. “You call Rye just to talk about me?”

He smirks. “What else would we talk about?”

He starts plating a cinnamon bun for himself, but his voice softens a little. “I like seeing him like this.”

“Like what?” I ask, licking a bit of icing from my finger.

He shrugs and sits down next to me. “Just… being your big brother. Really being there. I don’t think he knew how to, before.”

I glance down, chewing slowly. My chest tightens just a little.

“He’s trying,” Peeta says. “He really is. I’m glad you two got closer.”

I twist my fork in the corner of my plate. “I think I just wore him down.”

Peeta lets out a quiet laugh, then looks over at me—gentle, a little fond. “You probably did.”

“But you’re not surprised,” I say, nudging his leg under the table with my foot. “You always said I was impossible to ignore.”

“You are,” he says, without missing a beat. Then, with a soft smile, he says, “and thank God for that.”

I poke at the icing on my plate, letting Peeta’s words settle.

He’s right. Rye really is trying.

Not just now. Not just when it’s easy. But from the very beginning—when everything was still raw and nothing felt okay. Even after I pushed him away. Even when I didn’t want him near me. He didn’t stop.

And after the Games, when Peeta came home—when most people would’ve just let things go back to how they were—he didn’t disappear. He didn’t slide back into the edges of our family like he used to. He meant it when he said he didn’t want to go back to who he was before.

And he didn’t.

He stayed in the kitchen. He stayed beside me. He kept checking in, even when I didn’t answer. He was the one who helped me hold it together when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Even when I tried to make him leave me alone—even when I was cold or stubborn or scared—he didn’t give up.

He just… stayed.

And maybe I haven’t said thank you. Maybe I don’t know how. But I think I’m starting to see it now—what he’s been trying to do all along. And I think maybe that matters more than anything else.

Peeta glances over at me. “You’re thinking too hard,” he says, nudging my foot under the table. “Today’s supposed to be light, remember?”

I blink, snapping out of it just enough to roll my eyes. “I was just thinking about how ugly that throw blanket in your living room is.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “The orange one?”

“It looks like Buttercup coughed it up.”

He grins. “Well, good thing it’s not for you. Some of us like a pop of color.”

“Pop of something,” I mutter.

He laughs, and just like that, the weight in my chest feels a little lighter. Then Peeta slides another cinnamon bun onto my plate before I can stop him.

“Hey—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a smug look.

“My house,” he says. “My rules. I can put as many cinnamon buns on your plate as I want.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth. I pick it up and take another bite, warm and sweet and perfect. He knows exactly what he’s doing. They’re my favorite. And he made them just for me.

Then Peeta starts talking—light, easy. He tells me about a new mixer he wants to buy for his kitchen, some fancy Capitol brand he definitely need. Then he launches into an elaborate story Prim told him over the phone, one I’ve already heard but don’t mind hearing again because he tells it like it’s brand new.

After a while, he turns the conversation toward me.

“How’s the bakery been?”

I lie when I say it’s been good. But I tell the truth when I add, “I still hate baking. And it’s way more boring without you.”

He smiles at that, and I can tell he knows I’m only half-kidding.

Then he asks about school, and I tell him about how Minnie Undersee still hates me. How Rory Hawthorne sits with us sometimes now—and surprisingly, I don’t mind. He’s the only one who doesn’t act different around me. He doesn’t look at me like I might break. He’s still a jerk, but… he was even before Peeta became a victor, so it’s almost comforting.

Then I tell him the real scandal. “I think Rory has a crush on Prim.”

Peeta raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“She’s the only person he doesn’t scowl at,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It’s suspicious.”

He grins. “And how do we feel about this development?”

I groan, dramatic. “I hate it.”

Peeta laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Please. If Rory even thinks about holding her hand, you’ll probably slap him.”

I roll my eyes. “When are you gonna let that go?”

He smirks. “Hmm… hard to say. Rye told me you didn’t even hesitate.”

“Rye wasn’t even there. And I didn’t hesitate, he deserved it.”

Peeta shrugs, still amused. “I’m just saying—if he ever gets too close to Prim, he probably remembers.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips.

He doesn’t say anything more, but I can tell—he’s not a fan. Not really. Not of Rory. And definitely not of Gale.

He’s never said it outright, and I doubt he ever will, but I know why. Gale’s the reason Katniss doesn’t look at him the way he wants her to. The reason she pulls away instead of leaning in. And Rory… well, he’s just a little too close to that same shadow.

Peeta doesn’t need a reason to dislike Rory. He’s got a name.

Peeta smirks again. “And which boys have a crush on you?”

“None of them,” I say flatly.

He tilts his head, clearly not buying it. “I bet they all do. They’re just afraid to get too close. Probably think you’ll slap them too.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Very funny.”

He just grins. “I’m serious. You’ve got that whole mysterious, scary-girl thing going for you now. It’s probably driving them crazy.”

I cross my arms. “You’re making stuff up.”

“And which boys do you have a crush on?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“None of them,” I repeat, glaring.

He leans his chin on his hand, still smirking. “Liar.”

I huff. “I’m serious. They’re either annoying or weird or both. One of them tried to ask if you would sign his backpack.”

Peeta leans back in his chair, smirking. “Seriously? No boys make your stubborn heart sing?”

I smirk right back. “I’m not you. I don’t lay eyes on one person and fall in love.”

His smile falters just the tiniest bit—but then he laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “Okay. I deserved that.”

He doesn’t sound mad. And I didn’t mean it to be mean. He knows that. But the edge is still there, soft and unspoken. Katniss is still a sore spot, even if he doesn’t say her name.

I glance down at my plate. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he says quickly. And he does—he always does. His voice stays warm, steady. “It’s just… accurate.”

I nudge his foot under the table. “It’s not a bad thing, Peeta.”

“I know,” he repeats, this time with a crooked little smile. “Still deserved it, though.”

He grins and shrugs, then steers the conversation back to me. “But. If any boy ever does make your heart sing…”

He leans forward, eyes gleaming.

“I’ll kick his ass.”

I snort. “You and what army?”

“Rye,” he says simply. “He’d help.”

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “A baker and a victor. Whatever will they do?”

Peeta raises an eyebrow, deadly serious in that teasing way he has. “Plenty.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. I know they would. I know they’d both do anything to protect me—even if it’s from imaginary future heartbreaks.

Peeta pushes back from the table and stands, stretching his arms overhead. “Alright,” he says with a grin. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

I blink up at him. “What am I supposed to do?”

He smirks, already turning toward the stairs. “I think you’ll survive.”

I huff, dramatic. “Barely.”

He just chuckles and starts up the steps. I watch him go, the house already quieter without his voice filling it.

I stand up with a sigh and start gathering the plates, stacking them carefully to bring to the sink.

Peeta’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs, sharp but amused. “Don’t you dare touch those dishes.”

I freeze, eyebrows lifting. How did he know that?

“I wasn’t,” I call back, setting them down with a huff.

A beat of silence—then his voice again, smug: “Sure you weren’t.”

I roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, “Capitol-trained hearing or something.”

I move to the living room and drop onto the couch, running my hands over the cushions. This is the only thing I didn’t roll my eyes at Peeta for buying. Dark brown leather, soft and worn in all the right places. It’s more comfortable than my bed back home—by a lot.

I reach for the remote, fingers brushing over the buttons. But I don’t press anything.

The Capitol shows aren’t as fun without Peeta here to make fun of their ridiculous accents, their sparkly outfits, the way every sentence sounds like it was rehearsed a hundred times.

And this couch—this perfect, oversized thing—feels too big without him. Too quiet.

I sigh and lean back, letting my head fall against the cushion. The house creaks gently around me, warm and still. For a second, I close my eyes.

I get up and head upstairs. I can still hear the shower running, water humming softly behind the closed door. So I move past it and open the next one.

An empty bedroom.

It still has a bed, a dresser, a window with the curtains half-drawn—but no one’s ever used it. Not even once. It feels more like a backup plan than a real room. I close the door quietly and move on.

The next one doesn’t open.

It’s locked. Peeta’s painting room.

He never lets me in there. Said it was because of the fumes. Something about the Capitol paints being too strong. I never pressed him, never asked twice. I just believed him.

I reach the last door and open it slowly.

My room.

That’s what he always calls it. But it doesn’t feel like mine.

I never liked going in here when I visited. It just reminded me I didn’t actually live here. That no matter how many times he told me this was my space, I’d still have to leave eventually. And if things were different—if home felt safe—maybe I could’ve stayed. Maybe I’d be here all the time.

I glance around. The soft bed I’ve never slept in. The little desk I’ve never written anything at. Everything is untouched. Perfect.

I walk to the bed and run my fingers across the blanket—light blue with tiny stitched flowers. He knew I’d like it. And somehow, that makes it worse.

I sit on the edge of the bed and glance around.

He got me all the basics—furniture, a desk, even a lamp with a soft yellow shade—but I think he was waiting for me to fill it in with my own stuff. Make it mine.

I never wanted to.

Because if I started adding my things—clothes, drawings, little pieces of me—it would start to feel like mine. And that would’ve made it worse when I had to leave. Like I was losing something real. Something I almost had.

Still, he never pushed. Never asked me to do more than I was ready for. He just made sure it was here. Just in case.

The closet only has a couple things hanging—stuff I left behind after sleepovers. Peeta must’ve washed and hung them up neatly, like they were important. Like they belonged.

The shelves are mostly empty. Just a few books on one of them. Peeta ordered them after the Games, said it’d be nice for me to have something to read that wasn’t the usual Capitol nonsense.

I was excited at first. Until I opened one.

Turns out Capitol books are somehow worse than nothing. They make coal mining textbooks seem thrilling. All frosted covers and perfect girls with perfect hair, worrying over perfect problems.

Capitol books for Capitol girls.

In one, the girl spends the whole summer trying to choose between two boys—and get this—they’re brothers.

I think I got to page twenty before throwing it across the room.

When I told Peeta and Rye about it, Rye just laughed and said if they ever make a movie, he and Peeta can play the brothers. I told him they’d have to fight over who gets to be the dumb one. Peeta said it wouldn’t even be a competition.

They teased each other for ten minutes after that—arguing about who had better hair, who was more charming, who’d get the final scene. I pretended to roll my eyes, but honestly? I could’ve listened to them all day. It was another one of those moments. The kind that made me wish I lived here. Not just slept over sometimes. Lived here. Where we could joke about stupid books and forget the rest. Where no one was yelling downstairs, and I didn’t have to wake up early to knead dough until my arms ached.

Where things were easy. Or at least easier.

But even those moments—they have shadows.

Because this house only exists because Peeta survived something terrible. And the Capitol thinks a shiny house with perfect floors and cinnamon-sweet air makes up for it. Like it balances the scales.

And Rye—he’s only around like this because Peeta almost died. That’s what it took. One brother bleeding out on TV for the other to realize there are more important things than girls and escape plans and pretending not to care. Still. I’m glad he did. Even if I hate what it cost.

I glance back at the little shelf of books, at the empty desk, at the soft blue blanket with the flowers Peeta picked just for me. It’s quiet in here. Too quiet.

And all of a sudden, I feel something else creep in—soft but sharp. Guilt.

Because no matter how much I wish things were different, no matter how many times I imagine what it would’ve been like to live here… I never tried. Not really. I mentioned it once to my mother—that maybe I could stay here, maybe this room could be mine for real—and that ended up being the first time she hit me after the Games ended. After that, I let it go. I don’t know if I was more afraid of getting hit again, or of making her angrier and making my chances worse. But I didn’t bring it up after that. Not to her. Not to Dad.

I figured if I just waited long enough, maybe she’d ease up. Maybe things would go back to how they were, or close enough. But she never did.

And maybe I should’ve tried harder. Maybe if I’d kept asking, or found the right words, or told the right person… maybe something could’ve changed. Maybe Dad would’ve stepped in. Maybe someone would’ve listened.

But I didn’t try.

Peeta did. He made a room for me. He invited me over, let me sleep here whenever I could. And when she stopped letting those things happen—when I stopped coming around—he didn’t take it away. He didn’t pack the room up or turn it into something else. He kept it, like he was waiting. Like he still believed I’d come back.

He’d call me every day. Answer whenever I called. He never made me feel guilty that I couldn’t be there with him. He just… stayed.

And Rye—he kept showing up. Even when I pushed him away. Even when I tried to make it hard. He just kept trying.

They never gave up.

And I did.

Even today—they came up with a stupid excuse. A fake cake order. Just to give me one day that felt normal.

“Hey,” Peeta says from the doorway.

I flinch—just a little—because I didn’t hear him coming. I was too lost in my head. Too wrapped up in everything I didn’t say, everything I didn’t do.

He notices, of course he does, and his voice softens.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I shake my head, brushing it off like I wasn’t just spiralling again. “You didn’t. I was just… thinking.”

Then I look at him fully—and pause.

I tilt my head, brow furrowing slightly. “What are you wearing?”

He glances down at himself, then grins. “You think you’re the only one who gets new pyjamas?”

I blink. The flannel is a soft navy blue. Just like mine. The same buttons, same collar, same everything. We match.

He smirks at the look on my face. I shake my head slowly, but I can’t help the small smile pulling at my lips. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it,”

Peeta steps farther into the room, still grinning. “I bought Rye a pair too.”

I blink. “You did not.”

“Oh, I did,” he says, smug. “Dark green flannel. Very masculine.”

I snort. “He’s never going to put on matching pajamas.”

Peeta shrugs, still grinning. “If anyone can convince him, it’d be you.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Right. Because nothing says Rye Mellark like cozy flannel and family coordination.”

Peeta nudges me gently with his shoulder. “You say that now, but imagine the photo.”

I glance over at him. We’re sitting so close our arms brush. “If we somehow convince him to put them on, you owe me cinnamon buns for the rest of the week.”

Peeta smirks. “Deal.”

We fall into a quiet lull again, our shoulders just barely touching, the bed soft beneath us, and the house calm. It’s stupid, it’s small… but it’s something.

Peeta leans back slightly, resting his weight on his hands behind him, and looks over at me. His eyes flick across my face, searching.

“What’s wrong?”

I curse the fact that he can read me so well. I didn’t even say anything. Didn’t even move, really. Just a flicker of something across my face, and he caught it.

I could deflect. Joke. Say I was just thinking about how ridiculous Rye would look in plaid. But I don’t. There’s no point. He’d see through it in two seconds flat.

So I just tell him the truth.

“I wish every day could be like this,” I say softly. “Just… cinnamon buns and matching pyjamas. Stupid jokes and warm showers.”

I look down at my lap, fingers brushing the hem of my pajama sleeve. “Just this.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything right away. But I feel the bed shift as he leans in closer, his shoulder pressing gently into mine.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

Peeta leans forward just slightly, a glint in his eye.

“Then,” he says, voice warm and low, “we better make this one count.”

Before I can ask what he means, his fingers dart to my sides.

“Peeta—no—!”

But it’s already too late. He’s tickling me mercilessly, and I double over with a squeal, trying to wriggle away, laughing despite myself.

“Stop! You said today was supposed to be light—”

“This is light!” he says, grinning as he keeps going.

I squirm across the bed, gasping for breath between laughs. “Peeta, I swear—”

“Say you love the pyjamas,” Peeta demands, fingers still digging into my side.

“I love the pyjamas!” I gasp through laughter, trying to twist away from him.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Say you’ll let me buy you whatever I want.”

I snort. “No.”

His eyes flash with mock menace. “Wrong answer.”

Before I can protest, he grabs my foot.

“Peeta—don’t you dare—”

He starts tickling, right under the arch—the worst spot. I shriek and thrash, trying to yank my leg away, but he holds tight, grinning like a maniac as I dissolve into uncontrollable laughter.

I kick harder, thrashing under his grip, but he’s unrelenting. “Peeta!” I gasp. “Stop—I hate that spot!”

“I know,” he says, grinning wickedly. “Why do you think I chose it?”

I clutch the blanket with one hand and try to pry his fingers off with the other, still laughing so hard it hurts. “I’m serious! You’re evil—this is actual torture—”

“Just say it,” he says, tickling even harder now. “Say you’ll let me buy you whatever I want and I’ll stop.”

“No!”

“Say it!”

I clamp my mouth shut, shaking my head furiously, even as tears prick at the corners of my eyes from laughing. I know if I say it—even if I don’t mean it—he’ll take it and run with it. He’ll show up next week with six new sweaters and a matching scarf. I can’t give him that kind of power.

But he’s too strong. My legs are flailing, my voice is cracking, and I can’t hold out forever.

“Okay!” I scream. “Fine! Buy me whatever you want—just stop!”

He finally lets go, smug as anything, and I collapse back onto the pillows, panting.

“There’s that smile,” he says, eyes bright, voice soft now.

I glare at him through my breathless grin. “I hate you.”

He just leans back, completely unbothered. “You love me. And you love the pyjamas.”

I don’t answer. But I don’t deny it either.

Peeta stands up off the bed, brushing a few wrinkles from his pyjama shirt. “Alright, let’s go start picking stuff out.”

I’m still catching my breath, flopped back against the pillows with my hair a mess and my dignity somewhere on the floor. “I’m not doing anything with you after that,” I say, glaring at him half-heartedly.

He smirks, completely unfazed. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms in mock seriousness. “Let me have all the power then. I’ll just start ordering whatever I want. Frilly dresses. Shoes with bows. Maybe even a matching hat.”

I sit up slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

He shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

I groan and fall back again, covering my face with my arm. “This is how it ends. Smothered in Capitol bows and fake lace because I let you win one time.”

Peeta laughs, soft and warm. “You let me win? Please. That was survival instinct.”

Eventually, I follow Peeta downstairs, planning my revenge the whole time. Something dramatic. Something embarrassing. Maybe I’ll tell Prim about the time he cried during that Capitol movie with the talking dog.

He’s already at the dining room table when I get there, flipping through one of those shiny Capitol catalogs like he’s on some sort of mission. I groan and sink into the seat next to him.

“Peeta, I don’t need anything.”

“Yes, you do.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then he actually starts making a fair point—annoyingly calm and reasonable, like always.

“It’s getting cold out,” he says without looking up. “And you don’t have warm clothes. You told me last week your coat’s too small now.”

I huff. “It’s not that small.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I look away.

The truth is, he’s not wrong. Being the youngest of four meant I rarely got new clothes. By the time anything made its way to me, it had been patched and frayed and stretched and shrunk into something that barely resembled the original. And in the winter months, most of the time I’d end up wearing something of Peeta’s instead. Oversized sweaters with sleeves past my hands. Pyjama pants that dragged on the floor.

I never minded. He always said I looked cute. And back then, it felt like enough.

But now… now I think maybe I could use some things that are actually mine. Things that fit. Things that aren’t someone else’s leftovers.

And I hate that he’s right.

I sigh and lean my head against his shoulder. “Fine. But if you buy me something with bows I’m never speaking to you again.”

He doesn’t answer, just smirks like he’s already planning it.

Then we start shopping, well he does. It’s always like this with Peeta.

He flips through the catalog with the same focus most people reserve for battle plans, pointing out the most ridiculous things with a completely straight face—like a sweater covered in glittery cupcakes, or boots with actual fur pom-poms dangling off the laces. He holds one up to me, dead serious. “You’d look great in this.”

“Peeta, I’d look like a birthday cake.”

“Exactly,” he says, like that’s a compliment.

I have to physically stop him from picking the loudest, fluffiest, most outrageous outfits on every page. He says it’s fun. I say it’s a Capitol fever dream.

Eventually, I manage to steer him in a more reasonable direction. I convince him to stick to the basics—cotton sweatpants, long-sleeved shirts, simple sweaters in soft colors that won’t make me look like a walking party favor. Wool socks. Even a new jacket, thick and dark green, the kind you could wrap up in and not feel cold for hours.

He still sneaks in a few more nice things—just enough to prove he’s winning. A knit scarf in this soft brass colour that he says matches my hair. A pair of leather boots with a little buckle on the side. A navy cardigan with shiny buttons that I pretend to roll my eyes at but secretly kind of like. A wool dress for the harvest festival, that I already know is going to be unbearably itchy. And a velvet ribbon, of all things. “For your braid,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

And I let him.

Because even though I groan and argue and try to talk him down to plain cotton everything, there’s this small, quiet part of me that likes it. That likes that he thinks I deserve nice things. That he wants me to have them—not because I need them, but because they’d be mine. Just mine.

Not hand-me-downs. Not borrowed sleeves or pants that pool at my ankles. Mine.

I’ll never say that out loud, of course. If I did, he’d turn the spare bedroom into a closet just to prove a point. And honestly… I think he’s already considered it.

Chapter Text

Peeta pulled out a measuring tape.

Not for furniture. Not for curtains. For me.

“I just want to make sure everything fits right,” he said, all innocent-like, like he wasn’t holding a measuring tape like some kind of Capitol tailor and waving it in my face.

That’s when I finally snapped.

“Do you measure all your guests or just the ones you plan on dressing like dolls?”

He just laughed and said, “I’ll do it when you’re asleep, then,” like that was supposed to be less creepy.

Now we’re curled up on the couch. His head is resting against the armrest, mine lying on his chest. One of his hands is resting on my shoulder, the other lazily playing with the end of my braid. The TV’s on, but neither of us is paying attention. Some Capitol drama with too much glitter and not enough plot. The house is quiet except for the hum of the screen and the soft creak of the couch every time one of us shifts. I can feel his heartbeat beneath my cheek, steady and slow.

“I’m serious,” I mumble, voice muffled by flannel. “If you so much as look at that measuring tape again, I’m leaving.”

Peeta’s chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. “I think you’ve threatened to leave five times today.”

“And yet,” I say, lifting my head just enough to look up at him, “I’m still here. Which proves I’m a very patient person.”

“Oh, obviously. You handled the pom-pom boots with such grace.”

“I handled them the only way I could,” I mutter.

He grins, tugging gently on my braid. “You didn’t even let me order the velvet cape.”

“I stand by that decision.”

His smile softens a little, and he leans his head down to look at me. “You’re comfortable now, though, right?”

I pause, then nudge him lightly with my forehead. “Yeah. I’m good, as long as I never have to see corduroy again.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just wraps his arm a little tighter around me and keeps twirling the end of my braid between his fingers. And for now, that’s enough.

I close my eyes for a second, just to soak it in. The warmth of the flannel. The steady rise and fall of Peeta’s chest under my cheek. His fingers still toying gently with the end of my braid. The quiet hum of the TV in the background. No yelling. No dread hanging in the air like smoke. Just this. Just Peeta’s heartbeat under my ear and his arms around my shoulder. And for the first time in a long time, I can actually remember what safe feels like.

I didn’t realize how tired I was until now. Until my body started to melt into his like it remembered what resting felt like. I haven’t been sleeping much. Not well, at least. My mind’s always racing, or my chest’s too tight, or I’m afraid to close my eyes at all.

But right now… right now I could sleep.

I don’t want to. Not really. I don’t want to waste a second of today. Of this. But there’s nothing better than falling asleep knowing nothing bad is waiting for you when you wake up. And besides, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep here tonight. A whole day at Peeta’s is already pushing it. I don’t need to press my luck, so this is my only chance.

I mumble into his shirt, the words barely more than a whisper. “Can you wake me up in half an hour?”

Peeta shifts slightly, looking down. “Am I boring you?”

I shake my head against him, too comfortable to lift it. “No. Just… don’t wanna waste it.”

He doesn’t tease me this time. Doesn’t say anything sarcastic. He just rests his cheek gently against the top of my head and says, soft and sure, “I’ll wake you.”

And I let my eyes drift closed, knowing he will.

When I wake up, everything feels different. The light in the room has shifted—softer now, slanting in gold through the window. The TV is still playing something, quiet and fuzzy in the background, but I can’t focus on it. Not with the way Peeta’s heartbeat is still steady beneath my cheek. Not with how warm it is here, wrapped up in him.

I blink a few times, and then tilt my head up.

He’s already looking down at me, smiling like he’s been doing it the whole time.

“How long did I sleep?” I mumble, voice scratchy with sleep.

He brushes a piece of hair away from my face. “Almost two hours.”

I sit up slightly, frowning. “Peeta.”

He winces, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “Sorry, Tiger. I couldn’t wake you—you looked so cozy, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

I should be annoyed. I told him half an hour. I meant half an hour. I’d planned to make the most of every minute—keep talking, keep joking, keep holding on to the feeling that today was ours. But even if I wanted to be mad… I can’t be. Not right now. Because I feel too safe. Too warm. Too comfortable to hold on to anything sharp. His chest rises and falls steady beneath me, his arms tucked around my shoulders like they never left, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to brace for something.

I just groan softly and flop back down, burrowing into his chest again. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to fight you.”

He chuckles, wrapping his arms a little tighter around me. “I’ll take my chances.”

I let my eyes flutter closed again, just for a second. Just long enough to let him know I’m not really mad. Not even a little.

He brushes a few strands of hair away from my face, his fingers gentle. “What do you want to eat today?”

I don’t even lift my head. “That chicken with the garlic sauce,” I say instantly, voice muffled against his shirt.

He chuckles. “You always ask for that. I’ve got so many new recipes you could try.”

“I know what I like,” I mumble into his chest, already half-asleep again.

His laugh rumbles under my ear, warm and soft. “Stubborn as ever.”

“Wonder where I get it from,” I mutter.

“Must be Rye.”

“Definitely Rye.”

We both smile, and neither of us moves. We stay like that on the couch for a long time. I don’t fall asleep, but we don’t talk either. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s the good kind. The rare kind. The kind that fills a room instead of emptying it.

Peeta’s hand moves slowly across my back, tracing soft shapes through the fabric of my shirt. Circles, maybe. Or stars. Or nothing at all. Just motion for the sake of comfort. I don’t ask what he’s drawing, and he doesn’t say. We just… stay. And for once, there’s nothing I need to say.

Eventually, Peeta shifts just enough to glance down at me. His voice is soft, almost teasing. “Did you fall asleep again?”

I shake my head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He brushes his fingers lightly through the ends of my hair, a smile in his voice. “Well, you slept past lunch,” he says. “Come on. Let’s make an early dinner.”

I groan, but don’t move right away. His hand keeps moving gently against my back, and for a second, I consider pretending to fall asleep just to stay like this a little longer.

He finally sits up, gently shifting me off his chest. “Alright, come on,” he says, giving my shoulder a nudge. “Up.”

I let out a whiny noise like it’s the hardest thing in the world and roll onto my side. “You’re ruining everything.”

Peeta just laughs and stands, offering me a hand. I take it begrudgingly, dragging myself up from the couch like I’ve been through some great tragedy.

I shoot him a dirty look, hoping he feels at least a little guilty. But he just smiles. That stupid, warm, unbothered Peeta smile. “You’ll thank me when you’re eating,” he says, already heading toward the kitchen.

“Doubt it,” I mutter, but I follow him anyway.

I grumble all the way to the kitchen, dragging my feet like it’s a personal betrayal, and flop onto my usual stool with a dramatic huff. Peeta’s already rummaging through the freezer, unfazed by my sulking.

“You know,” he says over his shoulder, “I thought about waking you up when you asked—but then I thought, do I really want to deal with what would happen if I did?”

I don’t answer. Just mumble something unintelligible and slump over the counter.

He chuckles and starts gathering ingredients. “Exactly.”

After a few moments of quiet, he glances over at me again. “How’ve you been sleeping?”

I shrug, resting my chin on my arm. “Okay. It’s… hard without you.” I pause, then add quickly, “Rye lets me sleep in his bed when it gets bad. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

Something flickers across Peeta’s face. Not quite sadness. Not quite surprise. But it’s there—brief and sharp—before he catches it and covers it up with a smile.

“I won’t,” he says lightly.

I sit up a little. “How have you been sleeping?”

His smirk returns, easy and familiar. “You’ve slept in my bed. You know how comfortable it is.”

I study his face for a moment—the easy smile, the light in his eyes—but something feels off. He didn’t actually say he’s been sleeping well, just that his bed is comfortable. I don’t press him for a real answer, though. Sometimes it’s better to let things be, even if you wish they weren’t.

Instead, I just nod and pick at the edge of my sleeve, letting the silence settle between us.

I watch him move around the kitchen, the way he grabs ingredients without needing to think, the way every motion is fluid and practiced. He’s always been like this—ever since I was little, he’s moved through a kitchen like it was built just for him.

“You’re really good at this,” I say.

He glances over, smiling. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” I gesture vaguely. “The way you move around in here. Like you belong.”

He grins. “Well, I was born in a bakery.”

I smile. “Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d be this good at actual cooking. Like, stuff that isn’t bread.”

He shrugs, pulling open the fridge. “I’ve had a lot of free time lately. Makes it easy to get good at stuff.”

“Do you ever get bored?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I always find something to do.”

“Like what?”

He ticks them off casually. “I paint. I cook. I bake bread. Prim comes over sometimes.”

Then his mouth quirks up. “And sometimes I see how many cards I can stack on Haymitch’s forehead when he’s passed out.”

I laugh, the image already vivid in my head. “What’s your record?”

“Seven. But the last one slid off when he snored.”

I smile but then go quiet for a second. Something tugs at me—familiar and kind of sad.

Peeta used to draw for me all the time. Little sketches slipped into bread baskets. Cartoons of me stomping around the bakery with frizzy hair and soot on my face. Sometimes he’d scribble things just to make me smile—like a lopsided bunny in an apron or a quick sketch of one of the pigs. But he hasn’t drawn anything for me in a while. Not since he got home.

I try not to take it personally. He’s been through a lot. Everything’s different now. But still… I miss it. Not the drawings, really. Just the way he used to see me in those little moments and find a way to make them last.

“Do you like painting with the Capitol supplies?” I ask.

His face shifts again—barely, but I catch it. “It’s different,” he says. “I think it was almost more fun to draw when I did it because I wanted to.”

Right. Painting is his victor talent. The Capitol makes you pick one—some kind of hobby to prove you’re living a fulfilling post-Games life. Something to smile about on camera. Something harmless and pretty.

“When are you going to show me something?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

He shrugs. “I’m still getting used to the new paints. They’re not that good.”

“I bet they’re great,” I say, nudging the edge of the counter with my foot.

Peeta smirks, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “One day,” he says softly.

I hope he means it. Not just because I want to see the art—but because I miss that version of him. The one who drew something just to see me laugh.

Peeta sets the garlic on the counter in front of me and points at it like it personally offended him. “You can’t just sit around and look pretty,” he says, completely straight-faced. “You’ve gotta earn your keep.”

I scoff, slouching on my stool. “Excuse you—I peeled potatoes last time.”

“And you whined the entire time,” he says, already turning back to the stove.

“I did not,” I mutter, grabbing a clove and starting to peel it. “I complained. That’s different.”

He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I toss a bit of peel at him. It misses.

We stay like that for a while—me peeling garlic with over-dramatic suffering, Peeta cooking with the kind of focus that only he can make look casual. The kitchen fills with warm, familiar smells, and even though I grumble every time I nick a nail or get garlic under it, I don’t actually mind.

It feels like a game. Like a routine we’ve done a hundred times before.

Peeta narrates what he’s doing like he’s hosting a Capitol cooking show—ridiculous voice included—and I pretend to be his very underpaid assistant.

“At this point, our glamorous sous chef will add the garlic to the pan—assuming she hasn’t tragically died from manual labor,” he says, holding out the skillet.

I roll my eyes and drop the cloves in, ignoring his smirk. “Remind me why I came over again?”

“For the flannel,” he says immediately. “And because you missed me.”

I don’t answer, but I also don’t argue. Because he’s right.

He slides the pan back onto the stove and hums as he stirs, like he always does. I lean my elbow on the counter and watch him move, still pretending I’m annoyed but really just soaking it all in.

“So what exactly am I making, Chef?” I ask, resting my chin on my palm.

He glances at me with a crooked smile. “Roast chicken with garlic sauce, crispy potatoes, and green beans cooked in butter and lemon.”

“And dessert?” I ask.

Peeta gives me a smug look. “That depends. Have you earned it?”

I sit up straighter, mock offended. “I peeled five whole cloves.”

“Oh wow,” he says, drawing the words out. “A whole five? Do you want a medal or a cinnamon bun?”

“I want both.”

He laughs, then spoons something into a small dish and brings it over for me to taste. I dip my finger in without even asking what it is. Sweet, salty, a little tangy—perfect.

“You’re annoying,” I say.

“You love me,” he replies without missing a beat.

I stick my tongue out at him, and he just grins, leaning back against the counter like this is the best part of his day. Honestly, it might be mine too.

For a second, I think about asking something real—about the Capitol, about the nights when the lights in his house stay on too late. About the look that flickered across his face earlier when I brought up painting. But the warmth in the room feels too fragile, too good. Like if I ask, even gently, the moment might crack.

So I let it pass.

Instead, I grab another clove and say, “I better get dessert for this. Like… fancy dessert.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “You’re getting one cinnamon bun.”

“Two.”

“One and a half.”

“I’m telling Prim you said that.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. Two. But only because I fear her wrath.”

“Wise choice.”

He grins again and turns back to the stove, and I let the silence settle for a while—soft and easy, like the smell of garlic and butter filling up the room.

By the time we sit down at the table, the whole house smells like garlic and rosemary and slow-roasted comfort. The kind of smell that wraps around your ribs and makes your shoulders drop without even realizing it.

Peeta sets a plate in front of me—perfectly carved chicken with crisp golden skin, potatoes that look like they came out of a cookbook, and green beans glistening in butter and lemon. He sets down a smaller plate beside it, already stacked with warm rolls.

The meal is quiet in the best kind of way. No rushing, no yelling, no scraping plates or slamming drawers. Just the soft clink of silverware, the quiet hum of whatever show Peeta left playing in the background, and the occasional sound of me stealing another roll from the basket like he won’t notice.

We talk in little pieces—mostly about nothing. I tell him about a little boy from town who came into the bakery last week and thought Rye was him and asked him to sigh a napkin. Rye did it anyway. He tells me about some woman in the market who tried to undercharge him because he was a victor and she said she “respected him too much.”

At one point I catch myself smiling into my glass of water, and it hits me—I can’t remember the last time I actually enjoyed a meal like this. Not just because the food’s good—which it is, stupidly so—but because I’m not bracing for something. Not waiting for the air to shift. Not rushing to clean up so no one gets mad. There’s no edge to this. Just warm food. Safe company. And space to breathe.

“Okay,” Peeta says as I reach for another roll, “that’s your third. You’re cut off.”

I freeze mid-reach. “You made extras.”

“For leftovers.”

“This is a leftover,” I argue, holding up the roll like it proves something.

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not how that works.”

I take a dramatic bite. “Tastes like a leftover to me.”

Peeta sighs like I’m the most exhausting person in the world, but he’s smiling.

The door creaks open, and I glance over just as Rye walks in like he owns the place—boots scuffed, sleeves rolled up, and a crooked smirk already forming.

He takes one look at the table and lifts an eyebrow. “Smells like someone’s been showing off.”

I grin. “He made me peel the garlic.”

Rye lets out a fake gasp. “Manual labor? Unbelievable.”

He strolls over, plucks a roll from the basket like it’s his divine right, and flops into the chair next to me. “You make me anything?” he asks Peeta, mouth already full.

“Nope,” Peeta says, not looking at him.

I glance toward him, surprised at the sharpness in his voice. His jaw’s tight. Eyes fixed. Not on the table. Not on Rye.

On me. Or more specifically, the fading bruise along my cheekbone. The one I forgot to cover up.

Peeta’s voice cuts through the air, low and cold. “So when were you gonna tell me?”

Rye pauses mid-chew, confused. “Tell you what?”

Peeta doesn’t blink. “About her face.”

Rye turns to me, and when he sees what Peeta means, his eyebrows lift slightly—then he leans back in his chair, like the weight of it finally registers. “Ah. Forgot to cover it up?”

Peeta’s expression hardens. “So you knew,” he says. “You knew she was hiding it, and you didn’t say anything to me?”

Rye’s smile fades. “I didn’t think I had to,” he says, not meeting Peeta’s eyes. “She didn’t want you to know.”

“And you just went along with that?”

There’s a tension in Peeta’s voice now that wasn’t there before—tight, sharp around the edges. The kind that means he’s not yelling, but he could be.

I sit frozen between them, the garlic chicken and soft rolls cooling on the table. The warmth from earlier has been drained out of the room in seconds, replaced with something brittle and ready to snap.

Peeta doesn’t look away from Rye. His voice stays low, but there’s heat underneath it now, simmering close to a boil.

“We had a deal,” he says. “If I couldn’t be there, you’d step in. You’d look out for her.”

Rye stiffens. “I did.”

“Not enough.”

That’s when I cut in, sharp and clear. “Peeta, stop.”

He turns to me, startled—but I hold my ground.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.”

His eyes narrow, already shaking his head. “I already told you—none of this is ever your fault.”

“Well it’s not Rye’s either,” I snap back. “So if you’re gonna yell at someone, yell at me.”

I know he won’t. He never has, never will. And when I see the way his mouth opens—then closes—like he wants to fight back but can’t, I smirk.

“You said today was supposed to be light,” I remind him. “So go get Rye some food. And do it with a smile on your face.”

Peeta scowls. “I said it would be light for you, not him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, we’re kind of a package deal now.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then, finally, Peeta sighs—dramatic and long-suffering—but turns toward the kitchen anyway.

“You’re lucky I love her,” he mutters to Rye as he passes.

Rye just leans back in his chair with a grin. “Trust me. I know.”

Peeta disappears into the kitchen, still muttering under his breath. The second he’s out of sight, Rye leans over slightly and drops his voice. “So… package deal, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He grins anyway, then nudges my foot under the table. “You okay?”

I nod, even though I don’t answer right away. Then I sigh and say, “This is why I didn’t tell you guys.”

He tilts his head. “Tell us what?”

I glance down at my plate, pushing at the edge of a roll with my fork. “About the bruise. About her. I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

Rye’s quiet for a beat. “Kinda the point of telling us, isn’t it?”

“I know,” I murmur. “I just… I didn’t want to mess this up. Today.”

He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You didn’t mess anything up. She did.”

I don’t answer that. I just keep my eyes on the plate, letting the quiet settle again. And even though I don’t look up, I feel it—that small, familiar flicker of something warm in Rye’s silence. Not disappointment. Not pressure. Just… him being there. The way he’s been trying to be. Even when I didn’t ask.

Peeta returns a minute later, still scowling as he walks in with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other.

I glance up at him pointedly. “Smile.”

He rolls his eyes—but then, with all the grace of someone being tortured, he forces the most painfully fake grin I’ve ever seen.

Rye snorts. “That’s terrifying.”

Peeta sets the plate down in front of him a little harder than necessary. “Enjoy.”

Rye leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised as he picks up his fork. “Wow. My own personal chef and a bodyguard? What’d I do to deserve this?”

“You were born,” Peeta mutters.

I snort into my cup. “Play nice,” I warn, though I’m already smiling.

Peeta plops back into his seat beside me, grumbling under his breath—but the corner of his mouth twitches. Just enough to let me know the storm has passed… for now.

Rye takes his first bite, chews once, then glances up with raised eyebrows. “What are you two wearing?”

I glance down at my navy flannel sleeves and smirk. “Matching pajamas.”

Peeta doesn’t even flinch—just keeps eating like this is perfectly normal.

I grin wider. “We bought you a pair too.”

Rye stares at us, roll still halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking.”

“They’re green,” I say sweetly. “Very masculine.”

Peeta finally chimes in, deadpan. “Cozy too.”

Rye groans, dropping his head into his hand. “I leave you two alone for one day and this is what happens?”

“You should be thanking us,” I say, nudging Peeta under the table. “Now you get to be part of the family portrait.”

Peeta smiles into his plate. “If we can get him into the flannel, that is.”

Rye points a fork at both of us. “You’ll have to sedate me first.”

Peeta doesn’t miss a beat. “Already had to do that with her earlier. Practically wrestled her into picking out new clothes.”

Rye snorts. “You’re kidding.”

Peeta shakes his head. “Full-on dragged her to the catalog like I was hauling her up a mountain. I think she growled at me.”

I mutter into my plate, “Because you were being dramatic.”

“I measured her,” Peeta says proudly. “With an actual tape. I take my job seriously.”

“Tried to,” I correct. “I almost bit his hand when he pulled that thing out.”

Rye points his fork at me with a smirk. “Well, now you’ll finally look like a girl.”

I gasp, offended. “I look like a girl.”

Peeta smirks without missing a beat. “Oh yeah, totally. Every little girl walks around in her older brothers’ clothes like she’s about to chop wood.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re both terrible.”

Peeta leans back. “It’s like living with a very tiny thief.”

“Who smells like vanilla,” Rye adds.

“I hate you both.”

Peeta leans back in his chair, still grinning. “Good thing you look extra cute when you’re mad.”

I throw a piece of roll at him. He catches it one-handed.

“Proving my point,” he says smugly.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt. The kind of teasing that makes you feel like you belong.

Dinner stays like that—light, easy. Somehow, the tension from earlier disappears entirely, replaced by a new problem, Peeta and Rye have decided they’re on the same team now. And apparently, I’m the enemy. It starts with the laundry thing—how I always wear their old clothes, how I’ve basically turned into a walking donation bin for Mellark hand-me-downs. But then it spirals. Suddenly everything’s fair game. My eating habits, the way I stack the dishes, how I never put lids back on all the way. They take turns with the jabs, trading off like they’ve rehearsed it.

I try to defend myself. I really do. But it’s pointless. They’re relentless, feeding off each other’s jokes and getting more dramatic by the second. I pretend to be outraged, but the truth is, I can’t stop smiling.

Eventually, Peeta slips into a story—some ridiculous thing I did when I was younger that, according to him, proves I’ve been a menace since birth. He’s got Rye cracking up halfway through, adding his own commentary even though he wasn’t there for half of it.

I roll my eyes. “Alright then,” I say, loud enough to prove a point. “If I’m such a burden, I’ll leave you two alone.”

I push back from my chair, dramatic as anything, and head into the living room like I’m making a grand exit, hoping they’ll feel bad.

They don’t miss a beat.

Before I even hit the couch, I can hear them carrying on behind me, pretending to cry about how tragic it is to lose me, saying they’ll finally have some peace and quiet. Peeta calls out something about enjoying the silence while it lasts. Rye says something worse.

I flop onto the couch, grab a pillow, and launch it over my shoulder in their general direction. It hits something with a dull thump, and I don’t even care who.

They laugh harder.

I try to look annoyed, but my face betrays me, because all I can really do is smile. Maybe I am a burden—but at least I’m their burden.

The sounds of clinking plates and half-muffled laughter drift in from the kitchen. They’re clearing the table—loudly, on purpose—making sure every comment carries into the living room.

“Oh no,” Peeta says, mock-dismayed. “How will we ever finish without Briella here to grumble through the whole thing?”

“I don’t think I remember how to wipe a table without her sighing in my ear,” Rye adds. “We might be stuck like this forever.”

I cross my arms and sink deeper into the couch, fixing my face into the most unimpressed scowl I can muster. Not too dramatic—just enough menace to make them think twice when they come back in.

Or at least try to.

Honestly, I’m still smiling behind it. But they don’t need to know that yet.

They walk into the living room a minute later, both holding plates—each with a warm cinnamon bun, icing melting down the sides like they just came out of the oven.

Rye takes one look at my face and gasps. “Oh no. She’s still mad.”

Peeta smirks. “That’s too bad. Cinnamon buns are only for people who smile.”

I don’t look at either of them. I just cross my arms tighter and keep my gaze locked on the far wall like I’m too busy being offended to acknowledge their existence.

Rye lowers himself onto the armrest beside me and leans forward, casual as anything. He dips a finger into the icing on his cinnamon bun and taps it gently onto the tip of my nose—just like he always does. Like nothing ever changes. I still don’t look at him.

They’re still relentless.

Rye starts making exaggerated sad faces at me, clutching his cinnamon bun like it’s a delicate peace offering. Peeta starts humming some dramatic Capitol soap opera theme under his breath and dramatically wipes an imaginary tear from his cheek.

None of it works. I stay stone-faced, arms still crossed, nose still sticky.

Then Peeta straightens a little and goes, “You know what worked earlier?”

Rye lifts a brow. “Oh yeah?”

I don’t even need to hear the rest—I already know. I snap my eyes to Peeta just in time to catch the evil little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” I say quickly, already pushing myself off the couch.

But I’m too slow.

Rye lunges before I can get two steps, grabs me around the waist, and tosses me right back onto the cushions with absolutely no remorse.

I screech and try to wriggle away, but it’s useless.

They’re both grinning now. And I know exactly what’s coming.

Peeta dives for my ribs, and Rye’s already going for my sides—traitor.

“Don’t you dare—!” I yell, thrashing as much as I can. But I’m trapped between the two of them, flailing uselessly while they launch a full-on attack.

Peeta’s got this gleam in his eye like he’s been waiting for the perfect excuse. “You brought this on yourself,” he says, grinning as he digs into the worst spot just under my ribs.

“Traitors! Both of you!” I manage to gasp, laughing so hard it hurts. “I hate you!”

Rye snorts. “Hate us all you want. Still not smiling though.”

“I am smiling! I’m screaming and smiling—what more do you want?”

Peeta just smirks. “A full surrender.”

“Never!”

They keep going—merciless, annoying, obnoxious older brothers in the worst way. And even though I kick and shout and swear revenge, I’m laughing the whole time. Really laughing. The kind that fills your chest and squeezes behind your eyes and makes you forget why you were pretending to be mad in the first place.

Eventually, Peeta pulls back, breathless, brushing the hair out of my face. Rye flops back like he’s just won some long-planned war.

And I can’t even argue.

Because they’re grinning, I’m out of breath, and there’s cinnamon bun icing on my nose—and even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to wipe the smile off my face.

“I’m getting you back for that,” I say, still breathless, glaring at both of them through the mess of my hair.

Peeta just grins, totally unfazed. “It’s two against one, Tiger.”

Rye nods solemnly like this is some official decree. “Unfair odds. Better give up now.”

I narrow my eyes. “Never.”

They smirk at each other like they’ve already won.

And maybe they have. But I’m still plotting.

They both sink back onto the couch, breathless and triumphant, all three of us squished together in a heap of tangled limbs and uneven laughter.

Peeta hands me my cinnamon bun like it’s a peace offering, and I take it with a glare that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I take the first bite slowly, letting the sweetness melt away what little tension’s left from earlier. Warm sugar, soft dough, and just enough cinnamon—it’s perfect, as always.

I glance over at Rye.

Then at Peeta.

That smug look is still plastered across both their faces—like they’ve won some unspoken game. They’re too proud of themselves. Too comfortable. Too confident.

I look down at my cinnamon bun. Still soft in my hands. Still warm. And I make a decision I’m probably going to regret very, very fast.

I lift it slowly, carefully. And then I smash it right into Rye’s face.

I’m off the couch before Rye can even fully react, scrambling up with a smug laugh as frosting slides down his cheek and into his eyelashes.

But I don’t leave without making it count.

As I dart past Peeta, I swipe the leftover icing from my fingers right onto his face—smearing it across his cheek with the most obnoxious grin I can manage. He blinks, real slow. Then he looks at Rye—still stunned, bun mashed against his face.

Then back at me. And suddenly, I know I’m in trouble.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Peeta says.

There’s a beat of silence—then they both launch toward me.

I yelp and take off down the hall, socks sliding on the polished floor as I sprint toward the stairs. “Don’t you dare!” I shout over my shoulder, half laughing, half panicked.

“You started this!” Peeta calls after me.

“You both deserved it!” I shriek, dodging around the banister just as Rye recovers and barrels after us. I’m breathless from laughing already, still trying to run—but it’s no use. Rye catches me from behind and lifts me straight off the ground like I weigh nothing.

“No! Let go!” I kick and squirm, but I’m laughing so hard I can’t even put up a real fight.

He just laughs. “You really thought you’d win that one?”

“I had a plan!” I argue, breathless.

“Your plan sucked,” he says, turning back down the stairs with me dangling in his arms like a sack of flour.

Rye hauls me back to the living room like he’s the victor now, not Peeta. I’m still squirming, protesting half-heartedly, but he doesn’t let up. Peeta’s waiting when we get back, arms folded. I try to hide my grin as Rye dumps me onto the couch. I land in a mess of blankets and hair and indignity. Before I can sit up, Rye’s already pointing a finger in my face. “Don’t try anything again,” he warns, dead serious. “We’re stronger than you.”

I raise an eyebrow, brushing hair from my face and shooting him a smirk. “I’m smarter.”

They both gasp like I just declared war.

“Ohhh no,” Peeta says. “She’s using her brain. Code red.”

Rye turns to him. “We’ve gotta shut it down before she gets clever.”

Then he looks back at me. “I’ll pin her down,” he says. “You get the cinnamon bun.”

“Don’t you dare!” I try to scramble upright, but Rye’s already got me again—arms pinned, no escape.

“I’m never coming here again,” I grumble, struggling against him.

Peeta walks over with maddening calm, grabbing a cinnamon bun from the table and turning back toward me, still smirking. “Say we’re smarter than you.”

I glare up at both of them. “No!”

They both lean in a little closer, like they’ve already won. “Say it,” Rye echoes, pressing down just enough to make it impossible to move.

“Okay fine,” I huff. “You’re smarter than me.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. Rye doesn’t move.

“And…” Peeta says, holding the cinnamon bun threateningly close, “we’re the best big brothers ever.”

I groan like it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever said. “Yes. You’re the best big brothers ever.” I try to sound annoyed. Really, I do. But it’s the truth. And somehow, it still comes out soft.

They both let out this exaggerated “Awwww” at the same time, like I’d just recited a poem or something.

“Briella,” Rye says, grinning down at me, “when did you become such a softie?”

I glare and try to squirm out from under his grip again. “Don’t push it.”

Rye looks up at Peeta, who’s still holding the cinnamon bun like it’s some sacred weapon. “Should we let her go?”

Peeta hums thoughtfully, way too seriously for the situation. “Hmm. I don’t know…”

He studies me, eyes narrowed like he’s weighing the fate of the world instead of deciding whether or not to attack me with desert.

“Still feels risky.”

“I promise I won’t do anything,” I say quickly, trying to sound sweet and innocent. It’s mostly ruined by the fact that I’m still squirming under Rye’s arm.

They both exchange a look.

“She’s dangerous,” Rye says gravely, tightening his hold like I might suddenly morph into a wild animal.

Peeta nods. “This might just be a ploy to get us to let our guard down.”

“She’ll distract us with how cute she is,” Rye adds, deadly serious, “and then—bam—she pounces.”

Peeta clicks his tongue, eyeing me suspiciously. “It’s a classic Briella tactic. Disarm with charm, then strike.”

“Get off,” I grumble, twisting under Rye’s grip.

He just grins. “She’s so cute when she’s mad.”

“This isn’t fair,” I say, trying my hardest to squirm free, but his arm is locked tight around my shoulders and I’m going nowhere.

Peeta leans casually against the armrest. “You think the arena was fair,” he says with a smirk.

“I hate both of you,” I mutter.

Rye just laughs. “She’s getting flustered. That means we’re winning.”

I glare up, letting out a frustrated breath. “I’m serious, Rye. Get off me.”

He raises an eyebrow, grinning like he thinks I’m bluffing. “Or what?”

I hesitate, glaring up at him. “I don’t know… but I’ll figure it out.”

Peeta chuckles from the other end of the couch. “Looks like she didn’t get the wrestling gene.”

I twist again under Rye’s grip, scowling. “Maybe if he didn’t weigh three hundred pounds, I’d stand a better chance.”

“Oh, now I’m never letting go,” Rye says, tightening his grip just enough to make a point.

I stop struggling for a second and look at Peeta. He’s still lounging at the edge of the couch, cinnamon bun in hand, clearly enjoying the show. I raise my eyebrows at him, tilt my head just slightly. My best pleading face. The one he’s never been able to resist—not when we were kids, and definitely not now.

“Peeta,” I say, soft but pointed.

His smirk falters. Just a little.

“Please,” I press, “you know this isn’t fair.”

There’s a long pause. Then he sighs dramatically. “Rye,” he says, dragging out the name like it’s a real chore, “get off her.”

Rye groans but lets go, flopping backward with the same energy he probably uses to fall into bed at night. I stay sprawled on the couch with my arms crossed, still trying to look at least a little annoyed.

Peeta gets up and heads to the kitchen. “I’ll get a rag before someone smears more icing in my face,” he mutters, but I can hear the smile behind it.

I don’t say anything. I keep my arms crossed, my eyes fixed stubbornly on the ceiling.

Rye watches me with a smug little grin. “You really can get him to do anything, huh?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You looked at him for five seconds and he told me to get off you. Meanwhile, I’ve been asking him to make those cinnamon buns for months.”

I smirk, trying not to look too pleased. “Well… maybe I’m just more persuasive.”

Rye scoffs. “Yeah, with your sad little eyes and your ‘Peeta, help me’ voice.” He says mocking me.

I shrug, trying not to smile. “Maybe you should’ve been nicer to me.”

Rye lets out a fake gasp. “I was adorable. You’re the one who started a frosting war.”

“You started it earlier!” I shoot back. “You and your you’ll look like a girl comment.”

He grins, smug. “Well… did I lie?”

Before I can come up with a comeback, Peeta walks back in from the kitchen, wiping the last bit of icing off his face with a damp rag. He eyes the two of us with amusement, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation.

He doesn’t say anything right away—just walks over and gently lifts my head off the cushion. Then he sinks down into the spot beside Rye and lowers my head back into his lap, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He hands the rag over to Rye. “Here. Get your face cleaned up before the sugar sets.”

Rye takes it and rubs at his face with a dramatic grunt. “I swear this stuff could be used for glue.”

Then his eyes land on me again, and he brightens like he’s just found a new target. “Oh look,” he says, voice dripping with mischief. “You’ve still got some on your nose.”

“Don’t you—” I start, but it’s already too late. He leans in and swipes the rag across my face with way too much force, like he’s scrubbing a stain out of the floor.

I flinch back with a squeal. “Rye! You’re wiping my whole face off!”

“Good,” he says, deadpan. “Maybe you’ll be easier to look at.”

I try to sit up, glaring and ready to retaliate, but Peeta’s arm comes down gently over my shoulder, holding me in place with that calm big-brother authority.

“Alright,” he says firmly, shooting Rye a look. “Enough. Leave her alone.”

Rye throws his hands up in mock surrender. “What about her? She started it.”

“She’s also eleven,” Peeta says dryly.

That makes me grin. I glance at Rye, smug, and stick my tongue out at him. Rye rolls his eyes, then grabs my ankles without warning.

“Hey—!” I start, but he’s already tugging my legs across the cushions and propping them on his lap.

“There,” he says, dusting his hands off like he just did something noble. “Now you can stretch out like the royal pain you are.”

I settle back slowly, arms crossed, pretending to be annoyed even though the couch suddenly feels ten times more comfortable.

Peeta shifts a little so I can rest more fully in his lap, his hand absentmindedly smoothing my hair back from my face.

“Much better,” he murmurs.

And it is.

Despite the icing war, the chaos, and the mock betrayals, I feel completely at peace. Stretched out between the two of them like this—my head in Peeta’s lap, my feet in Rye’s—exactly where I belong.

Peeta grabs the remote and starts flipping through channels like he’s on a mission, but I don’t pay attention to anything on the screen. It’s all just background noise.

What I do focus on is the way Peeta’s hand rubs slowly up and down my arm—steady, gentle, like he’s tracing invisible lines just to remind me he’s there. And the way Rye keeps tugging lightly at my toes, just enough to make me squirm and kick at him without much force.

They talk about people I don’t really know—older kids they went to school with, people I’ve only ever seen in passing—but I don’t speak up or ask questions. I just lie there and listen. Let the sound of their voices settle into my chest like warmth from a fire. Let myself believe, even just for now, that nothing outside this room matters.

After a while, Rye gives my ankle a quick squeeze, then gently lifts my legs off his lap and stands. I sit up just enough to squint at him.

“Where you going?”

He smirks, brushing some lint off his shirt like he’s trying to look cooler than he is. “I have a friend to see.”

I narrow my eyes. “I know her name, Rye.”

Peeta glances over, already looking unimpressed. “Be careful,” he says flatly. “I don’t want to be an uncle yet.”

Rye gasps, mock-offended, and puts a hand to his chest. “You underestimate my skill. I’m very good at what I do.”

I groan and let my head flop dramatically back into Peeta’s lap. “This is why I never ask questions.”

Peeta chuckles under his breath, then gently lifts my head from his lap. “I’ll walk you out,” he says, standing.

Rye starts toward the door, tossing one last comment over his shoulder. “Bye, crazy. I’ll come get you later.”

I wave a hand in his direction, keeping my face neutral. I don’t let the disappointment show—not even a flicker. But it’s there. That quiet ache in my chest. I almost forgot I have to leave eventually too.

They walk to the front door together, voices low. I can’t hear what Peeta says, but I see the way Rye’s expression shifts slightly before he nods then heads out. A moment later, Peeta comes back in.

I sit up a little, making space without being asked.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just settles on the edge of the couch and rolls up the leg of his pajama pants. I watch, not sure what he’s doing—until I realize. He’s taking off his artificial leg.

“Just getting comfortable,” he says with a small smile.

I nod, quiet. At this point, Ive kind of forgotten he even has it. He moves so naturally with it now—slower, a little more careful maybe—but steady. And my brain just… adjusted. It’s part of him. Just like the way he always leans toward the stove when he’s talking, or how he tilts his head when he’s about to tease me. It’s just him.

Peeta grabs one of the throw pillows and drops it behind him, then sinks down onto the couch, settling back like he did earlier—head resting against the armrest, legs stretched out in front of him. I don’t hesitate. I crawl over and lie right on top of him, my head finding its familiar place on his chest. He wraps his arms around my shoulders automatically, like it’s instinct.

“I should probably fix your hair,” he says, voice low and warm. “I think it got messed up during our icing war.”

I smile against his shirt and nuzzle in closer. “Only if you can do it without me having to get up.”

“That’s fair,” he says, pulling me a little closer. “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he adds. Then, after a pause. “If I let you out of my sight, who knows what’ll happen.”

I swat at his chest without lifting my head.

He chuckles, and I feel the vibration of it beneath my cheek. His hand drifts lazily through my hair, combing through the strands like he’s already forgotten whatever joke he just made. Like holding me here is all he wants to focus on now.

He flips through the channels slowly, one arm still around me, until he pauses on something with a dramatic swell of music and a woman in a glittery purple wig fainting into the arms of a man wearing three collars.

“Look,” he says, voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “It’s your favourite show.”

I groan. “Peeta—”

“No, no, you love this one. Remember? You said it had ‘layers.’ Very artistic.”

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” I mumble into his shirt.

He smirks. “And yet here you are, asking what you’ve missed.”

I lift my head just a little. “Fine. What did I miss?”

Peeta launches into the world’s most confusing summary, completely deadpan. “Okay, so. Genevieve is in a coma—again—but this time it’s because her third husband’s evil twin poisoned her on accident, thinking she was his cousin-slash-lawyer.”

I blink. “What.”

“Oh, and Jaxton—he’s the one with the mole and the dramatic coat—he’s back from the dead, but only on Wednesdays. It’s a spell thing.”

“Of course it is.”

“And Rebeca found out she’s actually her own grandmother, which was a huge reveal last week. There were fireworks.”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “This is the dumbest show on television.”

Peeta grins. “You love it.”

“I asked one question,” I say, poking his side.

“Because you were so obsessed.”

He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable under me, his voice still warm and teasing as the characters on screen begin shouting in dramatic slow motion. I rest my head back on his chest and close my eyes, letting his voice carry me through the chaos of the soap opera world. Even if I don’t care about the plot, I could listen to Peeta explain it forever.

We keep watching. Peeta fills in the blanks between scenes with quiet commentary—who’s betrayed who, who’s come back from the dead, whose clone is currently in love with their cousin’s fiancé. I don’t ask how he knows all this. I just listen.

Eventually, his voice starts to fade. He stops chiming in. I keep watching, trying to follow the chaos unraveling on screen, but the plot keeps shifting and new characters keep showing up like they’ve been here all along. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m intrigued.

“Who’s that one with the green hair?” I murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

I shift slightly, try to look up, but his arms are wrapped around me so tight I can’t move. Not in a way that feels restrictive—just steady. I don’t even bother trying harder. His grip doesn’t make me feel trapped. It makes me feel safe. Like nothing bad can happen as long as I’m here. I listen for a second, and I hear it—his breathing. Slow. Even.

He’s asleep.

It takes a moment to register. He never falls asleep before me. He always waits, like he’s making sure I’m okay before he lets himself rest. Like part of him doesn’t believe the day’s really over until I’m out cold beside him.

He must be really tired.

I let myself melt into his arms a little more, the tension in my shoulders easing with the rise and fall of his chest beneath me. He let himself sleep.

And I don’t know why, but that makes me feel lighter.

He never says it—but I don’t think he likes being alone in this house. Not really. It’s too quiet, too big. I can’t imagine what it’s like to sleep alone with so much space. I wouldn’t like it either.

So I don’t move. I just stay where I am, letting the ridiculous Capitol show buzz quietly in the background. Letting Peeta sleep. Letting myself rest.

Eventually, my eyes start to grow heavy. Between the warmth of Peeta’s arms around me and the steady rhythm of his breathing under my ear, it’s like my body finally gives in. Every part of me softens. Slows.

I try to resist. I know I shouldn’t fall asleep.

If I do, I’ll sleep through the whole night. And I don’t need to give my mother a reason to be angry—another reason to ruin this little peace I’ve found. Something this quiet, this gentle, doesn’t come often. And I don’t want to be the one who messes it up.

But then I remember.

Rye said he’s coming to get me later. He’ll come in, say something sarcastic, jostle my shoulder, pull me back into the noise of real life. He won’t let me stay too long. He’ll make sure I get home. That I’m not caught here in the morning like something left behind.

He’ll come. And everything will be fine.

With that thought tucked safely in the back of my mind, I let my eyes flutter closed.

Chapter Text

The knock pulls me halfway out of sleep.

I don’t move at first. Just bury my face deeper into the pillow, thinking it’s Rye finally coming to drag me home. I’m still warm, still wrapped in blankets, still tucked into the quiet weight of night like I never left it.

But something’s… off.

I blink slowly, and it hits me—I’m not sleeping on Peeta anymore. The rise and fall of his chest is gone. So is the steady sound of his breathing. I lift my head just slightly, squinting as my eyes adjust to the soft gray light bleeding through the windows. It’s not fully morning yet.

But it’s not night either.

I’ve slept too long.

I sit up slowly, heart already climbing, and glance toward the kitchen. There’s movement—Peeta. He’s up, walking toward the front door, shoulders squared like he already knows who’s on the other side.

Another knock. This one softer. More deliberate.

When he opens it, I don’t even have time to sit up properly before I see her—my mother, standing in the doorway. I freeze. Then sink slowly back into the couch cushions like maybe, if I don’t breathe too loud, she won’t see me.

“Morning, Mom,” Peeta says casually, like this is normal. Like she’s just here to borrow flour.

Her eyes don’t even flick toward him “Where is she?”

“She’s still sleeping,” Peeta says.

There’s a long pause. The kind that makes your stomach twist.

“And why is she sleeping here,” my mother says tightly, “and not at her own home?”

Peeta sighs. Not loud. Just enough. “Because I fell asleep first,” he says. “And forgot to wake her up.”

It hits me like a slap. Because it’s not true.

I saw that he fell asleep. I should’ve woken him up. I shouldn’t have let myself drift off too. I shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable. I know better.

But Rye was supposed to wake us. That’s what he said. I’ll come get you later. I feel anger spike in my chest—sharp and fast—just as my mother’s voice cuts through the air again, colder this time. “And where was Rye?” she asks. “I thought he ran off with you two as well.”

She says it like it’s a crime. Like the thought of us being together is disgusting.

Peeta doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. Not hesitant—just… tired. “He left,” Peeta says. “And I told him not to come back.”

There’s a beat. Then flatly, “why not?”

Another sigh. I can picture Peeta pressing a hand to the back of his neck. The way he does when he’s trying not to say too much.

“I just…” He stops. Tries again.

“This house gets really quiet at night. Too quiet.”

Another pause. He clears his throat.

“Some nights, it’s fine. I light the fire, I read, I wait until I’m too tired to notice. But other nights…” He trails off, then finishes with a shrug I can practically hear. “Other nights it feels like the walls are pressing in. Like I’m the only one left in here.”

My chest twists.

Peeta takes a breath, steadier this time. “I just wanted one night where I didn’t have to be alone. Where I didn’t have to think about everything. Where I could fall asleep without trying so hard.”

He exhales slowly. “That’s all.”

From behind the couch, I don’t move. I stay curled up tight, like if I breathe too loud it’ll break something.

At first, I thought he was just worn out—from chasing me around with icing, wrestling me into those new pajamas, cooking half the afternoon. We’d spent the whole day inside, but it still felt full. Loud in the best way.

I figured that’s why he fell asleep first. But now… now I know why he actually did.

Because I was right. He hasn’t been sleeping. Not really.

I didn’t want to believe it before—didn’t want to think that the Peeta who always has a steady hand, who makes jokes just to pull me back from the edge, might be unraveling a little too. But he is. He has been.

And last night? That wasn’t just him being tired. That was the first time he let himself rest. Because I was here. Because someone was here.

The thought creeps in slowly, then all at once—It’s been just as hard for him as it’s been for me. He’s been trying to hold everything together. To protect me. To keep smiling. But inside, he’s been sinking too.

And I didn’t see it.

I just wanted to be with him because it made me feel safe.

But he needed it just as much. Maybe even more. The guilt comes in low and sharp, curling in the pit of my stomach. Because I know what it’s like—to lie awake staring at the ceiling, wishing someone would just sit beside you and stay until the night finally ends. I know how it feels to not be able to sleep because the silence is too loud and the dark feels like it’s pressing down on your chest.

And I still left him here. Alone.

Not because I wanted to. Not because he did. Because she said no. Because she didn’t want me to go. And I listened.

So he stayed here—night after night—with no one to turn the lights off but himself. No one to sit beside him and say, it’s okay, you can rest now.

Until last night. And it shouldn’t have taken breaking the rules for that to happen.

There’s a pause, just long enough that—for one fragile second—I think maybe she heard him. Really heard him. But then her voice cuts through the silence, sharp and flat. “So she gets to break the rules and miss work because you wanted a sleepover?”

Just like that, it’s gone. Everything Peeta just said—his voice, the truth behind it, the way he finally let something real slip through—it’s all ignored. Flattened under her bitterness like it never mattered at all.

And even though I’m still hidden behind the couch, the shame burns hot in my chest.

Because of course that’s all she heard. Not the part where he said he was lonely. Not the part where he said he just wanted one night to feel okay. Not the part where it finally sounded like he was hurting too. Just the part she could use against us. Just the part that makes me the problem again.

Peeta doesn’t flinch.

“She didn’t break any rules,” he says firmly. “There shouldn’t be rules. She’s allowed to spend time with her brother.”

His voice stays calm, but I can hear the edge beneath it now—tight, brittle. Like he’s doing everything he can not to raise it.

“And she’s not missing work,” he adds. “I was about to wake her up and take her to the bakery. We were going to start on that cake.”

There’s a pause, then my mother scoffs.

“Oh, the fake cake?”

Her voice is full of disdain, light and cutting. Like she’s not even pretending to hide it anymore.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she snaps. “I read the order forms, Peeta. I know that was another lie to get her to come here.”

Peeta sighs, quiet but steady. “Okay. I’m sorry about lying,” he says. “But I don’t regret it.”

He pauses for just a beat before adding, “You can keep the money. And now you don’t have to waste ingredients.”

“I’m not taking your handouts,” she snaps.

“They’re not handouts, Mom,” he says, more tired than angry. “I’m your son. I’m allowed to give you money.”

“Oh, so that can be another thing you hold over my head?” Her voice sharpens, already bitter.

Peeta blinks, then shakes his head, disbelieving. “I’ve never held anything over your head.”

His voice softens, a dry smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Think about it as repayment. For all the times I gave you a headache.”

She scoffs. “You’ll need to win about ten more Hunger Games to make up for that.”

Peeta meets her gaze steadily, unfazed. “Then I guess I’d better start training.”

She pushes past him, her voice sharp and tired. “I’m done with your nonsense. Go get her.”

Peeta steps in front of the doorway, blocking her path. “Not until you calm down. I’m not going to let you yell at her.”

Her eyes flash with anger. “I’m sick and tired of you coddling her. That’s exactly why she walks around like she can do whatever she wants.”

Peeta’s gaze hardens, but his voice stays steady. “She’s not coddled. She’s just a kid who’s been through more than anyone should have to. You don’t get to blame her for trying to hold on to the few things that make her feel safe.”

Her eyes flash with anger. “And you don’t get to blame me for how I chose to raise my daughter.”

Peeta runs a hand through his hair, voice heavy with frustration. “Your idea of parenting—leaving bruises and breaking spirits—it’s not exactly the gold standard.”

She snaps back, voice cold and biting. “Well, it worked with you, didn’t it? I get to walk around saying my son’s a victor.”

Peeta lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head slowly. “You’re unbelievable.”

She tries to push past him again, but Peeta steps in front of her, holding his ground.

“Just calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she snaps. “Wake her up.”

Peeta doesn’t flinch. His voice is steadier now, gentler, like he’s trying to keep this from spiraling. “Why don’t you sit down. I’ll make some tea.”

“I don’t want any of your Capitol tea,” she spits.

Peeta’s jaw tightens. He takes a breath, just barely keeping his temper in check. “Then get out of my Capitol house.”

Her eyes flash. “Not without her.”

I don’t want to move. I don’t want to deal with her. But I know how this goes. The longer they argue, the angrier she’ll get—and the worse it’ll be when I finally do go home. Which means I can’t stay here hiding behind the couch forever.

So I take a breath, pull the blanket off, and slowly stand up.

I move like I’m still half-asleep, dragging my feet a little, rubbing my eyes as I cross the room. I make sure my voice sounds groggy, like I’m just now waking up.

“What’s going on?” I mumble, blinking toward the front door.

Peeta looks over first. Then my mother.

And the second our eyes meet, I wish I’d stayed on the couch.

“Briella, go back to bed,” Peeta says quickly.

No tiger. No Ellie. Just Briella. My full name. He’s serious.

Before I can even think about listening, my mother cuts in, sharp and immediate. “No, she’s up now. We’re going.”

Her eyes are locked on me like I’ve done something unforgivable just by standing here.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Peeta says, stepping half in front of me. “She just woke up.”

“She shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” my mother snaps. “You’re not her parent.”

Peeta’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the silence says enough. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Controlled. “No. I’m her brother. And I’m not letting you drag her out of here just to prove a point.”

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I curl them into fists at my sides, trying to hold still, trying not to let her see. But it’s not just fear crawling under my skin—it’s anger. Dread. Shame.

I hate that she’s here. In Peeta’s house.

It hits me all at once—this is the first time she’s ever stepped inside. Not when he first moved in. Not when he made dinner and invited everyone. Not once. She never came.

And now that she’s here, she’s ruining it. Tainting it. This house was the only place that felt untouched. Untangled. A space that didn’t hold any memories of her voice cutting through the walls or her anger curled like smoke in the corners.

And now she’s brought it in with her.

I take a slow breath, forcing it deep, trying to steady myself. But I already know what’s coming. What’s waiting for me once we’re home, when Peeta isn’t there to stand between us. There’s no version of this where I get to keep this peace. No version where I leave unscathed.

But I can’t let it happen here. If she lays a hand on me in this house—in his house—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to come back. I don’t think I’ll feel safe here again.

So I swallow it down. Tuck the shaking deep enough that I can speak.

“It’s fine, Peeta,” I say, and my voice wavers just enough to betray me.

He turns to look at me, eyes narrowing the moment he sees my face. I give the smallest shake of my head—don’t argue, don’t make this worse. Please.

But he doesn’t listen right away. He just stands there, jaw clenched, like he’s deciding whether to fight me or her.

I meet his eyes again and try to make it clear. I need this.

“It’s fine,” I say again, quieter this time. “I’ll call you later.”

He shakes his head, frustrated. Not at me—never at me—but at the fact that he can’t fix this. That I’m walking out of here with her.

But eventually, he steps aside.

She steps outside first, not even checking to see if I’m following. Peeta grabs my arm before I can move. “I’m not letting you go,” he says, voice low, urgent.

I don’t meet his eyes. If I do, I won’t be able to leave.

“It’ll be fine, Peeta,” I murmur. “Rye’s there.”

His grip tightens just a little. “You shouldn’t need Rye to make it fine.”

“I know.” My voice cracks on the words, so I swallow hard and pull it together. “But right now, I do.”

Peeta’s grip doesn’t loosen. His eyes are locked on mine now, desperate in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

“Please, Briella,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Just stay. I’ll deal with her. You don’t have to go back. Not yet.”

I hesitate. My throat tightens, and for a second I almost give in. Almost say yes. Almost ask him to fix it.

But I already know what’s waiting for me at home. She’s not going to forget. Not going to cool off. Every second I stay here, she’s winding tighter—and when I walk through that door, I’ll feel every inch of it.

So I look him in the eye and say the only thing I know will work.

“I want to,” I say quietly. “But… the longer I wait, the worse it’ll be.”

I hate saying it. Hate how his face shifts the second the words leave my mouth—like I just shoved the guilt into his hands. But it’s the truth. And I need him to let me go.

“If she does anything,” Peeta says, his voice firmer now, “you leave. Right away. And you come here.”

I nod. It’s automatic. But he doesn’t move.

“Promise me,” he says again, quieter this time. Like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“I promise,” I whisper.

His grip lingers for just a second longer—then he finally lets go.

I finally step out the door and start down the steps. My mother’s already at the bottom, arms crossed, tapping her foot like she’s been waiting for hours. She sees me coming and turns without a word. No pause. No glance back. Just walking.

I don’t look back either. I know Peeta’s still there, standing in the doorway, watching. I can feel it. But if I see his face right now—if I see how worried he is—I won’t be able to leave. So I keep my head down and walk.

When we pass the gates of the Victor’s Village, I speed up a little until I’m beside her. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

She scoffs. “I’m sure you are.”

Then she glances sideways at me, eyes trailing over the sleeves of Peeta’s pyjama shirt I’m still wearing. “Matching clothes now?” she mutters. “No wonder you like it there so much. He spoils you.”

I don’t answer. I could tell her it’s not about the clothes or the food or anything she thinks it is. I could tell her I don’t even let Peeta spoil me, not really. I just want to be near him. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But I don’t say it. Because I know exactly what she’ll do with it—how she’ll twist it until it sounds ugly. So I just keep walking. Let her think whatever she wants.

I glance around. It’s still early—dark enough that the streets are empty, and most of the houses keep their lights off. I don’t say anything. I don’t ask what time it is.

The walk feels endless—because every step is one step closer to whatever she’s going to do. And every minute that drags on, my brain spins faster, circling around the possibilities. A slap. A scream. Worse. The not-knowing is its own kind of torture.

She strides up the front steps and pushes the door open. I trail behind her, reluctant. Without a word, she spins around, grabs my collar, and drags me inside. I stumble in after her, the door slamming shut behind us—loud, sharp, final. The sound cracks through the quiet like a whip, and I flinch before I can stop myself. It tells me everything I need to know. She’s furious. Past the point of caring who sees. Past the point of holding back. She lets go just as quickly, like I’m something filthy she couldn’t stand to touch for long.

I don’t say anything. I just glance around the front of the bakery. It’s still dark. No lights are on, the shelves are empty, the ovens cold. Then I spot the clock behind the register.

It’s not even five-thirty.

Peeta was telling the truth.

He probably was planning on waking me up—just in time to get me here, to keep her from getting angry. So we could have one night. One night of real sleep, real peace, and still be on her good side. Still do what we’re supposed to.

But none of that matters to her.

She was probably waiting up all night, watching the clock, just so she could catch me. So she could swoop in and make a scene. She doesn’t care that I would’ve made it here on time. Only that she didn’t get to control how.

“What were you thinking?”

Her voice cuts sharp through the quiet. Before I can answer, she lifts her hand and slaps me hard across the cheek.

I don’t flinch. I keep my head down, fighting to hold back the sting that’s not from the slap—it’s from the truth crashing down.

Yesterday wasn’t a gift.

It was just a chance. A chance for me to slip up. To give her a reason. To lose everything all over again.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I swallow them down, because I know better. The minute I let her see I’m actually hurt, it only makes things worse. She uses my pain like a weapon, twisting it until it breaks me more.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

She scoffs. “You’re never sorry. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. As long as you get to run off to your precious Peeta’s house, who cares about the rest of us right?”

“I just…” I swallow hard, keeping my eyes low. “I just missed him.”

That’s all it was. I wanted to see my brother. I wanted to feel okay for a night. That’s it.

But she doesn’t care.

“Of course you did,” she snaps. “Because everything’s about what you want, isn’t it?”

I shake my head. “That’s not—”

“You think you’re the only one who’s hurting? The only one who lost something? Peeta’s not the only person in this family, Briella.”

“I know that,” I say quickly. “I—”

“You don’t know anything,” she cuts in. “You run around doing whatever you want, lying to my face, making up stories, sneaking out to play house with the victor like none of this ever happened.”

My throat tightens. “I’m not trying to—”

“You’re selfish,” she spits, like she’s been holding it in all night.

“Look, Mom,” I say quietly. “I really am sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll work hard all day.”

She nods slowly, coldly. “Oh yes, you will.”

Her voice sharpens with every word. “You’re going to go into that bakery, and you’re going to knead dough till your knuckles bleed. And you’re not going to complain. You’re not going to call Peeta or Rye to come save you. You’re not going to run off to your room to cry and call him on that stupid phone.”

I keep my eyes on the floor, heart sinking.

“And you’re going to do it tomorrow,” she goes on. “And the next day. And the day after that.”

I think—hope—she’s done.

But then she adds, voice low and final:

“And you’re not going to see Peeta until you learn who’s in charge.”

I nod, barely, like that’ll keep her from saying anything else. But in my head, those words echo louder than anything.

You’re not going to see Peeta until you learn who’s in charge.

And she means it. I know she does. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep me away from him—to remind me who’s really in control. Not because she cares where I sleep. Not because I missed a shift or broke some imaginary rule.

But because I was happy. Because I felt safe. Because I had something—someone—she couldn’t touch.

And now she’s going to take it away. Just like she always does.

I swallow hard, keeping my head down, keeping my mouth shut. Because if I speak now, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Something that might get me banned from seeing him even longer. So I stay quiet. I nod. And I think about how long I can survive without him.

Chapter Text

She storms off into the bakery, heels pounding across the floor, the door swinging shut behind her hard enough to rattle the glass.

I stay where I am. Right in the entryway. The air still cold against my face. My cheek still stinging.

I don’t follow her. Not yet.

I keep my eyes on the floor, blinking fast, willing everything in me to stay calm. My hands are clenched at my sides, knuckles tight, fingernails digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

She’s gone. For now.

But her words are still here—clinging to the walls, lodged in my chest. Every breath feels heavy.

I take a step back, lean against the doorframe, and try to breathe. Just for a second. Just long enough to pull myself together before I walk through that door and pretend I’m fine. Pretend I didn’t just get slapped awake. Pretend I’m not already exhausted, not already dreading the next hour—let alone the rest of the day.

I glance once toward the front windows. The street’s still quiet. The sky’s starting to turn grey. And I wish more than anything I could be back at Peeta’s. Just one more hour. One more breath that doesn’t feel like I’m choking on it. But I’m not. I’m here. And I have to move.

I finally step into the bakery. The warmth hits me first—the scent of flour and yeast, the faint hum of the ovens. But it doesn’t feel comforting. Not with her standing there, arms folded, watching me like I’m already failing.

My father’s at the table, kneading dough. His hands move steadily, rhythmically, pressing and folding like nothing happened. Like he didn’t hear a thing. He doesn’t look up when I enter. Doesn’t say a word. I guess I won’t be getting any help today.

I walk past them quietly, grab an apron from the hook, and tie it around my waist with shaking hands.

I move to the flour-dusted counter and reach for the nearest lump of dough. My fingers sink into it, but the rhythm’s wrong. My palms are too tense. My grip too tight. I try to match my father’s pace, like I’ve done a hundred times before—but I keep faltering. My hands won’t settle.

And every time I glance up, she’s still watching. Still glaring.

I feel her stare like a weight on my back. My fingers start to tremble again, the dough slipping awkwardly between my palms. I grit my teeth and keep kneading anyway. Because I don’t have another option.

The kitchen stays quiet for a while. My mother drifts off to the far counter, sorting something with a clatter of trays like she’s already lost interest in watching me fail.

Then I hear it—the soft creak of the stairs. A sound I know by heart.

My chest lifts, just slightly. Rye’s coming down. He’ll see me. He’ll know. And just having him here will make it easier, even if he doesn’t say anything. Even if he just stands beside me. He always makes things feel a little less impossible.

But then I remember. Her voice, sharp and cold—you’re not going to call Peeta or Rye to come save you.

The hope stutters in my chest. I can’t show anything. I can’t let her see that I need him. That I’m still leaning on anyone but her.

Rye rounds the corner into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes, still half-asleep. He yawns as he crosses to me, giving a lazy grin. “Morning, Crazy,” he mumbles. “Where’s Peeta?”

I freeze for a second. The lie catches in my throat. I want to tell him everything—to let it all pour out and let him fix it the way he always does. But I can’t. I can’t give her any more reasons to keep me away from Peeta. Not now. Not after what he said this morning in the kitchen, voice low like he didn’t want me to hear. Not when I know he needs me there just as much as I need to be there.

So I force a shrug. “He was tired,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “He walked me over and said he’ll come by later.”

Rye smirks, still not fully awake, and scratches the back of his neck. “Weird. He’s the only one who actually likes baking this early.”

I force a smile, shifting the dough in my hands. “I guess we tired him out.”

Rye steps up beside me at the counter, wiping his hands on a towel before grabbing a lump of dough. He yawns again, then nudges me gently with his elbow.

“My friend,” he says, drawing the word out in that obnoxious tone he always uses, “found icing in my hair last night.”

I give him a short, quiet nod, not looking up.

He presses on. “She asked if I’d been in some kind of food fight. I told her no, it’s just what happens when you spend too much time with wild animals.”

I let out a tiny breath that could almost pass for a laugh, but I don’t stop kneading. I can’t. My hands are still shaking faintly, and if I let myself lose focus, they’ll get worse.

Rye glances over again. “She also said I smelled like cinnamon. I told her that’s just my natural scent now.”

Another half-nod. A flicker of a smile I don’t let fully form.

He watches me for a second longer, then tilts his head slightly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say too fast. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “Briella—”

“I’m fine, Rye.” Sharper this time. I finally glance up, and the look I give him is all it takes.

He stops. Backs off just slightly. Not hurt exactly—but quieter. The teasing leaves his expression, replaced by something softer. Something confused. Maybe even a little worried.

And I feel it hit in my chest—the guilt. He probably thinks I’m mad at him. That I’m pushing him away. And I hate that. I hate how easy it is to hurt him when I’m just trying to survive her. Rye watches me for a second longer, and I finally let my shoulders drop, just a little. I glance sideways at him and murmur, “I’m sorry.”

His expression softens even more.

“I just…” I hesitate, fingers still pressing into the dough. “I already miss Peeta. And I figure the faster I work, the faster I can see him again.”

It isn’t technically a lie. I just leave out the part where I don’t actually know when that will be.

Rye nods like he gets it immediately, no questions asked. “Then I guess I’ll help.”

A beat passes before he adds, “Honestly? I wanna go back too. Those cinnamon buns? Worth the frosting war. I’d let you smash another one in my face if it meant I got a second helping.”

I huff a small laugh, keeping my eyes on the dough. “You say that now, but you looked pretty betrayed.”

He shrugs. “Still tasted good. Worth it.”

He’s trying to keep things light—trying to pull me out of whatever he senses I’m stuck in—and I’m grateful. Even if I can’t give him more than a half-smile in return.

The moment I hear her footsteps approaching, I feel it in my chest first—tight and sharp, like my ribs are closing in. She steps closer, and without thinking, I inch away from Rye. Just a small step, barely noticeable, but enough to put space between us. Enough to make sure she doesn’t see the trace of a smile still lingering on my face.

I don’t want her to notice. I don’t want her to think he’s making this easier for me. That he’s helping. Because if she does—if she even suspects it—she’ll find a way to twist it. To ruin it. Just like she always does. So I lower my eyes, keep my hands moving, and pretend there’s nothing to see.

Rye notices. Of course he does. His brow furrows slightly when I step away, like he’s about to ask what’s wrong, about to say my name again in that quiet way he does when he’s trying to understand. But before he can get a word out, our mother speaks.

“Rye,” she says, perfectly pleasant, like her voice isn’t a knife. “Did you remember to bring in the extra flour from the cellar?”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah. I got it last night,” he says, nodding toward the back room. “It’s already stocked.”

“Good,” she replies simply, and turns back to her work like nothing’s wrong.

Rye watches her for a second, then glances back at me. I force my eyes down. Keep kneading. Keep breathing. He doesn’t press.

I think that’s it. I think maybe she really just wanted to know about the flour. That maybe I overreacted. That maybe she didn’t see.

But then her eyes flick to me, just for a second. But it’s enough.

It’s not a glare. Not the kind she gives when she’s about to snap or when I’ve said something that sets her off. This look is sharper than that. Quieter. A warning, not a punishment—at least not yet.

Her mouth doesn’t move. Her hands don’t stop. But her eyes… they say everything.

I saw you smiling.

You think I didn’t notice, but I did.

I told you not to rely on him. And now look at you—already slipping.

I drop my gaze to the dough and press into it harder, like I can push the shame down through my arms and into the table. Like if I work fast enough, she’ll forget I ever looked happy—even for a second.

And then I realize—she didn’t say anything when Rye walked in. Didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t grab my arm. Didn’t throw a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Because he was there.

Because she knew he’d step in.

And now that he’s distracted, now that he’s not paying attention—she doesn’t have to say anything at all.

That’s when it clicks. And the dread starts to bloom. This isn’t going to be a day of yelling. Or hitting. Or punishments she can brush off with a shrug later. She’s already tried that. She’s done raising her voice and dragging me around by the collar.

No—today is quieter. Smarter. Worse.

Today is about me making the right choices. Without being told. Without being begged or threatened. Today is about proving I can follow the rules. That I’ve learned my lesson. That I know what happens when I don’t.

This day isn’t about what she does. It’s about what I do. About watching me struggle and seeing if I break. About keeping score in silence until I fail—and knowing she won’t even have to lift a hand to make her point.

And if I do fail, it won’t be a mistake. It’ll be proof.

I slam the heel of my hand into the dough. The ache flares sharper now, but I keep going. Because if I stop—if I cry, or flinch, or say the wrong thing—it’s over. She’ll take him away from me. And I won’t get him back.

From that moment on, I move carefully.

I second-guess everything—every motion, every breath. The way I roll the dough, the way I reach for the flour, how quickly I move between steps. I fix mistakes before they even happen, just in case she’s watching. Just in case she’s waiting for one more reason to say I haven’t earned anything.

But I don’t look up.

Not once.

Not when Rye tries to talk to me again, voice lighter now, joking about something he saw in the pantry. I don’t even brush him off. I just stay quiet. Keep my eyes down. Let the silence answer for me.

Not when he nudges me again, this time a little softer, trying to get me to laugh like before. I don’t react. I can’t. There’s too much risk in lifting my head—even for him.

And I definitely don’t look at her. Not for approval. Not to check if she’s still watching. Because I already know—whether she’s staring me down or working silently at the far counter, she’s meant for me to feel like this.

She wants me off-balance. She wants me trapped in my own head, too afraid to slip. Because that’s the lesson, isn’t it? That I’ll only keep what I’m allowed to have if I do everything right. If I never break focus. If I never forget who’s in charge.

So I keep my head down for the rest of the day.

I don’t stop.

I don’t speak.

I don’t even notice the way the light shifts outside or the way the heat from the ovens builds until sweat’s clinging to the back of my neck.

I don’t notice when Rye or my father leave to help customers. I couldn’t say how long they’re gone, or when they come back. I don’t ask.

I don’t even know if she’s still in the kitchen.

But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Get me so in my own head that I do the right thing whether she’s there or not. Make me feel her even in the silence. Make me second-guess myself until I don’t need the slaps or the yelling or the glare from across the room. Just the fear. Just the rules. Just me, policing myself. Because that’s what she really wants. Not a daughter who’s sorry. A daughter who obeys.

At one point, Rye nudges me—hard enough to snap me out of my rhythm.

I blink up at him.

“Why don’t you take a break,” he says softly.

I pause, just for a second. And now that I’ve stopped, I feel it. The ache in my back, the pounding in my head, the sting in my fingers. I want nothing more than to lie down for a bit. To close my eyes. To call Peeta and hear his voice.

But then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s glaring at me. Not saying a word. Just watching. Waiting to see if I make the right choice. I can’t lose the progress. I can’t lose what little ground I’ve managed to gain. So I shake my head.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice as light as possible.

Rye doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

I hesitate. Of course I’m not sure. Of course I’m not fine.

Maybe I could tell him that. Just a little. Wait for her to slip upstairs and quietly let him in on it. That way he could help me. That way he’d stop asking questions. But I don’t. Because he wouldn’t go for it. He wouldn’t stand by while she does this to me all day—and the day after that—and every day until I finally break.

And if he stepped in… she’d make me pay for that too.

So I force a smile, one that feels stiff on my face. “I’m fine, Rye. I’ll wait till the bakery’s closed to take a break.”

He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face, trying to find the truth beneath my words. I lock eyes with him, willing him to believe me, to see that I’m fine. But then, stupidly, my gaze flickers—just for a second—to her. To see if she’s still watching.

Rye’s face shifts immediately. He thinks I’m giving him a signal. He thinks I’m asking for help. Maybe I am. But not like this—not out loud. Not now.

He turns around and sees her standing there, arms crossed, silent but unmistakably present. “What’s going on?” he asks her, voice low.

She shrugs, eyes cold. “She’s finally working.”

Her words hang in the air. I catch a tiny flicker of something—maybe it’s recognition, or a sliver of hope that she’s starting to notice how hard I’m trying. I hold my breath for a moment, then drop my gaze back down to the dough.

No more distractions. No more breaks.

I knead harder, pushing every thought away, determined to prove her wrong without a single word.

The hours stretch on like this—quiet, tense, every movement measured. My hands press and fold the dough again and again, the sting in my knuckles growing sharper with every knead. I don’t dare slow down. I can’t.

The flour dust settles on my sleeves and the faint warmth of the ovens fills the kitchen, but none of it reaches me. My world narrows to the rhythm of my hands and the weight of her eyes somewhere behind me, always watching, always waiting for me to falter.

Rye moves around the bakery, his footsteps light and careful, but I don’t look up. I don’t answer when he tries again, his voice softer this time, almost pleading.

At some point, a sharp pressure in my bladder pulls my attention away from the dough. I freeze for a split second—I really have to pee. The thought shouldn’t feel like a big deal, but now that I notice it, I can’t stop thinking about it. Every minute it grows louder, demanding.

But I can’t stop. I don’t know the rules of this silent battle between me and my mother, but I know one thing: I can’t risk taking a break. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

I steal a glance at the clock. Almost closing time. I’ve made it through the whole day without slipping up, without giving her a single excuse. I just need to push a little further. So I bite down the discomfort, tighten my grip on the dough, and keep kneading. The wait until we close drags on slower than the whole day. My need to go to the bathroom grows harder to ignore. Every step heavier, every breath tighter.

Finally, I hear the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing. My father walks in, just like he does every afternoon, wiping his hands on his apron. I don’t wait for him to say anything. I don’t want to give my mother any reason to think I’m slacking. I bolt up the stairs and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

I hurry through everything, hoping I can get back before my mother notices I took a break.

I wash my hands quickly and then freeze. I glance up at the mirror. The pyjamas Peeta gave me are still on—covered in flour and stained by the day. I stare at myself in the mirror, feeling a tight knot in my chest growing heavier with every second. The tiredness in my eyes, the smudges of flour on my pajamas, the way my face feels too raw and worn—it all sinks in at once. No matter how much I try, I can’t undo today. A single tear slips out before I can stop it.

Then there’s a soft knock at the door makes me tense. I wipe my face quickly and open the door slowly, bracing for my mother.

But it’s not her.

It’s Rye, standing there, his eyes search my face, worry etched deep in his furrowed brow. “What’s going on with you today?” he asks softly.

Without looking at him, I push past. “How many times do I have to say I’m fine?”

But before I can get far, his hand closes around my arm, pulling me back gently but firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t hide stuff from me anymore?”

His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the urgency behind it.

I hesitate, the words caught tight in my throat. I want to break down, to tell him everything—let him hold me, even if just for a moment. But I can’t. Not now. I need to keep going.

So I push past him again.

That’s when I see her—my mother—standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, cold and unyielding.

Before I can react, Rye grabs my arm and pulls me behind him, like he’s shielding me from whatever’s coming.

I finally give in.

I grip the back of his shirt, pressing my forehead into the fabric, searching for any kind of safety. His shirt smells like cinnamon and bread. Peeta’s pajamas smell like fear now.

Rye’s voice breaks as he asks, “Mom, what are you doing to her?”

She doesn’t even look at him. Her words slice through the air, “remember our deal, Briella?”

That wasn’t a deal. It was a threat.

I lift my head just long enough to tap my forehead slowly against Rye’s back a couple times, as if trying to knock the right answer into my brain—reminding myself of what I can’t risk.

I know what will happen if I tell Rye to leave, if I push him away again. I can take the yelling. I can take the hits. But what I can’t take is losing Peeta. Not after all he’s survived. Not when he’s just down the street.

I finally peel myself off his back, my hands trembling as I step back a little. “It’s okay, Rye,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.

He turns to face me, eyes wide—shock written across his face like I just said something impossible.

“I need you to go,” I say softly, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Leave the house… for a bit.”

His jaw tightens. “Absolutely not,” he says firmly, stepping closer again.

I shake my head, voice dropping to a whisper. “Please… just this once. I need to talk to Mom alone.”

His eyes search mine, unreadable.

“If you stay,” I say, voice barely audible, “it’ll make everything worse. Please.”

He hesitates, the fight draining out of him little by little. Finally, he nods slowly, a silent promise in his eyes, and backs away toward the steps.

Her eyes lock onto mine, steady and unblinking. Neither of us moves. The air feels heavy—thick with everything unspoken between us.

I watch Rye walk slowly down the hall behind me. He glances back, just once, his eyes full of worry and something like hope. I give him the smallest nod—just enough to say thank you without words.

He doesn’t hesitate any longer. He turns and heads down the stairs, the soft creak of each step echoing through the quiet house.

When the faint click of the back door shutting reaches us, my mother finally takes a slow, deliberate step forward. My legs don’t move. I don’t even blink. I already know what’s coming.

She laughs—a low, bitter sound that feels like a razor slicing through the silence.

“So this is how it is,” she sneers, stepping closer. “I actually thought you were doing the right thing today. That maybe you were finally learning. And then—what? You have to go and sneak off like a child.”

I swallow hard, my voice shaking as I try to explain. “I didn’t sneak off. I had to go to the bathroom.”

Her eyes narrow, and the laugh turns sharper, more mocking. “So that’s why Rye was up here, huh? Watching over you?”

I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t ask him to come up. He was just worried.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, filled with bitterness. “Worried. Of course. I don’t understand why everyone treats you like you’re so weak—like you can’t handle anything on your own. It started with Peeta, didn’t it? Always hovering, watching over you when you were little. Making excuses for you, carrying you through everything.”

She steps closer, voice sharp and accusing. “And now Rye’s doing the same. Like you’re some helpless child everyone has to protect, never able to stand on your own.”

Her words hit harder than any slap. I keep my eyes low, swallowing the ache that curls in my chest.

She leans in, voice low but dripping with venom. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You find a way to twist them—make them believe you need them more than you do. You manipulate them, trick them into doing whatever you want. And somehow, they always fall for it.”

Her eyes bore into me, cold and accusing.

“But I see through it. I’m not fooled.”

“That’s not what I do,” I say, my voice shaking. “I don’t—”

Her fist slams into my cheekbone. Not open-handed. Not a slap. A closed fist.

The force of it jars through my skull, knocking my head sideways and sending a sharp flash of white behind my eyes. The floor shifts under me, but I don’t fall. I stumble back a half-step, breath caught in my throat, hand flying up to the side of my face.

And I keep my head down.

Because if I look at her now—if I so much as flinch—she’ll say I’m making a scene. That I’m playing the victim. That I’m trying to get her in trouble. So I swallow it. All of it. The pain, the shock, the rising sting behind my eyes.

I don’t let her see it.

“And now you think you get to run off with your victor brother,” she spits. “Let him sweep you away with his Capitol clothes and his shiny new house? You got what you wanted.”

I say nothing. I don’t lift my eyes. Because that’s not what I wanted. That’s never been what I wanted.

I’m not chasing comfort or attention or anything she’s accusing me of. I don’t want the clothes. I don’t care about the house. I don’t need the soft couches or hot water on demand.

I just want him.

Because I wouldn’t have survived without him.

Because from the moment I could walk, I learned to tiptoe through this house like it was lined with broken glass. Like the air could crack open at any second. Like one wrong word could change the whole day.

And the only person who ever stood between me and the fallout was Peeta.

He stood between us more times than I can count. When I was too small to understand what she was doing. When I was too scared to say it. When Rye hadn’t learned yet that someone needed to.

He talked her down. He made me laugh. He sat with me after, even when he was exhausted. Even when he was scared too.

So of course I cling to him now. Of course I want to be near him. Because he’s not just my brother. He’s my safe place. My anchor. The one person I never had to hide from.

And maybe that makes me weak. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am helpless without him.

But no one else gets it. No one else had to grow up like this.

Most siblings don’t have to protect each other from their own parents. Most don’t need to act like soldiers in their own homes.

The only other ones I’ve ever seen are Katniss and Prim.

Because no one volunteers. Not in District 12. Not unless they know exactly what they’re protecting their sibling from. But Peeta did. He knew. He always knew.

Fingers clamp around my chin. She jerks my face upward, her nails biting into my skin. My cheekbone throbs where she hit me, but I don’t flinch. I can’t—not when her eyes are inches from mine, blazing with fury.

“You look at me when I’m speaking to you,” she hisses. “You show some damn respect.”

Her grip tightens. My jaw aches. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“I’m your mother,” she snaps. “And you are going to listen. You are going to obey. You don’t get to run off and hide behind Peeta whenever life gets hard. You don’t get to make up your own rules. You live here. This is your home. And I am your mother.”

The words ring in my ears, sharp and final. Like a door slamming shut.

I try to hold it in. To push the fire back down where it belongs. To be smart. To stay silent. But I can’t. Not this time. Because her hands are still on my face. Because my head is still pounding. Because she hit me like I was nothing. And she thinks she can still say that. That she’s my mother. That this is my home.

The fire surges.

“I wish you weren’t my mother.”

The words leave me before I can stop them. Quiet. Clear. Flat.

Her eyes widen for just a second—shocked—but she recovers fast. Her mouth tightens. Her hand drops from my face like she’s just touched something filthy.

I brace for it—the next hit. The crack of knuckles, the flash of pain. I flinch, just slightly, shoulders tensing, breath locked in my throat.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, she laughs. A low, bitter sound, sharp enough to cut.

“Every day since you were born,” she says, voice flat and cold, “I wished you weren’t my daughter.”

It stuns me. For a second, I forget how to breathe. And then—God—I almost laugh, too. At least we’re on the same page.

But she doesn’t stop there.

She leans in close, her breath hot against my face, and says, “But we don’t get to choose who we get stuck with.”

I freeze.

“So the best I can do,” she whispers, “is try to turn you into something I can at least look at.”

Her words settle over me like ice, colder than anything else she’s said today. Because she means it. Every syllable.

She doesn’t want to raise me. She wants to remake me into something quieter. Smaller. Easier to stomach. And for a split second, I wish Peeta was here—not to save me. Just to look at me and remind me I’m already enough.

She grabs my collar so fast I barely register it before I’m yanked forward, stumbling down the hall.

All I can think about, stupidly, is the fabric between her fingers. She’s going to rip the pyjamas. Peeta’s pyjamas. The ones he picked out for me. The ones that felt like safety for one night.

Her nails dig into the collar, twisting the fabric as she hauls me along like I weigh nothing. My socks slip on the floor. I barely keep up.

We reach the kitchen, and she shoves me forward hard enough that I stumble, catching myself on the counter. I barely have time to straighten before she starts again.

“Tomorrow,” she snaps, her voice low and tight, “you’re going to go to school. You’re not going to stop. You’re not going to talk to anyone.”

She paces in front of me now, like she’s lining the words up in her head, making sure they hit just right.

“You’re going to come home. And you’re going to work. Just like today. Every day. No distractions. No excuses. No more running off to play house with your brother.”

I stare at the floor. My heart is pounding. My fists clench. And finally—I shake my head.

“No.”

Her footsteps stop.

She turns to look at me, her head tilted just slightly. Like she’s surprised I even remembered how to speak.

“No?” she repeats, mocking. “You think that you have power?”

I don’t answer so she steps closer.

“You think Peeta or Rye can protect you from anything?” she says, voice rising. “You think they’ll always be there to coddle you? To clean up your messes? You’re nothing.”

I flinch, but don’t back down.

“You are a child,” she seethes. “And you are going to stay in this house until the day you turn eighteen. And you are going to listen to me until that point.”

She hits me again.

This time it’s her left hand—knuckles sharp, wedding band catching me right on the mouth.

I stumble back, breath knocked out of me, my shoulder slamming into the counter behind me. The metallic sting hits immediately. I raise trembling fingers to my mouth and feel it—warm, wet.

When I pull my hand away, there’s blood.

A lot of it.

My lip’s split clean open. For a second, I just stare at it. Then—I smirk. It’s small. Crooked. Half-mouthed through the pain.

“I can’t even try to cover that one up,” I murmur, my voice low and shaky. “Rye’ll see it the second he gets home.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look guilty. Her eyes stay locked on mine, cold and calculating.

“And what’s Rye going to do?” she says flatly. “He needs a place to live too. He needs a job. And he knows—no matter how much he thinks he has to protect you—he can’t defy me too much.”

My chest burns, but I keep my eyes on her. I don’t look away.

“That’s fine,” I say. “Peeta doesn’t need you anymore.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’ll call him.”

Her mouth twitches. Not surprise. Not fear.

A smirk.

“And what’s he going to do?” she asks, voice like ice. “Let you stay at his house for a day? Two, maybe?”

She steps forward, her voice lowering.

“But eventually, you’ll have to come back here. Eventually, you always do.”

And the worst part is—I know she’s right.

No matter how many times I dream of leaving, of running to Peeta’s and never coming back… I can’t. I have to stay here. It’s the law. You have to be where your parents are. You have to stay in the house, under their roof, until you’re eighteen.

I’m trapped. And she knows it. The realization breaks something open in my chest. My shoulders sag. My voice cracks.

“So what do you want me to do?” I whisper.

Silence stretches. My voice cracks. “Tell me… and I’ll do it.”

Her face shifts. I hear the way my voice gives me away—and so does she. She sees it. Hears the pleading. The surrender curling at the edges.

And she smiles.

She grabs a rolling pin off the rack behind her—gripping it in one hand—and points it straight at my face.

“You’re going to listen,” she says.

“I’m trying to,” I murmur, stumbling back a step like I might be able to get away—but I hit the edge of the counter. There’s nowhere to go. I curl my fingers around the edge, gripping it tightly, like that might steady me. Like that might matter. “I’m trying—“

“Not enough!” she snaps, and brings the rolling pin down hard onto the counter beside me.

Crack.

I flinch back instinctively, my hand jerking off the surface, knuckles scraping the edge of the table. The sound echoes in the kitchen, sharp and violent. My breath stutters. My whole body pulled taut. She watches the motion, eyes tracking the way I flinched. And then—she smiles again.

Not because I’m apologizing.

But because she’s just had an idea.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just eyes me with that gleam—like she’s already decided what happens next.

Then she lifts the rolling pin slightly. Taps it once against the counter. Then again, harder. “Put your fingers here,” she says, calm. Too calm.

My stomach turns. “What?”

She points again. “Flat on the edge. Go on.”

I don’t move.

“Now, Briella.”

I hesitate—but my body starts to shake.

My fingers hover near the counter, the weight of her stare pressing down on me. My whole body is screaming not to do it. But I lift my hand anyway. Slowly. Trembling. I set it down on the edge of the counter, fingers spread, trying to keep them still.

She raises the pin.

But just before it comes down, my hand jerks back. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. But my brain won’t let it happen. It won’t let my fingers just stay there knowing what’s coming.

Her face twists in fury. “I just told you to listen!” she shouts.

“I—I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I will. I will, I promise.”

She glares at me, breathing hard.

I force my hand back onto the counter. Slower this time. I hold it there—shaking, white-knuckled. Begging my own body to stay still.

She lifts the rolling pin again.

But at the last second, I flinch again. My hand flies off the edge. It’s instinct. My brain short-circuits. I can’t help it.

And she loses it.

Crack.

Pain explodes across my back as the rolling pin strikes hard between my shoulder blades. I stagger forward with a strangled gasp, catching myself on the counter, the breath knocked clean out of my lungs.

Tears well up instantly. Not just from the pain—but from the shame. The fear. The way I can’t make myself obey, no matter how hard I try.

“Put your hand back,” she says again, flat and cold.

I can’t.

I want to. I want to just press my hand down, brace myself, get it over with. But I can’t stop shaking. My fingers twitch every time I even try to stretch them out.

“Put it down,” she says again. “Do it.”

I lift my hand—slow, slow, like maybe that’ll help. I set it on the edge of the counter. I press it there.

She raises the rolling pin again. And again, my body betrays me. I yank it back.

Crack. The pin slams down across my shoulder.

I cry out, stumbling sideways, clutching at the edge of the counter to keep upright. My back is on fire, but I know it won’t stop. She’s not finished.

“Again,” she says. “Do it right this time.”

I choke on a sob. I want to scream that I can’t, but I don’t dare. I just nod. I try again.

And again I fail.

This time the rolling pin catches the back of my thigh. My knees buckle.

She doesn’t pause. “Put your hand down, Briella.”

I try. I swear I try.

But my hand moves again. The strike comes faster this time, across my ribs. And that’s when I realize: She knows I can’t do it. If she really wanted to hit my fingers, she’d just hold my hand down and do it. But she doesn’t.

This is part of the game.

This is about breaking me.

This is about watching me fail again and again until I stop trying. Until I learn. Until I become something small enough, obedient enough, scared enough to never question her again. Maybe she thinks if I can listen to this—if I can learn to obey through this—then I’ll do whatever she says.

I’ve never asked her to stop before. Not once. I learned early on that it only made things worse—that pleading gave her something to push against, something to mock. That it didn’t stop the pain, it extended it. So I stopped asking. I learned to take it. To keep quiet. To disappear inside myself and wait for it to end.

But this—this hurts in a way I didn’t know I could still feel. And I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not like this.

Because this time…I think she’s actually doing it. I think she’s breaking me.

My whole body trembles. My cheeks are wet with silent tears now, sliding down one after another.

I look up at her.

Her face is unreadable. Blank. Except for her eyes. Cold and waiting.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Please,” I gasp. “Please stop.”

And then—I hear it. The click of the back door. I whip my head around, heart pounding, barely daring to hope. It has to be Rye. Please let it be Rye. He’ll stop this. He’ll yell. He’ll pull her off me. He’ll do everything she hates. But I don’t care. I need it. I need someone.

But it’s not Rye.

It’s my father.

He walks in like it’s any other afternoon. His sleeves are rolled up, there’s flour on his arms. He’s wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes sweep the room.

And they land on us.

Me—shaking, crying, hunched over the counter with fresh bruises rising all over my body.

Her—still holding the rolling pin.

My breath catches.

I lock eyes with him, pleading—begging—before he can look away. Before he can do what he always does. Before he can pretend he doesn’t see it.

“Please,” I whisper.

His face doesn’t change at first. Just still. Blank. But something flickers. Just for a second. So I try again.

“Please, Daddy.”

It slips out before I can stop it. I haven’t called him that in years. Not since the first time he let her hit me and stood there like a ghost, staring at the floor, like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.

But maybe—just maybe—if he hears it now, it’ll shake something loose.

Maybe he won’t see me as I am now—half-grown, too bruised, too stubborn. Maybe he’ll see the little girl who used to stand beside him at the counter with her arms stretched up, waiting for him to lift her into the air and let her press her palms into soft dough. Maybe he’ll see the daughter who used to look at him like he was made of magic.

But he doesn’t.

He looks at me. Then at her. Then at the floor. And then… he walks past me. Like nothing’s happening. Like I’m not happening.

And I’m so stunned, so hollowed out by that moment, I don’t even feel the swing. Not until the rolling pin crashes down across my fingers.

Chapter Text

I don’t feel it at first.

Just the sound—the sickening crack of bone beneath wood—and then the silence after. Like the air’s been sucked out of the room. Like the world’s holding its breath.

I lift my hand slowly. Staring at it. Trembling.

It doesn’t look right. Not anymore. Two of my fingers are already starting to swell, the joints puffing up like they’re being filled from the inside. My pinky hangs crooked, bent at an angle it shouldn’t bend.

They’re broken.

My fingers are broken.

And somehow, that matters more than anything else. Not the bruises. Not the blood. Not the way I can’t stop shaking.

I look up at her.

Not because I expect an apology. I stopped expecting that a long time ago. But something in me—some broken instinct—still hopes for a flicker of guilt. Of recognition. Like maybe now, after this, she’ll realize she’s gone too far.

But there’s nothing.

No shock. No regret. Not even a flicker of hesitation. Just her, standing over me, chest rising and falling, eyes flat and hard. Like she’s already decided this is my fault. Like she’s waiting for me to cry again so she can roll her eyes and call it dramatics. So she can tell me I’m making her the villain, as if she didn’t just become one.

Her grip on the rolling pin loosens slightly. Not in apology. Just because she’s done with it.

She sees me cradling my hand. Sees the way I’m holding it close, my shoulders curled inward like a barrier. And still—nothing. No softening. No panic.

She’s not sorry.

She doesn’t care that my fingers are swelling, that one’s already turning purple. That I’ll need a doctor. That I’ll need help.

She steps closer, slow and unhurried, the rolling pin still dangling from her hand like an afterthought. Her expression hasn’t changed. No remorse. Just cool, steady eyes that drink in the sight of me—shaking, cradling my hand to my chest, barely holding myself upright.

Then she leans down, close enough that I can feel her breath against my cheek. Her voice comes low and even, with that practiced calm that’s always been more dangerous than yelling. “This was your last warning,” she says. “The final test.”

I don’t speak. I can’t. I just hold my broken hand tighter, fingers curling instinctively around the pain, trying to shield it from the air. From her. From everything.

“You don’t tell Rye,” she continues. “You don’t tell Peeta. You don’t tell anyone.”

Her tone drops further, soft enough that it could almost be mistaken for concern—if the words weren’t so sharp.

“Because if you do—if you even think about saying a word—I’ll make sure you never use that hand again.”

She straightens slowly, letting that threat hang in the air between us. There’s no need to raise her voice. No need to say it twice. The promise is clear.

And I believe her.

Because she’s never broken a bone before. Not until now. She’s always known better. Bruises fade. Cuts can be hidden. Even a busted lip can be brushed off as clumsy. But broken bones mean questions. They mean doctors. Splints and casts and things you can’t explain away.

I think that’s the only rule she’s ever followed. Never leave a mark she can’t lie about. And if she’s willing to cross that line once, I know she’ll do it again. Especially if I give her a reason.

She turns without another word, heels hitting the floor sharp and final as she storms into the office and slams the door behind her. The sound echoes through the kitchen like a thunderclap.

But I don’t move.

I stay exactly where I am—shoulders curled in, breath shaky, my broken hand cradled tight against my chest. The rolling pin is gone. She’s gone. The room is quiet now.

But I don’t trust it.

Because I don’t know if this is really over. I don’t know if I’m allowed to leave. If stepping away now would be one more mistake—one more reason for her to come back out and finish what she started. One more test I’m supposed to pass without being told.

So I stand there, locked in place, my whole body trembling. Waiting. Listening. Trying to figure out if I’m supposed to go or stay. Wondering if she’s watching through the crack in the door, waiting to see what I do next.

My fingers throb. I don’t even try to move them. I already know. They’re broken. Swollen. Useless.

But it’s not the pain keeping me still.

It’s the fear.

I don’t know how long I stand there—just that the room stays quiet, and the pain in my hand keeps getting louder. But eventually, something cuts through the fog.

Rye.

He’s coming back. He has to. He wouldn’t stay away too long—not with how things were. He probably thinks we just needed a few minutes. A calm talk. Time to settle whatever this was supposed to be.

Because that’s what I told him.

That I needed to talk to her. But it wasn’t a conversation. It never is with her.

And now every part of me is wishing I’d stayed behind him in that hallway. That I let him stand in front of me. Shield me. That I stayed right by his side for the rest of my life.

I should’ve known better. I should’ve known I couldn’t talk her down. That she doesn’t bend. She breaks things. And now she’s broken something in me—something I’m not sure I’ll get back.

But it’s done.

I blink slowly, still trembling, and peel myself away from the counter. My legs are unsteady, but they hold.

I need to move. I need to get upstairs before Rye walks through that door and sees me like this. I need to collect myself—catch my breath just long enough to think of a way to hide this. Because if he sees my hand, if he sees my face, if he hears even a sliver of the truth—Everything changes.

I make it to my room and finally let myself breathe. Just for a second. But when I glance down, my breath catches again. I’m still wearing Peeta’s pyjamas—the ones he gave me. The collar is stained now, dark and rust-colored, a splatter of blood from my lip dried into the fabric. My stomach twists. 

She ruined them. I’ll never be able to wear them again. Not without being dragged straight back to this day. Maybe that was intentional too. I wouldn’t put it past her. She could’ve told me to change. Could’ve snapped that she didn’t want me wearing anything Peeta gave me in this house. But she didn’t. She let me keep them on. She wanted this. 

I cross the room and open the closet, pulling out the bottom drawer—where I’ve stashed the few things I’ve kept of Peeta’s. Stray pieces I held onto after sleepovers. A shirt here, a pair of pants there. I dig until I find them: cotton sweatpants that will be too long, and a soft long-sleeved shirt that still smells faintly like him. I always save these for the worst nights. It’s not even dark yet. But I already know—this one will be worse than all of them.

I carry the clothes to the bathroom with one hand, the other cradled against my chest, already too swollen to use. The fabric drags behind me, but I don’t bother trying to fix it. When I reach the bathroom, I close the door quietly and drop the clothes onto the floor. Then I look up.

The mirror doesn’t soften anything.

My hair’s a mess—frizzy, half-escaped from the braid Peeta tied in it yesterday. You wouldn’t even know he touched it. My cheek is already swollen, purpling fast, the kind of bruise that’ll take days to fade. And there’s a crusted line of blood down my chin from my lip, dried and dark. I look like I lost a fight.

And I guess I did.

I fumble with the buttons on the pajama shirt, struggling to undo them with just my right hand. The other hovers uselessly beside it, like it remembers it’s supposed to help but can’t. Every time I brush against the fabric wrong, a bolt of pain shoots through my fingers. But I keep going. One button at a time.

When I finally get the last one undone, I let the shirt fall to the floor. It lands in a crumpled heap next to the clean clothes. And that’s when I see it.

A bruise already forming under my ribs—deep, red-purple, spreading slow and ugly across my side. I twist, carefully, and catch sight of my back in the mirror. The mess she made of it. The splotchy bruises along my spine. The angry red welt stretching across my shoulder blades.

And suddenly I can’t breathe. Not from the pain—but from the shame. From the quiet, unbearable truth that no matter how careful I was… none of it mattered. That it was never about me failing. She just wanted me broken.

I turn on the tap and let the cold water run over my right hand. Carefully, I lift that hand to my face, letting the water trickle down my cheek. I don’t try to wash away the blood—not really. The cold is for something else—a small relief, a sharp, numb reminder that I’m still here. I close my eyes and press my wet fingers against the bruise, willing the cold to chase away the ache, even if only for a moment.

I pull off the pajama pants, fingers clumsy and slow, and awkwardly try to step into Peeta’s sweatpants. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to do this with one hand. The fabric bunches, catches on my foot, and I nearly trip trying to keep my balance. But I manage—finally—get them up to my hips. And then I remember the drawstring.

They won’t stay up without it.

I try to tie it, fumbling with the ends, trying to hold one string still while looping the other. It doesn’t work. The knot slips, the waistband loosens, and the pants fall right back down to my ankles.

For a second, I almost break. My breath hitches, the sting behind my eyes sharp and fast—but I don’t let it happen. I won’t give her that. Not even now.

Instead, I bend down and grab the shirt from the floor. I scrunch up the left sleeve in my hand, shortening the opening so it’s easier to slide my arm through. It reminds me of when Peeta used to help me get into those itchy wool tights when I was little—how he’d bunch them up, guide my feet in gently, say something dumb to make me laugh when I wanted to complain.

I ease my right arm through the sleeve first, then lift my left—slowly, carefully—trying to guide it through without thinking too much. Even the lightest brush of fabric against my fingers makes me wince. It’s not a sharp pain—it’s deeper, dull and swollen and wrong. I grit my teeth and keep going, shifting the sleeve until the fabric covers the damage.

I don’t bother trying with the pants again. It’s not worth it. I’ll just stay in the shirt and my underwear. It hangs low enough anyway, past the tops of my thighs, and I’m too tired to care about anything else.

I glance back at the mirror and catch sight of the bruise on my cheek, already dark and swelling fast. It makes my stomach twist. I can’t let Rye see this—not like this. So I decide to try to cover it up.

I crouch in front of the sink, open the drawer with my good hand, and start digging around. My fingers fumble through combs, old floss containers, random pieces of junk until they finally close around the small compact case. I pull it out, flip open the lid, and set it down on the counter.

Then I go back in for the sponge. It takes a second longer than it should, but I find it, tucked in the back, stiff at the corners.

I glance down at the makeup pan. There’s barely anything left—just thin, cracked traces of beige clinging to the top of the silver base. I drag the sponge over the surface, collecting what I can, and lift it to my face.

The second it touches my cheek, I regret it. The pressure isn’t even firm—it’s barely a tap—but the pain shoots through me like a live wire, sudden and hot. I flinch back, biting down a sound that nearly escapes, and pull the sponge away.

There’s a faint smear of color on my cheek, but it doesn’t hide anything. It doesn’t help. If anything, it draws more attention to the swelling. Makes it look worse.

The anger breaks before I even know it’s coming.

It’s not enough.

The makeup, the sponge, the effort—it’s not enough to cover it. It never is.

Why can’t it ever be enough?

Before I can stop myself, I snatch the compact and the sponge off the counter and throw them straight into the garbage beside the sink. They clatter against the metal, sharp and final.

I scoop up the pants and the ruined shirt from the floor and storm out of the bathroom, heart pounding, throat burning. I toss the clothes into the corner of my room with the rest of the dirty laundry, like getting them out of sight might make me forget what happened in them.

But then—my eyes land on the guitar in the far corner of the room.

It’s covered in a thin film of dust. The strap’s twisted, strings probably out of tune. I haven’t touched it in so long—not since the Games.

When Peeta came home, everything was too loud, too fast, too full of people hugging and crying and delivering Capitol gifts. There wasn’t any quiet left for music.

And then, when he moved to the Victor’s Village, I learned quickly that we’re not exactly free to say whatever we want in those houses. Peeta never really explained it. Just said it was something Haymitch told him once, drunk and paranoid. I didn’t ask more. I figured whatever reason my Grandmother had for keeping our songs secret was probably the same reason Peeta didn’t want me playing over there.

So I stopped. I forgot about it.

Until now.

I stare at the guitar. And then down at my hand. My swollen, useless, broken hand. I can’t even move my fingers, let alone stretch them around the fretboard. I’ll never play again.

She told me I wasn’t allowed to say anything. Not to Rye. Not to Peeta. And she won’t take me to a doctor—she wouldn’t spend that kind of money.

So what happens now?

I remember something Prim said once, during lunch at school—how she helped someone in the Seam who had a broken arm. How it had to be set right away or it wouldn’t heal properly. And that’s what finally shatters something in me.

What if she lets me walk around like this for the rest of my life?

What if I never get to use my hand again?

Is that why she chose the left one? So I could still write. Still knead dough. Just enough to keep going—but not enough for anything else.

I stumble toward my bed, my vision swimming. The edges of everything blur, the corners of the room tilting like I might tip right over with them. I reach the edge of the mattress and collapse face-first onto the blanket, my whole body sinking.

But the moment my ribs hit the surface, pain spikes through my side and I jerk back with a sharp gasp. I twist to roll onto my back, but that’s worse—my spine screams where the rolling pin struck, and I can feel every raw patch where the skin’s already started to bruise.

I squeeze my eyes shut, breath catching, and try my left side instead. The pillow meets the swollen skin of my cheek and I flinch again, the dull throb of the split lip and bruised bone making my stomach turn.

Finally, I shift onto my right side. It still hurts. Everything hurts. But at least nothing’s pressed directly into the mattress. At least I can breathe without sobbing.

I curl my knees up slightly, trying not to shake. My hand rests uselessly near my chest, fingers already starting to stiffen. And I stay like that—quiet, still, clinging to the only position that doesn’t make me cry out. It’s not comfortable. It’s not relief. It’s just the best I can do.

And that’s when it breaks.

Not the kind of crying I can bite back or blink away. Not the quiet kind I’ve gotten good at hiding.

This time, I sob.

It rips out of me before I can stop it—sharp, broken, too loud for the room. My shoulders shake, my chest tightens, and my breath stutters between gasps that won’t settle. I press my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t help. It only makes the ache in my cheek worse.

I cry like I haven’t let myself cry in years.

Because I did everything right. I stayed quiet. I followed the rules. I tried.

And she still broke me.

My hand throbs with every beat of my heart, and all I can see is the way she looked at me afterward—cold, steady, unbothered. Like I deserved it. Like this was the proof I’d failed.

And maybe I have.

Because I’m here, aren’t I? Curled up in my bed like a child, shaking and crying and completely alone. And no one’s coming.

I catch my breath long enough to open my eyes, the tears still wet on my cheeks. The room is dim, the edges blurry—but the phone is there. Still hanging on the wall. Still within reach.

And I want to call him.

I want to call Peeta so bad it hurts.

I want to tell him everything—that she hit me, that she didn’t stop, that it wasn’t just a slap this time but something worse. I want to say you were right. That I should’ve gone with you when I had the chance. That I should’ve run the second she raised her voice.

He told me. He told me if she ever laid a hand on me again, I had to come straight to his house. That he’d fix it. That he’d protect me. And she did. She didn’t just lay a hand on me—she destroyed me. She took my voice, my hand, my music.

I want him to hold me. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it’s going to be okay. That I didn’t fail. That I’m not weak. That I’m still enough.

But I can’t.

The second I pick up that phone, she’ll hear. She’ll storm in here and make everything worse. She’ll follow through on her threat. And even if—somehow—I made it out and found Peeta, I don’t know if I could even hear him right now. Not over the noise in my own head. Not over the part of me that still believes I deserved it.

Chapter Text

The room is too quiet, but my mind won’t let me rest. Tomorrow—she said I have to go to school. Like nothing happened. Like my broken fingers aren’t throbbing beneath the blanket or my bruised cheek doesn’t scream every time I move. How am I supposed to hide this from Prim? She’s too kind, too curious. She’ll see it, and I know she’ll tell Peeta. It’s only a matter of time before the truth slips out.

And Rye—he’s not going anywhere. He’ll come in here, like he always does, with those worried eyes that won’t stop searching. I hate that he cares so much. Hate that he’s finally decided to step up, because now it feels like everything is going to fall apart. He’ll see my face and dig his heels in, refuse to leave until I tell him everything. And then—he’ll tell Peeta. Like I promised I wouldn’t.

I pull the blanket tighter over my head, trying to block it all out. But it doesn’t work. Every time I close my eyes, it comes back—the crack of the rolling pin, the way my hand bent wrong, the cold silence that followed. It won’t let me forget.

The door creaks open, slow and soft, but it feels like the whole world is crashing down. I freeze—every muscle in me tensing up like I’m about to break. I can’t do this. Not again. Not tonight. I thought I could, thought I’d learned to grit my teeth through the pain, to hold myself together. But I can’t. I’m weak. Just like she said.

Then I hear Rye’s voice—soft, gentle. “Briella?”

I don’t move. I don’t answer. Not because I’m scared of getting hit, but because I know there’s no escaping now. I thought I’d have more time—more time to come up with something, some excuse, some lie that would buy me a few more moments alone. But my brain is spinning so fast, scrambling for a single clear thought, and I know I won’t be able to keep my voice steady if I try to explain.

He closes the door behind him and steps quietly into the room. Without a word, he sits on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re mad at me,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I left.”

I shake my head under the blanket, even though he can’t see me.

“I’m not mad,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.

“She didn’t do anything. She just yelled at me about sleeping over at Peeta’s and told me to stay in my room.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed,” he says.

I shake my head again. “I told you to leave.”

“I know… But still,” he murmurs, voice low.

Then he rests a hand gently on my back—probably to comfort me, to remind me he’s still here. But the moment his fingers touch me, a sharp jolt of pain shoots through my body. I flinch hard—more than just a wince—and my whole body stiffens, a startled breath catching in my throat.

I can’t see him, but I feel his hand jerk away instantly, like he’s been burned. There’s a tense silence. Then the blanket is ripped away from me. Rye’s eyes lock onto mine, wide and alarmed, flicking quickly between my swollen lip and the dark, angry bruise on my cheek.

“Rye, wait—” I scramble to say, panic tightening my chest.

But he’s already on his feet, moving toward the phone.

“I can explain,” I rush out, voice shaking.

Before he can start to type the number, I clamp both my hands around the receiver. Pain explodes from my broken fingers—sharp, burning, blinding. My whole body lurches forward with the force of it, a gasp tearing out of me before I can stop it.

Rye freezes. He sees it—sees the way my face twists, the way my knees buckle slightly like I might crumple right there. He pulls his hand back, dropping the phone like it’s on fire.

Rye stays frozen, eyes fixed on me as I curl back into the bed, pulling my broken hand close to my chest like a fragile secret. My fingers tremble, and I press them tightly against my side, like sheer will could dull the pain.

He takes a shaky step back, his jaw clenched tight. His hands fly up to his hair, gripping handfuls and tugging as if trying to pull the weight of it all from his head.

“No, no, no…” he mutters under his breath, voice thick with panic.

“This is bad,” he says, voice breaking. “This is really bad.”

I want to tell him to stop—please don’t think like that, please don’t panic—but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I force myself to breathe, voice small and shaking. “Rye… it’s okay. It’s not—”

“No, it’s not okay,” he cuts in, running a hand down his face. “You’re hurt, Briella. This isn’t something we can just fix by pretending.”

“I’m fine, Rye,” I say quickly. “It doesn’t even hurt that bad.”

But my voice wavers, and we both hear it.

Rye just stares at me, his eyes wide, disbelieving. “You practically jumped when I grazed your back,” he says, his voice rising with each word. “And your face—and your hand.” He presses his palms to his forehead, like he’s trying to block out the image. “Oh my god, Briella—your hand.”

I shake my head, desperate to calm him down, to make this smaller, more manageable. “Please don’t freak out,” I whisper. “It’s not that—”

But his panic only makes it worse. Because the more he sees, the more he says, the more real it becomes. Like he’s confirming everything I’ve been trying not to believe—that this is bad. That this isn’t fixable. That there’s no version of this where I walk away okay.

And suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe. The walls are too close. The blanket too heavy. His words too loud. Every beat of my heart pounds against the truth, I’m not fine. And we both know it.

Rye turns on his heel and starts toward the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice sharp.

He doesn’t look back. “Peeta’s house.”

Panic slams into my chest like a second heartbeat. “No—Rye, wait!” I stumble forward, my broken hand still clutched tight to my side. “You can’t do that!”

He stops in the doorway, his back rigid. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” I say quickly, closing the distance between us. “Please. Just—just give me a second to explain. I’ll tell you everything, I swear. Just not him, not yet.”

His shoulders rise and fall with a tense breath. “He’s going to find out.”

“Not like this,” I whisper. “Not from you.”

He turns slightly, just enough for me to see the pain twisting his face. “Why are you trying to protect her?”

“I’m not,” I breathe. “I’m trying to protect him, and you and me.”

That makes him pause. I can see the conflict in his eyes, how much he wants to keep moving. But I also know I only have seconds before he picks up momentum again. Before I lose control of this completely.

“Please, Rye,” I say again, softer this time. “Please don’t tell him. Not yet. Not like this.”

I see it—the hesitation flickering across his face. His jaw clenched, his eyes darting between the door and me, like he’s still weighing the consequences. But I already know. There’s nothing I can say that’ll stop him. Nothing I can do to make him understand.

And that’s when I break.

Not to guilt him. Not to change his mind. I just can’t hold it in anymore.

The fear, the helplessness, the weight of everything I’ve been carrying—it crashes all at once. The tears hit before I can stop them, falling fast and hard as my knees buckle and I sink back against the doorframe.

“I can’t—” I choke, barely able to get the words out. “Rye, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through it again.”

He freezes. Completely.

I curl in on myself, my broken hand tucked to my chest, my good one bracing against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. I’m not even trying to be strong anymore. I can’t.

“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I’m so scared.”

When I look up again, Rye’s face has changed. The anger is still there—but now it’s layered with something else. Guilt. Worry. A quiet kind of heartbreak. He looks at me for a long second. Then his shoulders drop, the fight in him deflating. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m not going.”

He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. His arms come up carefully—one around my shoulders, the other reaching to steady me.

But the second he pulls me in, I flinch. It’s instinct. Sharp. Immediate. My body jerks back, and a soft gasp escapes before I can stop it.

His arms drop instantly.

His face shifts—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough to see the pain hit him like a blow. His brow tightens. His mouth parts, like he wants to say something, but no sound comes out. He just stares at me, like he’s trying to understand how we got here. Like he can’t quite believe it.

I hate it.

I hate that I made that face happen. That I let her do this and now he’s the one falling apart over it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. For wincing? For getting hurt? For not being able to take it?

His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “You shouldn’t have to be scared of me.”

“I’m not,” I say quickly. “It’s not you. I just—it hurts.”

“Where does it hurt?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

The words are right there—sitting just behind my teeth, hot and heavy, burning to be spoken—but I can’t. Because the second they leave my mouth, everything changes.

He’ll tell Peeta. I know he will. No matter what I ask, no matter how I beg, Rye won’t let this stay between us. He’ll march down to the Victor’s Village, and Peeta will see my face, my hand, all of it. And he’ll know.

He’ll know I stayed. He’ll know I didn’t come when I promised I would. He’ll know I let her hurt me again.

And if I try to stop Rye—if I tell him why he can’t go—then it’ll be worse. Because he’ll start blaming himself. He’ll remember how he stood in that hallway and walked away while I said I had it under control. He’ll think it’s his fault. That he failed me. And he didn’t. He didn’t know.

But if I keep it in—if I lie again, cover it up, pretend I fell or that I got into some stupid accident—I’m letting her win. I’m following the rules she carved into me. Be quiet. Obey. Don’t tell.

My chest aches. My throat is closing in on itself. I don’t know how to protect all of them at once—Peeta, Rye, even myself.

I don’t know how to hold this alone anymore.

I lift my eyes, and Rye’s face is still there—soft, steady, full of fear. His brows drawn tight, his hands hovering at his sides like he’s afraid to touch me again.

And something in me cracks.

I slide down the wall without meaning to, my knees folding, my back catching the edge of the dresser. My body sinks to the floor, and I don’t fight it.

I can’t.

I curl in on myself, broken hand cradled to my chest, my right hand covering my face like I can hide from him, from this, from everything. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “I can’t carry it anymore.”

Rye kneels beside me, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he moves too fast. His voice comes low and rough—he’s trying to hold it steady, but I can hear the break in it. The way it catches around the edges. The way he’s breaking with me.

“You don’t have to carry it, Briella,” he says. “Give it to me. I’ll carry it. Just tell me what happened and I’ll fix it.”

I shake my head, not looking at him. My good hand curls tighter over my broken one, trying to protect it from the air, from the truth, from him.

“You can’t,” I whisper. “You can’t fix it.”

His breath hitches beside me. He doesn’t speak right away. Maybe because he knows I’m right. Maybe because he wants to argue and doesn’t know how without making it worse.

Then—softly—“Please let me try.”

But I just shake my head again. Because I’m still trying to hold it in. Because I’m still afraid that if I say it out loud, it becomes real. I keep my eyes on the floor.

“I can’t tell you,” I whisper. “Because if I do… then Peeta will know. And if he knows, it all falls apart.”

Rye doesn’t interrupt. He waits.

So I keep going.

“She was already mad this morning. About me lying. About me sleeping over at Peeta’s. She said I needed to stop relying on him. That I wouldn’t be allowed to see him again until I learned who’s in charge.”

My throat tightens. But I keep going.

“So I tried. I worked all day. I didn’t complain. I didn’t stop. Even when my legs hurt, even when I wanted to cry, I didn’t stop. I thought maybe… maybe if I got through the day, if I didn’t mess up once, she’d let it go.”

My voice starts to crack.

“But then I had to pee. I waited until the bakery closed. And she thought I was taking a break. That I was slacking. But I wasn’t, Rye, I swear. I just… I just needed a second.”

The guilt hits hard, and it comes out in a rush.

“And then she saw you trying to defend me. And I knew it would make it worse. Because that’s what she’s mad about too—that you and Peeta always stick up for me. She told me that. She said I had to stop running to you guys every time something went wrong. That I had to do this by myself.”

I look at him now, pleading. His face is pale, jaw tight, like he’s holding his breath just to keep from breaking with me.

“That’s why I told you to leave. I didn’t want to, Rye. I wanted you to stay. I always want you to stay. But I thought maybe if she saw me trying—if she saw me not leaning on you—it would fix it.”

I shake my head. “But it didn’t.”

My next words come broken and small.

“She said if I told anyone—if I told you, if I told Peeta—she’d do it again. She’d make it worse.”

And when I say that, I start crying again—not just from the pain, but from the fear of it happening all over.

I finally meet his eye. “Please don’t tell Peeta,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse, barely hanging on. “I can’t do it again, Rye.”

He nods, and there’s no hesitation. “I won’t.”

There’s a pause, heavy and careful. Then he says, “Just… tell me where she hit you.”

I shake my head. “I just told you why I can’t.”

His expression shifts—something softer now, something almost breaking.

“I won’t use it against her,” he says quietly. “I won’t tell her that I know. I just—” He stops, swallows. “Just tell me where it hurts, so I can try to make it better.”

I open my mouth. Close it again. My throat tightens. Then I say it, barely audible. “Everywhere.”

His face twists before I can take it back.

It’s not horror. Not outrage. It’s something quieter. Sadder. His brows pull together, his mouth presses into this tight, helpless line, and his eyes—his stupid, soft eyes—just drop to my lap like he can’t bear to look at me anymore.

And this—this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell him. Because I knew he’d look like this. Like he’s carrying it now too. Like I handed it off to him without meaning to.

And I hate it.

I hate the way his shoulders sink under the weight of it. I hate the guilt written all over his face. I hate knowing that he’s sitting here, blaming himself, because I couldn’t just keep it to myself one more night.

This is my mess. My pain. My failure.

And now he’s wearing it on his face like it’s his.

Rye shifts beside me, his movements careful, measured. “Does it hurt under your arms?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, barely.

He hesitates—just for a second—then nods like he’s cataloguing every detail, tucking it away like it matters. Like I matter. Then he slides his arms under my armpits, his hands bracing my back with featherlight pressure, and starts to lift.

I bite down a sound—part gasp, part cry—and brace myself as my body follows. Even my shirt brushing across my back feels like sandpaper. Every inch of movement scrapes something raw. I brace myself anyway.

He’s strong. Steady. I can feel the warmth of him through my shirt, the way he tries not to jostle me. I want to let go. Let myself fall forward, melt into his chest and let him carry all of it—me, the pain, the weight of today. I want that more than anything.

But I can’t.

Because I know the second I lean into him, I’ll feel every bruise, every cracked and swollen piece of me, all over again. Just moving hurts. Touch hurts. Letting go would only make it worse.

So I keep myself upright. I hold as much of my own weight as I can, even though my legs tremble and my broken hand hangs uselessly between us. Because the truth is, I can’t let him carry me. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not all the way. No matter how much I want to.

He helps me to the bed, each step slow and stiff, like my body’s made of splintered wood. Once we reach the edge, he looks down at me and nods toward the blankets.

“Lie down,” he says gently.

I shake my head. “It hurts too much.” Lying down means pressure—means more pain.

His face falls for half a second, like he hates that he even asked. Then he nods again. “Okay. Okay.” He looks around the room, then back at me. “I’ll be right back.”

Panic sparks instantly in my chest. “Rye—”

He turns back before I can even finish the thought. “Two seconds,” he promises, voice low and certain. “I’m not leaving. I swear. I’ll be right back.”

He steps out of the room, and the second the door clicks shut behind him, the fear slams into me. Hard. My eyes dart to the hallway, to the shadows pooling beneath the doorframe.

Because now I’m alone.

Now she could come back.

She could open the door and pretend none of this happened, or worse—pretend it’s my fault again. Say I told. Say I failed another test.

My breath comes fast and shallow. I try to ground myself, count my heartbeats, focus on the sound of Rye’s footsteps down the hall. Then—the door opens again. I flinch so hard it sends a jolt through my ribs.

But it’s just Rye.

He steps back inside quietly, eyes darting to mine, like he already knows what I thought. He lifts his hand to show me what he’s holding: a small metal tin, slightly dented at the corner.

The salve.

The one Mrs. Everdeen gave me when I showed up at their door with a black eye. It feels like a lifetime ago now. I remember how she didn’t even ask what happened—just pressed the tin into my hand and told me how to use it, her voice calm, her touch gentle. I gave it to Rye a few weeks later, after that fight with Gale left his knuckles split and his cheek swelling.

A flicker of something rises in my chest—something I can’t quite name. I know she’s not perfect. Prim’s told me that. That sometimes she disappears into herself, gets lost in that quiet sadness that never really goes away. But still—she’s never hurt her kids. Never raised a hand or slammed a door. Prim only ever had to be afraid of what her mother wouldn’t do. Not what she would.

My throat tightens. “I didn’t know you kept that.”

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to make it sound like nothing. “Couldn’t get rid of something made by the magical Mrs. Everdeen.”

His voice is light, like he’s hoping it’ll make me smile.

It doesn’t.

I’m too numb. Too tired. Too sore to even pretend. He sees it. I can tell. The way his eyes drop for a second, like he’s disappointed in himself for trying. But he doesn’t comment. He just moves toward me, slower now, and crouches beside the bed again.

“Thought maybe it’d help a little,” he says gently, opening the tin. “Only if you want.”

I nod my head.

He sets it down on the nightstand without a word, but when he looks at me again, his brow pulls slightly. Then, without thinking, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face.

I flinch.

Not because I’m afraid of him—not really. But my body still recoils, it’s trained now to expect pain whenever someone gets too close.

He freezes. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his hand back like he touched fire.

“It’s not you,” I murmur. But the damage is done—my own reaction hangs between us like smoke.

He studies me for a second longer, then says gently, “Can I fix your hair?”

I blink. “You know how?”

A small almost-smirk tugs at his mouth. “No. But if Peeta can do it, how hard can it be?”

Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost.

I nod slowly, and reach behind my head to undo what’s left of my braid—if you can even call it that anymore. It’s mostly a frizzy mess, half fallen apart, the tie clinging to the end by sheer determination. I yank it free and hand it to him.

He takes it like it might shatter, gives me the tiniest reassuring smile, and then stares down at it like it’s a puzzle piece from a game he’s never played.

“Put it around your wrist,” I tell him softly. “Like a bracelet. So you can grab it when you’re done.”

He nods once and slips it on.

“It’s probably too tangled to braid again,” I add. “Just gather all the hair and bring it to the top. That’s what Peeta does when it’s a mess.”

He gathers all the hair like I said—fingers a little clumsy, but gentle—and pulls it to the top of my head. It tugs a bit, but I don’t complain. I don’t even wince. I sit perfectly still while he twists it once, then twice, then fumbles to wrap the hair tie around it.

It’s too loose. He tries again. I feel him mutter something under his breath, focused like he’s trying to defuse a bomb. Finally, the band snaps into place, barely holding the whole mess together.

“There,” he says, stepping back. “Messy bun.”

I glance up at him. He’s smiling at his work—just a little, but it’s real. Like he’s proud of himself. And despite everything—the pain, the fear, the weight still pressing down on my chest—I feel something start to loosen.

It’s not a laugh. Not even a smile. But it’s close.

Rye glances at the tin on the bedside table. “Can I put it on now?”

I nod.

He reaches over and opens it carefully, like it might break in his hands. The lid pops off with a soft clink. He dips two fingers into the salve—slow, precise—and then turns back to me.

His hand comes up to my cheek. I try not to flinch. I do. But even with everything in me screaming to stay still, I still lean back the tiniest bit.

His touch pauses midair.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says gently, like he’s reminding me of something I already know.

“I know,” I whisper.

And I do. It’s not him I’m afraid of. It’s the memory of pain, so fresh and sharp that even kindness feels dangerous. But when his fingers finally brush the edge of the bruise, they’re warm. Careful. Feather-light. The salve is cool against my skin. Calming.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just keeps going—soft and steady—as if he’s got all the time in the world. Rye pulls his hand back, but his eyes linger on my face longer than I’d like.

I shift under the weight of it, then glance down. “Stop staring,” I murmur.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “I just… I hate seeing you like this.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. Because I hate it too—being looked at like I’m broken. Like something delicate. Like someone who needs fixing.

After a moment, he speaks again, even softer. “Where else does it hurt?”

I hesitate. Then I slowly lift the hem of my shirt just enough to show him the bruise curling under my ribs. It’s already gone dark, purpling at the edges. His breath catches. He doesn’t say anything right away. Doesn’t touch it. Just looks—carefully, gently, like if he stares too hard it might spread. I wait, chest tight, not sure what I expect him to say. Not sure I want to hear it.

Rye finally exhales, eyes still on the bruise. “We’re gonna need a lot more salve,” he says, voice rough but trying for light.

I manage a small smile, barely there. “I’m gonna run Mrs. Everdeen dry.”

There’s a pause, a gentler kind of quiet now. The kind that says, we’re still here. We’re still trying.

Rye scoops a bit more of the salve onto his fingers, his touch careful as he lifts the hem of my shirt just enough to reach the bruises. I brace myself, biting down on the inside of my cheek, but it doesn’t help. The second the salve touches my ribs, I jerk. Not much—just a flinch—but it’s enough.

His face twists, his mouth parting like he’s about to apologize, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He just keeps going, even slower now, like he’s terrified of hurting me again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

“I know,” I breathe. The words barely come out. I’m not mad at him. It’s not him I’m afraid of.

He hesitates, fingers still hovering over my side. “What did she hit you with?”

I close my eyes.

His voice is soft, not pushing. Just trying to understand. “You don’t have to say it if—”

“I can’t tell you,” I whisper, opening my eyes again.

“I already said I won’t tell Peeta.”

“It’s not that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I just… I can’t relive it yet.”

Something in his face changes—some thread pulled tight behind his eyes goes slack. Not out of ease. Just… surrender. He gives a tiny nod.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and that’s it.

When he finishes with my ribs, he pulls the shirt gently back down and smooths it into place like he’s afraid even the fabric might hurt.

“Where else?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer right away. I’m staring at a spot on the blanket, trying to breathe through the sting that’s still blooming under my skin. He’s patient, just watching me, his hands resting in his lap now like he’s waiting for permission.

“My back,” I murmur finally. “A little.”

I can feel him hesitate. I don’t blame him. It’s not an easy thing to ask. Not an easy thing to do.

“Can I see?” he asks gently, not pushing.

I nod once, slow. “Just… just the top. I don’t want to turn all the way.”

“Okay.”

He helps me shift slightly, careful to keep my broken hand steady, and I feel the back of my shirt lift just enough for him to see. I don’t have to look to know what he sees. I saw it in the mirror. The angry welts. The bruises already darkening along my shoulder blades. I hear his breath hitch—just barely—but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He dips his fingers back into the tin, and I brace myself again.

“This one’s gonna be cold,” he says, almost like a warning. Maybe even trying to make me smile. It doesn’t work. But I appreciate the effort.

He touches the salve to my back and I flinch again—more from instinct than pain this time. But his hand steadies.

“Almost done,” he promises, voice low.

I nod, eyes stinging, and let him finish.

He finishes and pulls my shirt back down, then sets the tin carefully on the nightstand like it’s something fragile. His hands hover for a second, like he wants to do more but doesn’t know how.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asks gently.

I blink, then I think back. The morning. The bakery. The kitchen. And then everything after.

“No,” I say quietly.

It surprises me a little, how certain I am once I say it out loud. Not even a crust of bread. Not a bite. And somehow, I’m not even hungry. I try to remember the last time I felt hunger and can’t.

“I’m not,” I pause, then correct myself, “I don’t feel hungry.”

Rye doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me for a moment, his jaw tight, eyes flicking between mine like he’s trying to read something I haven’t said yet.

“That happens,” he says finally. “When you’re… when it’s a lot.”

I nod once, but my eyes sting again.

He doesn’t press. He just reaches over, tucks the blanket back around me, and says, “We’ll try later.”

And I’m grateful he says we.

Rye shifts beside me and says softly, “You should try to get some sleep.”

I nod, the words a quiet agreement I’m not sure I fully mean. For a moment, I almost ask him to stay. I know he would—he’s shown me that much tonight, that he won’t leave me alone. But the thought of what might happen in the morning cuts through me like a cold wind. If she comes in and finds us here—if she sees me leaning on him, if she sees him here in my room—it’ll be proof. Proof I asked for help. Proof I needed him.

And I can’t risk that. Not now. Not ever.

But then I remember the panic, the sharp fear that flooded me when he left the room for just a second earlier. The empty silence that filled the space after the door closed.

I swallow hard and turn to him.

“Can you stay with me… till I fall asleep?”

His eyes soften, and he nods without hesitation. “Of course.”

I want to say more, but the words feel heavy in my throat. Finally, I add, almost too quietly, “But… can you leave after that? I just don’t want her to see.”

He gives me a small, understanding smile. “I’ll be gone before she even knows.”

Rye stands up carefully, his movements slow and gentle. He reaches for the light switch and flips it off, plunging the room into soft shadows.

I settle back into the bed, shifting slowly, searching for that one position where the pain isn’t sharp enough to break me again. My broken hand rests lightly against the blanket, my breath uneven but slowing.

A moment later, I feel him return. Rye slips onto the narrow bed beside me, close enough that I can sense his warmth even in the dark. I never asked him to climb in, but now that he’s here, I can breathe again. Just a little. The closer he is, the tiniest bit safer I feel.

I don’t say anything. I just close my eyes and try to breathe, the steady presence beside me a fragile lifeline in the quiet night. As the quiet stretches between us, Rye’s voice breaks the stillness—soft, steady, almost a whisper. “I’m right here, Briella. You’re not alone.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. The words settle in my chest, warm and heavy, even as something colder stirs beneath them. Tomorrow is still waiting—sharp-edged and unknown. I have no idea what it’s going to bring. What she’ll say. What she’ll do. What excuse I’ll have to come up with next.

But right now… I’m not alone.

And for tonight, that’s enough. I can’t carry everything, not yet. But he’s holding enough to let me rest.

My eyes flutter shut, my body finally beginning to let go. The ache doesn’t disappear, but it fades just enough, dulled by the weight of Rye’s presence beside me. Sleep comes quickly after that—pulling me under, quiet and slow—before I can think too much about what comes next.

Chapter Text

I wake to the feeling of someone brushing against my arm.

Soft. Careful. But that doesn’t matter.

My body jolts before my mind can catch up—heart in my throat, breath snatched from my lungs. I twist away from the touch, a cry tearing out as pain spikes down my ribs and through my hand. I shove blindly at the blanket, trying to scramble back, to get away before she can grab me, before the punishment starts.

“Bri—hey, hey, it’s just me.”

The voice cuts through the dark.

Everything stills.

Not her.

But I don’t believe it at first. My body is too tense, my chest too tight. My eyes search the room, but it’s still dim—barely lit by the dull blue wash of early morning slipping through the curtains. The shadows blur everything, stretch the shape beside me until I can’t tell who it is.

My fingers curl weakly around the blanket. I blink hard, breath still coming too fast. Then, slowly—too slowly—his face comes into focus.

Rye.

Kneeling beside the bed, hand held out but not touching. Eyes soft. Worried.

“You’re okay,” he says again, gentler now. “It’s just me.”

I breathe in sharp. Exhale shakily. He’s not touching me. He’s not angry. He’s just here. My chest still feels too tight. But the fear starts to slip away, like it’s draining out through the blankets. Not all of it—but enough.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought…”

“I know.” His voice is low, certain. “You don’t have to explain.”

And somehow, that’s the part that almost breaks me. Because I didn’t mean to be scared of him. I know it’s not him. But my body’s still trying to unlearn what it’s been taught.

My breath finally evens out. My heart’s still pounding, but not with the same blind panic. Just the leftover hum of fear, buzzing low in my ribs. I blink again, wiping at my face with the back of my good hand. “What are you doing here?” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep.

Rye glances toward the doorway, then back at me. “I wanted to wake you up before Mom did.”

I nod slowly, the weight of it settling on my chest. He didn’t just come to check on me—he came to protect me from what the morning might bring.

From her.

I sit up carefully, each movement sending a fresh wave of soreness through my limbs. My fingers throb with a low, pulsing ache. My back feels tight, ribs raw. Even my legs protest as I swing them off the bed and plant my feet on the cold floor.

Everything hurts.

Rye doesn’t say anything at first, just watches—eyes dark and heavy—as I peel myself out of the blankets and start to push upright.

“Where are you going?” he asks quietly.

I pause only for a second. “Work.”

“Briella,” he says softly. Not angry. Just… sad. Like he already knows how this ends.

But I don’t stop moving. “I have to,” I whisper.

He hears it in my voice—the edge, the desperation. The quiet fear laced through every syllable. Because we both know what happens if I don’t. If she opens that door and finds me still in bed.

He nods once. Slow. Reluctant. Then shifts out of the way so I can stand.

I move stiffly to the dresser and tug open the top drawer. Everything inside feels wrong—too stiff, too tight, too scratchy. My fingers brush over fabric until I find something soft: a pair of loose cotton pants, worn thin from years of washing.

I pull them out, then hesitate. My broken hand hangs useless at my side.

I hold the pants out to him. “Can you help me?” I ask quietly.

Rye takes them without a word, just a small nod and a breath through his nose like he’s steadying himself. Not because he minds. Just because this is another thing neither of us ever thought we’d have to do.

But he doesn’t flinch. He just kneels beside me, and holds the pants open near the floor so I can step in. I rest my good hand on his shoulder to steady myself, trying not to wince as I lift each leg.

He pulls the waistband up carefully, threading the soft cotton over bruises and swollen skin, moving slow like he’s afraid to hurt me. When he gets to the tie, he pauses—fingers brushing the string at my waist. He ties it gently, snug but not tight, then just… stays there for a moment, one hand still resting on the knot. He doesn’t look up. Just stares at it like the motion itself meant something. Like this was a line he never thought he’d cross.

Before I can ask what he’s doing, he speaks—quiet, matter-of-fact. “Let me get you some socks. Floor’s cold.”

He stands without waiting for a response, crosses the room to the closet, and rummages quietly until he finds a pair. Soft, thick ones with worn heels and frayed tops. He brings them over and sets them on the bed.

I sit down, moving slow, and hold my broken hand out of the way.

He kneels again, slipping the first sock over my foot, then the second. His hands are gentle. Steady. Like he’s trying to convince me, wordlessly, that I deserve to be handled with care.

Rye stands and nods toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.”

I nod, wordless, and follow him out of the room. Each step down the stairs sends a quiet pulse through my body—throbbing reminders of everything I’m carrying. I grip the railing with my good hand, slow and careful, doing my best not to let it show how much it hurts.

When we reach the bottom, it’s quiet. Still early.

Only my father is there, sitting at the dining room table with a mug between his hands, the steam long gone cold. He looks up when he hears us, but I don’t meet his eyes.

I’m not ready. Not after yesterday. Not when I can still hear the sound of my own bones breaking while he was right there. He could’ve stopped it. But he didn’t.

I walk past him without a word. Just like he did

My legs carry me through the doorway into the kitchen—and then I stop. My breath catches mid-step, sudden and sharp, like someone’s pulled a wire tight around my chest.

There it is.

A drop of blood near the counter, dried but still red. Stark against the tile. And on the counter, the rolling pin. Exactly where she left it.

Like she wanted me to see it.

Like it’s waiting. Daring me to flinch.

My heart stutters. The room blurs at the edges. It’s yesterday all over again—her voice, her fury, the way it came down without warning. My hand curls instinctively, the broken fingers tucked close to my side.

I can’t move. I can’t look away.

It’s still here.

Like none of it ever left.

Behind me, Rye’s footsteps slow. Then stop. He sees it. Or maybe he just sees me—sees how I’ve gone still, how my breath’s caught somewhere in my throat. How I’m staring at a patch of floor like it might come alive and hurt me all over again.

He steps beside me, silent, his eyes scanning where mine won’t move.

His voice is low. Tense. “Is that what she hit you with?”

My eyes flick to the rolling pin.

I nod. That’s all I can do.

Rye doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t ask again. He just walks forward, eyes fixed on it like it’s something venomous. He picks it up slowly, like it might still bite. His jaw is clenched tight. Then he turns and places it in the cabinet, far back, out of sight. Closes the door gently. Not slamming it. Not making a sound.

I let out a a shaky breath.

Rye crosses the kitchen and pulls an apron from the hook. He unfolds it, careful not to tug at the strings, and steps in front of me.

“Here,” he says softly.

I don’t move at first, but then I nod, just once, and let my arms hang at my sides. I stand still, letting him do what I can’t. He slips the apron over my head gently, the fabric brushing over my sore shoulder. Then he crouches a little to tie the strings behind me, leaving them loose enough not to press against the bruises.

He lingers for a second—his hands resting lightly at the small of my back. Then he straightens and leans in, his voice low so only I can hear. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “You can go upstairs. I’ll deal with it.”

I almost say yes.

The ache in my body is screaming for it—for rest, for quiet, for something soft. Sleep was the only time it didn’t hurt. The only place I could drift far enough from all of this to pretend it wasn’t real.

But I can’t. I can’t risk it.

If she comes down and finds me hiding, if she thinks I’m skipping out on work again, it’ll be worse next time. And I’m not sure I could take a next time.

So I swallow the lump in my throat, plant my feet, and shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “I need to stay.”

Rye doesn’t argue. He just gives a small nod, the kind that says he hates this but he understands. Then he gently adjusts the apron one last time, making sure it’s not pulling anywhere it shouldn’t. Making sure I’m as comfortable as I can be—given everything.

The kitchen feels heavier than usual. The smell of flour, yeast, and smoke should be comforting, familiar. But today it’s like breathing through a curtain—distant, muted, wrong.

I move toward the counter on the far side, careful to keep my broken hand tucked close to my chest. It’s wrapped in fabric, useless, swollen. I try to roll up my sleeve with my other hand, but it keeps falling.

Rye is already there beside me, hands moving quietly as he pulls out the mixing bowls, the flour bin, the sugar.

I try to help.

I grab a spoon and reach for the salt jar, but it slips in my grip and hits the counter with a dull thunk. Not loud. But enough to make me flinch.

My hand shakes. Everything is harder with just one arm—measuring, pouring, even just keeping the bowl from spinning on the table. And I can feel Rye watching. He doesn’t say anything at first, just moves a little closer, quietly adjusting the setup so I don’t have to reach as far. He doesn’t take over. He just… makes room for me to keep trying.

At some point, I realize he’s doing everything I can’t without making it obvious. Holding the bowl steady when I stir. Sliding the butter closer when I hesitate. Moving the heavy sack of flour down low so I don’t have to strain.

Neither of us talks. The silence isn’t easy, but it’s manageable. It’s filled with the quiet rhythm of baking—metal against wood, the low thud of ingredients dropped into bowls, the gentle rustle of sleeves and fabric. It’s the kind of silence that feels like survival.

Eventually, my arm starts to shake from overuse. My fingers fumble again, and this time Rye steps in.

“Switch with me,” he says gently. “I’ll mix, you portion.”

I don’t argue. I just nod and trade places.

We fall back into the work again. Slower than usual. Clumsier. But still—together.

The kitchen is quiet except for the low thud of dough and the rustle of flour-dusted cloth. I work beside Rye, trying to fall into the rhythm, pretending my body isn’t aching, pretending this is just another morning. But I only have one good hand, and the dough keeps slipping out from under my palm, sticking where it shouldn’t, folding unevenly. Every time it does, I feel the frustration mount—but I keep going.

Then the stairs start to creak.

I stiffen before I even turn.

Her footsteps are soft, but I hear them anyway—slow and measured, like she’s taking her time deciding who she’s going to be today. My breath catches. I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I can already feel her eyes on me, sharp and expectant.

When I finally glance up, she gives me a look. Not cruel. Not kind. Just that subtle, pointed one that means move. My feet respond before my mind does. I shift away from Rye—just a few steps, barely noticeable, like I suddenly need more space to work. But Rye sees it. Of course he does. His body tenses beside me, the way it always does right before he picks a fight he knows he’ll regret.

I reach out before he can say anything, my good hand curling over his thigh. A quiet plea. He glances down at me, surprised, then sighs and lets the tension drain from his shoulders—for now.

She walks in fully now, and each step drags something deeper out of me—a knot of fear, a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I keep kneading, trying to pretend I don’t feel her getting closer. But I can’t get the dough right with one hand—it slips again, folding awkwardly beneath my palm. My fingers tremble harder with each mistake.

She stops beside me.

“Use both hands. It keeps slipping,” she says quietly, like she’s giving me a useful tip and not standing in the same place where she broke my hand less than a day ago.

“What?” I ask, voice thin and shaky.

“You can’t knead dough with one hand.”

I nod. I don’t argue. I don’t look at her. I just lift my broken hand—slowly, carefully—and press it into the dough.

Pain explodes through me like glass tearing apart my skin. My whole arm screams. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I keep kneading, pretending it doesn’t hurt, pretending I can handle this.

“Mom,” Rye says, his voice suddenly cutting across the room, sharper than I’ve ever heard it.

I look up at him. His face is tight, furious, one hand frozen in mid-motion like he’s trying to decide whether to throw something or walk out.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, my voice louder now, steadier. “I already told you—I fell down the stairs. I’m fine.”

And to prove it, I push my broken hand deeper into the dough. The pain is blinding. But I bite my cheek. I breathe. I don’t stop.

He stares at me, but I don’t look back. I keep working. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. She just watches. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll fail this one too.

I try to ignore the pain. I try to keep going. But my body is screaming at me. The pressure is too much, and the ache spreads like fire—my head spinning, my legs unsteady.

The pain swells. The dough blurs. The room tilts. I hear someone say my name, but I can’t tell who.

Then everything goes black.

When I wake, the first thing I feel is the ache. Deep and dull, threaded through every inch of me. My back, my ribs, my hand—it all hurts, like my body is reminding me I’m still here, still broken. I blink slowly, trying to get my bearings.

The room is dim. My room.

I shift slightly and catch sight of Rye, sitting at my desk. He’s hunched forward, elbows on the surface, his fingers curled tightly around the phone. He’s just staring at it like he’s waiting for it to do something. Like it might decide for him.

My voice comes out dry and cracked. “Rye… don’t.”

His head snaps toward me, like he forgot I was even here. Relief flashes across his face—fast, fierce—but it doesn’t stay. It twists into something sharper, something that cuts both of us.

“You fainted,” he says. His voice is quiet, but not soft. It’s the kind of quiet that vibrates with fury.

I push myself up slowly, wincing as my ribs pull and my hand throbs. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, his jaw tight. “I’m calling Peeta.”

The panic hits fast. Hard. “Please, Rye,” I whisper, the words catching on my breath. “Don’t.”

He hears it—the desperation, the fear, the pleading. I can see it in the way his eyes flick from me to the phone, like he’s caught between two impossible choices. For a second, I think he’s going to do it anyway. That he’ll dial the number and hand me the fallout whether I’m ready or not.

But then he slumps forward, the phone slipping from his hand. He buries his head in his arms, his shoulders folding in on themselves like the weight of this—of all of this—is finally too much.

“Briella,” he says, muffled and raw, “I can’t do this. I can’t help you pretend this is fine.”

“Please, Rye,” I whisper, voice shaking. “Just give me one more day. Let me figure this out.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

“Just let me get through today,” I add, more urgently now. “We can figure it out later, when I get home from—“

And then it hits me.

School.

I sit up too fast, pain slicing through my ribs like a blade. “What time is it?”

His head lifts immediately. “What?”

“What time is it, Rye?” My voice rises, frantic now.

He blinks, thrown. “Just past eight.”

My heart drops. I’m going to be late. I throw the blanket off and swing my legs off the bed, ignoring the burn in my joints, the way my hand pulses with every movement.

Rye stands up too. “What are you doing?”

“I need to get ready,” I mutter, already heading to the closet.

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Briella, you passed out in the middle of the kitchen. You are not going to school.”

I freeze for just a second, then turn and meet his eyes head-on, so he can see it—how serious I am, how much I need this.

“Yes, I am.”

Rye doesn’t move. “Briella—”

“She told me I need to go,” I cut in, crossing the room toward the closet. “She said if I want to keep seeing Peeta, I have to start showing her I know who’s in charge.” I grab the closet door with my good hand and yank it open, already reaching for whatever I can manage. “This is another test, Rye. If I don’t go, she’ll use it against me. She’ll say I didn’t listen. She’ll say I’m failing again.”

“Briella,” Rye says, voice sharper now, “you need to stop talking about tests.”

“I already failed one,” I say before I can stop myself. “This morning. I stopped working.”

Rye’s head jerks toward me. “You didn’t stop working,” he says, fierce and fast. “You passed out.”

I ignore him. I manage to pull a blouse off the hanger—wrong season, slightly wrinkled—but I don’t care. My hand is already shaking from the effort. I press it to my chest to keep it steady.

“She’s testing me,” I mutter again. “She wants to see if I’ll do it.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Rye snaps. “She doesn’t care if you go to school or not—she just wants control.” His voice rises. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t, Rye,” I say, turning around to face him.

He looks at me and I can see the moment something in him breaks. “What did she do to you?” he breathes. “You used to fight back.”

“I am fighting—”

“No, you’re not.” His voice is trembling now. “You’re doing whatever she says. You’re—” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re scared. I get it. But this? You used to have fire. You used to stand your ground even when it got you in trouble. And now you’re just—“

“Please don’t,” I whisper.

He stops.

I stare down at the clothes in my hand. My fingers are trembling. I don’t even try to hide it.

“You don’t get it,” I say quietly. “You don’t get why I have to follow her rules.”

I swallow hard, blinking fast.

“I was so scared, Rye.” My voice cracks. “Not just because it hurt—it did. But… it wasn’t just that.”

I take a breath, try to steady myself, but it’s already unraveling.

“She was playing this game with me all day. Watching, waiting—just to see if I’d slip. And I kept thinking, if I got it all right, maybe she’d let it go.”

My throat tightens, but I keep going.

“But in the kitchen… with the rolling pin… that was the worst part. She aimed for my hand, Rye. She knew I’d move it. Anyone would. And then she punished me for that—like I was supposed to just let it happen.”

I shake my head slowly, barely holding it together.

“I didn’t know what was safe anymore. Didn’t know what she wanted, or what I was allowed to do. It was like—every move I made was wrong. Like I was losing before I even started.”

I press my lips together, then say it—quiet and shaking.

“That’s what’s messing with me. That’s why I’m scared. Because if that wasn’t the worst she can do… if there’s more coming—”

I can’t finish. My voice breaks on the last word.

“I won’t survive that,” I whisper. “I barely made it through this.”

I sink down onto the edge of the bed. My shoulders fold in, blouse still clutched in my good hand like it’s the only thing tethering me to the moment.

“I’m not strong like you think I am,” I murmur. “I’m just… trying to keep up. Trying to get through the next thing. Because if I stop—if I fall behind—then she wins.”

I look up at him finally, eyes glassy, voice thin.

“I was so scared.”

Rye doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there, looking at me—really looking—and I see the horror in his face, the guilt sinking deep into every line. It’s like he’s trying to process all of it at once and it’s too much. Like some part of him is breaking and trying to hold itself together at the same time.

His jaw tenses, his hands ball into fists at his sides. But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just stands there and sees me. And somehow, that’s worse than anything he could say.

His hands come up and drag down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a nightmare. Then he turns and starts pacing—small, tight circles like he doesn’t know what to do with the fury building in his chest.

“She did that to you?” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “She did that to you?”

He stops mid-step and runs both hands through his hair. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched so tight I think it might crack. “I was right there, Briella. And I left. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming.”

He turns to me again, eyes wild with guilt and disbelief. “She watched you suffer on purpose. Played games with you—hurt you—and just… walked away like it was nothing?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. But the silence is answer enough.

Rye shakes his head, stepping back like the thought physically knocks the wind out of him. “That’s not a mother. That’s not—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t.

He paces again, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub the image from his mind. “How the hell are we supposed to pretend this didn’t happen?”

His voice breaks on the last word.

I watch him start to come undone—his pacing growing more frantic, hands moving through his hair like they’re trying to tear the guilt out by the root. He’s spiraling, fast.

And I can’t let him. Because if he breaks down, if I lose him too… I really won’t make it.

“Rye.” My voice is thin.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look at me.

“Rye,” I say again, firmer this time. He finally turns.

“We just have to get through today,” I tell him quietly. “Just for now. Don’t make a big deal of it. Not yet.”

His brows knit together, like he wants to argue, to scream, to fix something—anything.

“Maybe she needs time,” I add. “Or maybe I need time. To come up with something. Anything.”

He’s still watching me, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile in place.

Then he exhales slowly. “You can stay here,” he says. “I’ll tell her you’re at school. I’ll cover for you. I won’t let her out of my sight—she won’t even know you’re here.”

I shake my head immediately. “I can’t risk it.”

“Briella—”

“No. If I mess up for even a second—if I make a noise, if I go to the bathroom—if she hears me—” My throat tightens. “It’ll be so much worse.”

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy.

“And if I stay in this house any longer,” I whisper, “I think I’ll go insane.”

There’s no dramatics in my voice—just bone-deep exhaustion, a truth so heavy I can barely lift it.

“Please,” I finish. “I just need a break.”

Something in his posture eases—not much, but enough. His shoulders drop a little, his hands still, his eyes soften.

He nods. Once. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

Rye doesn’t say anything else. He just crosses the room, his steps slow but sure, and goes straight to my closet. I don’t ask what he’s doing—I don’t need to.

He flips through a few things, careful, like touching anything too fast might break it. Then he settles on one of the softer shirts—cotton worn thin at the seams. Rye carries it back over like it’s something fragile and sets it gently on the bed beside me. His eyes flick to mine for a second, checking.

I don’t speak. I just let go of the blouse in my hand and nod once.

His fingers brush the hem of the shirt I’m already wearing, and then he pauses—like he’s asking permission without using the words.

I nod, just barely.

He helps me out of it slowly, carefully easing it over my shoulders. I bite the inside of my cheek as the fabric drags across my skin. Every movement sends a dull throb through my ribs and back. I keep my eyes on the floor.

But I can feel it when he sees.

The pause.

The way his breath changes.

He doesn’t say anything—not a sound—but I know he’s looking. The bruises are worse this morning. Deeper. Angrier. They paint my side in swollen, purpling streaks that weren’t there last night. A few even stretch higher, across my back where the salve didn’t reach.

He holds the shirt for a second longer in his hands, staring at it like it might tell him what to do next. Then he sets it gently aside and picks up the one he brought over.

He eases it over my head just as carefully, guiding my good arm first, then coaxing my broken one through without a word. It’s softer than the last one—I can feel the difference the second it touches my skin. It hurts less, clings less. He must’ve picked it on purpose. But still, he says nothing. And maybe that’s what makes my throat tighten most.

He eases the hem down, careful not to press too hard anywhere, then steps back a little. I can’t look at him. Not yet. Because I know his eyes are still on the bruises, even now. And if I see that look on his face again—the one from last night—I might fall apart all over again.

Rye is quiet for a long moment after the shirt is on. Then, finally, he glances toward my dresser. “Do you have a hairbrush?”

I nod once. “Top drawer.”

He crosses the room, opens it, and pulls out the brush carefully, like he’s handling something delicate. Maybe he is.

His eyes flick to mine again. “Can I… do your hair?”

Another small nod.

He steps behind me and gently loosens the messy bun from last night, tugging the tie free with slow, careful fingers. My hair spills down around my shoulders, tangled and limp. He doesn’t comment—just lifts the brush and starts working through it, small strokes at first. Light. Patient. The bristles barely skim my scalp.

It doesn’t hurt, not the way I thought it might. He’s slow, and I can feel the care in every movement, like he’s trying to make this the easiest part of the morning. When the knots are mostly gone, he gathers my hair gently at the nape of my neck.

“This okay?” he asks, holding it in place.

I nod. “Low’s good.”

He secures the band with slow, careful movements—just a simple ponytail at the base of my neck. Nothing fancy. But before he steps back, I reach up and tug two strands loose from either side of my face. Just a little habit. Something I’ve always done.

He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Just meets my eyes and gives the smallest nod, like he knows I need these little pieces of control, these small things I can still choose.

Rye crosses the room again and grabs my backpack from beside the desk. He checks the straps first—adjusting them slightly—then moves toward me with a careful sort of focus, like even this could break me if he’s not careful.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true.

He helps ease it over my shoulders, guiding one strap at a time. But the second the weight settles across my back, I flinch—sharp, involuntary. A breath catches in my throat. It feels like fire blooming just under my shoulder blades. I try to hold still, to make it pass.

Rye notices.

His hands freeze mid-adjustment, and I feel him watching me. “Sorry,” he says quietly. Not for what he did—but for the fact that this is hurting me at all.

“I’m okay,” I murmur, even though I’m clearly not.

He doesn’t argue. Just tugs the straps a little looser, spreads the weight out more evenly. It doesn’t help much, but I nod anyway.

It’s one more thing to carry. And I’m already used to that.

We head down the stairs together. The kitchen’s quiet—no sign of her—and something in my chest loosens, just barely. I don’t say anything, but Rye must notice the way my shoulders fall a little, the way I start moving quicker toward the back door.

We stop there, and he crouches to help me put on my shoes. I hold his shoulder as he helps me step into them. Then he stays crouched, tying the laces carefully.

“Double knots,” I remind him softly.

He nods, focused, and pulls the loops tight.

Just then, the door to the front of the bakery swings open. My body freezes, my grip tightening on his shoulder. Rye glances up, follows my gaze toward the front of the house. A moment later I see our father walk through the door. The tension curls tight in my chest, heavier now.

Our father’s gaze shifts from the door to us, calm but cautious. “Where are you two headed this early?”

“I’m walking her to school,” Rye answers before I can say anything.

Our father shakes his head slowly, worry and something else in his eyes. “Your mother’s in a bad mood this morning. You should stay back.”

I scoff under my breath, not bothering to hide it. He was there. He saw. And now he’s acting like Rye’s the problem.

I turn to Rye. “It’s fine,” I say quietly. “I’ll walk alone.”

He hesitates, his jaw tight. I can feel it—how badly he wants to argue. But then his eyes meet mine, and something in him softens. He nods. “Okay. But I’m coming to get you later.”

I nod once and head for the door.

The second it opens, the morning air hits me—cold and sharp. It slices through my sleeves, across the bruises, the still-throbbing ache in my hand. I pull the door shut behind me and keep walking. Every step hurts. But I keep going. Because the house is behind me now. And even if school brings a different kind of pain, at least this one is mine to choose.

The streets are mostly empty as I walk. Just the wind, the dull throb in my hand, and the scuff of my shoes on the pavement. I keep my head down anyway—just in case. Most people are probably already at work or school. Maybe that’s a good thing.

I’ll be late. That means Prim won’t be waiting on the steps. I can just slip inside, keep my head low, disappear into the back of the classroom. For once, I’m actually grateful my teachers treat me differently because of Peeta. They won’t question it if I show up late, won’t ask why I look like I didn’t sleep, won’t say anything if I leave early. Before lunch I’ll duck into the bathroom when the bell rings. And at the end of the day, I’ll sneak out early so I don’t have to walk home with Prim.

It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s something. And for the first time since yesterday, I feel a flicker of control.

I round the last corner, the school finally in sight.

And then I see her.

Prim, sitting on the front steps.

Chapter Text

Prim doesn’t see me at first.

She’s sitting on the front steps of the school, arms wrapped around her knees, her backpack tucked beside her. Head down. Still.

I freeze.

What is she doing here? School already started—she should be inside. In her seat. Taking notes with that careful little handwriting of hers. But she’s not. She’s out here. Waiting.

Waiting for me.

The realization hits slow at first, then all at once—sharp enough to sting. She’s been sitting here because I didn’t show up. I try to remember one morning—just one—where we haven’t met on these steps the past few weeks. I can’t. Every day, she’s been here. So have I. It became a routine so quietly I didn’t even notice it happening.

And now I’m late. And she’s still here. She’s probably planning on sitting there all day. The thought makes my throat tighten. Because I know exactly how that feels.

If the roles were reversed—if I was waiting for Prim and she didn’t show up—I’d do the same thing. I’d sit on those steps until someone dragged me away. I wouldn’t care if I missed a whole day of school. I wouldn’t care if it got me in trouble. Because seeing her matters more than anything that place could ever teach us.

I should go to her. She’s probably been sitting there for half an hour, maybe more. Waiting. Wondering.

But the second I move toward her—if I so much as step onto those stairs—Prim will look up and she’ll know. Not just the bruises on my face. Not just the ones I can brush off or lie about, the ones that are still terrible but not… not as cruel. She’ll see the rest. Even if she can’t actually see them. She’ll know what’s under my shirt. She’ll read it in the way I walk, the way I hold myself, the way I flinch when I reach for the door. She’ll look at my hand and that’ll be it. She’ll tell someone. She has to. That’s who Prim is. She’d tell her mother, and her mother would do what mothers are supposed to do—she’d offer help. She’d make me come over. She’d try to treat it. Maybe she’d even insist I stay.

And then Peeta would see me.

He’d see everything.

And I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him see what she did to me. Not when he’s trying so hard just to stay afloat. Not when he’s fighting his own battles. I promised him I’d be okay. That I’d be strong.

But then my eyes fall back to Prim, still sitting there.

Still waiting.

And the guilt hits me so hard it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.

She held me when I cried. Calmed me down when I spiraled. Helped me feel okay—helped me stay—even when she was breaking too. Even when she had just as much reason to fall apart. She was there for me every single day of the Games. Always. Without asking for anything back.

And now I’m just going to walk away?

She’s my only real friend. The only one I trust. The only one I want.

So what do I do? Go to her, and risk everything? Or walk away—and become the kind of person who abandons the one girl who never once abandoned me.

Prim’s head lifts—slow, uncertain at first. Then her eyes lock with mine.

She freezes.

For a second, there’s just surprise. Then her face softens, and she stands—relief blooming across her features like sunlight. She was waiting for me. Of course she was. I see it now in every inch of her.

She starts toward me, quick steps down the school steps. But after just a few paces, something in her shifts.

Her smile falters. Her eyes narrow—not angry, just focused. Searching. She’s seen it. The bruise along my cheek, or maybe cut on my lip. The way I’m holding my hand. Maybe all of it at once. I see the exact moment she registers what she’s looking at.

She moves faster now, all the lightness gone from her steps. By the time she reaches me, her face is tight with worry. She stops right in front of me, close enough that I can see the way her eyebrows knit together. “What happened to your face?” she asks, her voice low but urgent.

“I’m already late, Prim.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. I try to move past her, to get to the door, to anywhere that’s not here.

But she reaches out.

Her hand catches my arm—my left arm—high up near the shoulder. Not hard, not like she’s trying to stop me. Just enough to turn me slightly toward her. But it’s too much. Her fingers brush against my side—right where the bruises bloom the darkest beneath my shirt—and I flinch before I can stop it.

Prim feels it.

I see the way her eyes widen, the realization flashing across her face even before she says anything. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She didn’t think she could. Prim’s hand jerks back like she touched something hot. “Briella…” Her voice drops, quiet and careful now. “What happened?”

“I told you—I’m late,” I mutter, trying to step around her again. But she moves with me.

Her eyes scan my face, my posture, the way I’m holding my hand like it’s something fragile. She knows. I can see it. She doesn’t have the full picture, but she’s starting to put the pieces together.

“Did someone—” she begins, voice barely a whisper.

“Stop,” I say quickly, eyes darting to the street. A man walks by, a woman with a cart a little further down. “Not here.”

Prim steps closer, voice firmer now. “Then come with me. Just for a minute. Please.”

“No,” I snap—too loud. I drop my voice fast. “I can’t, okay?”

She blinks at me, hurt flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t back off. “Bri, I just touched your side and you flinched like I stabbed you. You’re not okay. You—”

“I said stop.” My voice is shaking now. “Please.”

I glance over my shoulder again. We’re too exposed. Too many windows, too many people walking past. If anyone looks too closely—if anyone sees Prim’s face right now, sees mine—it won’t matter what I say.

Prim’s hand hovers near mine again, not touching this time. Her face is open and pleading. “Please just talk to me,” she says, voice trembling. “You don’t have to lie. Not with me.”

And that’s what does it.

Not the words—but the look on her face. The desperation. The worry. The kindness I don’t deserve.

Because I know if I brush her off now, she’ll spend the rest of the day unraveling. Sitting through class and panicking over every quiet moment, every minute I don’t look her way. I can’t do that to her. I’ve already made Rye carry it. I can’t keep dumping pieces of myself onto the people I love and pretending it doesn’t crush them.

So maybe… maybe it’s better if she knows.

Prim’s good at this kind of thing. She won’t panic—not like I would. She’ll help me figure out what to do next. She’s the type of person who makes plans in a storm. And more than anything, I know this—if I tell her not to tell Peeta, she won’t. Not if I give her the right reason.

I swallow hard, eyes fixed on the sidewalk between us. “Okay,” I murmur. “I’ll tell you.”

Prim softens—just a little—but I lift my hand before she can speak.

“But you can’t tell Peeta.”

She hesitates, eyes searching mine.

“I mean it, Prim. He’s already got too much going on. The Games… living alone…” My voice thins. “He’s barely had time to breathe. I can’t add this on top of everything else.”

Prim’s eyes glisten. And I know she gets it—because she knows what it’s like. She knows what it means to have a sibling that survived the Hunger Games. To try to protect them from everything, to try to make it easier.

I see it click behind her eyes—I know what you’re doing. And I hate it. But I’ll do it too.

She nods, slow. “Okay,” she whispers. “I won’t tell him.”

“We can’t talk here,” I say, voice low. The front steps are too open. Too many eyes.

Prim nods, understanding immediately. “My house?”

I shake my head. “No. Someone will see.”

She bites her lip, thinking fast. “My mom’s with a patient in the seam. And Katniss will be hunting all morning.”

Her voice drops even lower, almost a whisper. “We can go through the back door. Peeta won’t see.”

I hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Okay,” I say.

I fall into step beside her as we walk away from the school, following the narrow path Prim knows so well. Quiet. Careful. Like we’re sneaking through a secret world no one else knows exists. Prim doesn’t say anything as we walk. Not a word. But I can feel her eyes on me—flicking, always flicking. To the bruise on my cheek. To my hand, wrapped tight and trembling just beneath my sleeve. To the way I flinch every time the backpack shifts against my sore shoulders. She’s holding back, waiting for me to say something. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my head down, counting the cracks in the pavement, pretending none of it is happening.

We reach the gates of the Victor’s Village, and Prim pauses. Her eyes flick toward Peeta’s house. The windows are dark—no lights on. Maybe he’s not home.

She notices my gaze, quiet but sharp. “It’s okay,” she says softly.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and follow her again. We keep close to the tall fence that wraps the village like a shield, footsteps light and careful on the cracked pavement.

Prim leads me around the back of her house, where the garden beds still sleep under morning’s shadow. She stops at the back door, hands steady on the frame. She turns to me, eyes warm but serious. One last reassuring nod. Then she pushes the door open.

She leads me up to her room without saying a word. I follow quietly, my eyes flicking around the house as we move through it. She was right—there’s no one else here. The place feels still, like a small refuge.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of how much I’ve been holding in. Without a word, I pull up the sleeve of my left hand and hold it out to Prim. Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t flinch like Rye did. No panic, no shock. She turns into a healer before my eyes.

“Can I?” she asks, her hands hovering just above my broken one.

I nod, unable to speak. She reaches out slowly, her fingers gentle as they brush over the swollen skin and bruises. Her touch is careful—steady but kind—as if she’s trying to tell my hand it’s not alone. I hold my breath, waiting, afraid to hope.

Prim’s fingers press gently against the swollen knuckles, careful not to squeeze too hard but firm enough to feel the shape beneath the skin. A sharp ache shoots through me, and I bite my lip, forcing myself not to pull away. It stings, but I need her to see everything.

She flips my hand slowly, turning it palm up, her thumb tracing the lines of bruises and scrapes. I watch the way her face tightens just a little—silent sympathy, maybe worry—without saying a word. It’s the first time someone’s looked this closely, really looked.

My heart hammers in my chest, part relief, part fear. Relief that I’m not alone in this. Fear of what she might think, what she might do next. But Prim’s hands remain steady, patient.

When she lifts my fingers one by one, bending them gently, I close my eyes for a moment, breathing through the sharp pressure. It’s a test—and maybe a promise—that I’m still okay, that this isn’t the end of me.

Prim lowers my hand slowly, her gaze never leaving mine. She doesn’t say how bad it is. She doesn’t tell me what I should do next. Instead, her voice is quiet but steady.

“Where else?”

Her calm makes the question feel less like an interrogation and more like an offer—a silent way of saying, I’m here. Show me.

I swallow hard and hesitate, the weight of everything pressing down on me. But if I’m going to let someone in, it might as well be her. I lift the hem of my shirt just enough to expose the bruises along my ribs. Prim’s fingers hover for a moment before she reaches out, pressing gently at first, tracing the swollen purples and blues with careful precision. Then, her fingers find the darkest spot—the centre of the worst bruise. She presses down firmly, deliberately, like she knows exactly where to touch. A sharp, burning pain shoots through me. My breath hitches, my body jerking away slightly, but Prim’s eyes lock with mine and she doesn’t lift her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers softly, voice thick with something I can’t quite name.

She keeps moving her fingers, pressing different spots along the bruises, each touch drawing a fresh sting I try not to show. Her calm steadies me, but the pain is a harsh reminder of just how broken I am.

When I speak again, it comes out small. “My back, too.”

Prim nods. Quiet. Already moving. She shifts behind me without a word. Her hands are careful, steady—just enough pressure to understand what’s there, no more than necessary. I wince once or twice, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. Just lets her touch say I see it. I see you.

When I pull my shirt back down, her hand lingers at the hem for a second—then falls away.

“What am I supposed to do?” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

Prim’s gaze softens, and she reaches out, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I can help you,” she says gently. “We can put salve on the bruises, wrap them tight so they heal better.”

I glance down at my broken hand, feeling the familiar ache pulse through it.

“And my hand?” I ask, hope and fear tangled together.

Prim hesitates, her eyes flickering to my swollen fingers. A flicker of worry spreads across her face, deeper than before. She doesn’t say a word—but I can feel it. She doesn’t know what to do. It’s worse than anything she’s seen.

Prim finally meets my eye.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice soft—too soft.

I take a deep breath, but it shakes on the way out. “My mom,” I say quietly.

Her face changes immediately—not like Rye’s did. There’s no flash of rage, no sharp edge to it. This is different. It’s quieter. Sadder. Like something inside her folds in.

Heartbreak.

Disbelief.

She already knew. She’s always known—at least the edges of it. Knew my mother hit me, even back before we were really friends. Back when we were just two girls who knew more than we were supposed to.

But this wasn’t a slap on the wrist. Not this time.

And I see the moment she realizes that. That this wasn’t just anger, or punishment, or discipline. This was something else. Something crueler. Something that left damage I might not walk away from. She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me like she wants to cry—but won’t. Because she knows I can’t handle that right now. Because she knows I need her to be strong.

Prim sits down beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth but not so close it hurts. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. She hesitates, searching for the right words—like she’s afraid the wrong ones will shatter me completely.

“You didn’t deserve this,” she says softly.

I shake my head.

She says it again, firmer this time. “Briella. You didn’t deserve this.”

But I shake my head harder now, turning away just a little. Because every time she says that, every time those words hit the air, my brain starts flipping through a list I didn’t ask for—every time I talked back, every time I wasn’t fast enough in the kitchen, every time I made her mad and didn’t even know why.

Every time I failed her.

All the proof, stacked and waiting.

I can’t tell Prim that. I can’t tell her how deep it goes, how loud those thoughts are. But I shake my head because I do believe it. Somewhere in me, I believe I earned this. Or at least, I didn’t stop it. And that feels the same.

And maybe it’s not just that. Maybe it’s also the bruises, the bone-deep ache, the fact that my ribs scream when I breathe and my hand still burns and I’m so tired. Because right now, words don’t help. They bounce off my skin and slide down the cracks. They don’t fix anything.

“I don’t want to talk,” I whisper. “I just want it to stop hurting.”

Prim nods, her face soft but steady. “Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to make it stop hurting.”

She reaches for my hand again, gentler than before, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you have to trust me.”

I meet her eyes, and there’s no hesitation. No doubt. I nod. Because of course I trust her. She’s Prim. And if I can’t have Peeta here to hold me and tell me he’ll make it better, then Prim is the next best person.

Prim goes downstairs to get some stuff, and I wait in her room with my head down. When she gets back, she drops some gauze and a tin on the bed. “Can you take your shirt off?”

I nod. “I need your help though.”

Prim doesn’t hesitate—she reaches forward and picks up the side I can’t reach. We peel the shirt off together, and she stares at my skin—not because she’s ogling at the bruises, but because she’s coming up with a plan.

She picks up the tin. “My mom made you some of this stuff a while ago.”

“I remember. I had some leftover and Rye helped me put it on last night.”

Prim’s eyes soften—maybe at the fact that I kept something her mom made me so long ago, or maybe at the fact that I wasn’t completely alone through all this.

Prim dips her fingers into the tin, scooping out a thick layer of the salve. Without saying anything, she reaches forward and starts smoothing it gently over the bruises across my ribs. The paste is cool and sticky, and it stings a little at first, but the pressure of her hands is steady—reassuring. She moves carefully, not rushing, making sure the ointment covers every angry, dark streak. Then she shifts behind me and does the same to my back, spreading the salve over the splotches I can’t see, can only feel.

When she finishes, she wipes her fingers on a cloth and reaches for the roll of gauze. She holds the end to my right side.

“Hold this here,” she says.

I nod and press the gauze in place with my good hand. She starts to wrap—around my ribs, across my back, over one shoulder and under the other. The motion is smooth, practiced. She doesn’t move like a scared twelve-year-old. She moves like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing. Someone who’s done this before.

“You’re really good at this,” I say quietly.

Prim doesn’t look up. “I’ve been helping my mom a lot more recently.”

I manage a small smile, soft and tired.

“Good thing I picked a healer for a best friend.”

She gives me a look—the kind that says I’m glad I’m a healer too. That I can help. That I get to be the one making something hurt less, even just for now.

Then she takes a step back, her hands falling to her sides as her eyes scan over me. She checks her work the same way her mother would, quiet and focused, making sure the gauze is tight but not too tight, that everything’s covered, that I can still breathe.

Finally, she nods once—satisfied.

“There,” she says gently. “That should help.”

I shift slightly, testing the way the gauze feels against my ribs—and I realize it does help. It’s not perfect. The ache is still there, pulsing just beneath the surface like it always is. But the sharp edges of it dull a little. The steady pressure holds everything in place, keeps the pain from flaring every time I breathe too deep or move too fast. It’s like being held together. Like something’s finally bracing the pieces of me that have been threatening to fall apart all morning.

I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It doesn’t hurt as much this time. And that alone feels like a miracle.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

Prim nods, but her eyes drift back to my hand. The sureness leaves her face. That steady, healer calm she’s carried all morning flickers—just for a second—and I see the doubt creep in. She has no idea what to do. She picks up my hand again, careful as ever, and starts looking it over like something might’ve changed since the last time. Like maybe this time she’ll see a way to fix it.

“I’ve set bones before,” she says quietly. Her fingers trace along the swelling, light and cautious.

“But not like this,” she adds simply.

I can see the thoughts spinning behind her eyes as she turns my hand over slowly, gently. She’s trying so hard to come up with a plan, to help me with no real supplies, no adults she can tell, no one but herself. Just twelve years old and carrying something way too big.

And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that she has to do this. That I have to ask. That either of us are even sitting here.

Prim takes a slow step back, her eyes flickering with worry at first. But then something shifts—her expression hardens, a quiet determination settling in. It’s like she’s made up her mind, figured out a next step.

She meets my gaze with a steady look. “I’m gonna go see if my mom has anything to make a splint.”

I nod. “Okay.”

Prim helps me pull the shirt back on, slow and careful, adjusting the fabric around the gauze so it doesn’t bunch or pull. When she’s finished, she gives me a look—steady and sure. “I’m going to help you,” she says.

Then she heads toward the door, but before she steps out, she looks back. There’s a pause, a flicker of something in her eyes. Not hesitation exactly, not fear—but something quiet. Something that says trust me. And I do. I nod again, and she slips into the hallway. Her footsteps fade down the stairs, and I’m alone in her room. I let out a slow breath.

It’s different in here than I remember. I’ve only been here once, when she first moved in. Back then, it still felt like someone else’s house—too clean, too empty. But now… now it’s hers. There’s a pale pink blanket tucked at the end of her bed, the sheets are soft and worn in, like they’ve been washed a dozen times. Her books are stacked on the desk, some open, with little notes scribbled on the edges. There’s a cup of pencils, a hairbrush still holding a few blonde strands, a cardigan tossed over the chair.

It’s not fancy. But it’s hers.

She got to come here the moment Katniss won. There wasn’t a debate, no argument, no mother standing in the doorway saying she couldn’t. No hands dragging her away, no locks on the bedroom door. No cold silence, no “you’re not going anywhere.” She just got to go.

She got to live with her sister after almost losing her. She got safety. A room of her own. A house with warmth in the walls instead of fear. And I know it’s not perfect. I know Katniss is barely sleeping and that Prim still carries the weight of what happened in the Games—but still. They’re together. She has someone who makes space for her, someone who wants her close.

And I want that so badly it aches.

Not the room. Not the sheets. Just… that feeling. That freedom. That right to be with the person you love after the world nearly takes them from you.

I wrap my arms around myself carefully, mindful of the bruises, and sink a little deeper into the bed.

Prim got to go home.

And I never did.

I glance toward the door where Prim disappeared. She’s downstairs right now, probably digging through cabinets and drawers, trying to piece together something that will help. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t panic. She didn’t look at me like I was broken.

She just started helping.

And maybe that’s what going home really means. Not a house. Not a room. Just someone who doesn’t turn away when they see you hurting. Someone who says, “I’m going to help you.” And means it.

I’m still thinking about all of it when the stairs creak.

At first, I barely notice. Just noise—soft and steady. But then it comes again. Heavier. Slower. Like someone walking carefully, deliberately. Not like how Prim normally walks. My chest tightens. She must not have found anything. Of course she didn’t. There’s nothing in this house that could fix my hand. Nothing that can unbreak a rib.

I hear the steps reach the top. They pause. Right outside the door. And I don’t look up.

I can’t.

I don’t want to see the look on her face. I already know what it will be—soft and sad and sorry. I tried, it’ll say. I tried and I still couldn’t help you. So I keep my head down, eyes fixed on the floor.

And then I hear it.

“Hey, Tiger.”

My whole body goes still.

That voice doesn’t belong to Prim.

Chapter Text

My breath catches, and despite every warning inside me, I lift my eyes.

Peeta is standing in the doorway.

For a second, I think I’m imagining him. That maybe I’m still lost in some daydream—still curled up on Prim’s bed, wishing so hard for him to be here that I’ve made him up.

But he’s real.

He’s standing there, just inside the room, his eyes on mine. Quiet. Steady. Soft in a way I’m not ready for. And everything in me panics.

He’s not supposed to be here.

How did he even know I was here? Did Prim tell him? Did someone see us walking together, slipping through the fence, going inside? He’s not supposed to see me like this. Not with my ribs wrapped. Not with my hand swelling like a balloon. Not in Prim’s room, wearing the guilt like a second skin.

Not after everything I said—that I’d be fine, that he didn’t need to worry, that he should focus on getting better, not me. I promised him I’d be okay. And now he’s standing here, looking at me like he knows. Like he’s already put it together. Every flinch, every silence. Like he’s reading my body like a recipe, and the whole thing is ruined.

I feel it spiraling. Fast.

My stomach twists. My chest tightens. I start picking apart every second of this morning—how I ended up here, what I should’ve done differently, all the ways I failed to keep it hidden.

Peeta doesn’t move, but his eyes flick toward me. And that flicker of concern, that tiny change in his expression, makes something in me crumble.

I don’t want this. I don’t want him to see me like this. I want to tell him to go. To turn around and pretend he never came. To leave me some tiny scrap of dignity. But I also want him to stay. Because it’s Peeta. And something in me needs him here so badly it aches. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it’s over. That I’m safe. That he knows. That he still loves me, even like this.

The two thoughts crash into each other inside me, too loud to make sense of. I don’t know which one to listen to.

I can’t breathe. This is the moment everything falls apart.

And he’s still looking at me. Soft. Like he’s not mad. Like he’s not disappointed. Like he’s just… here.

That makes it worse.

I want him to yell. To demand to know why I didn’t tell him. To be furious that I lied straight to his face. Something. Anything. Not this.

Not kindness.

My throat is dry. Too dry to speak, but the words scrape out anyway. “What are you doing here?”

Peeta doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush to answer. He just takes a step into the room, his hand still on the doorframe like he’s making sure I know he won’t come any closer unless I want him to. “Prim told me you needed help.”

His voice is soft. Gentle. Like he’s trying not to scare me away. Something twists in my chest. Of course she told him. I asked her not to—but of course she did. Because she saw my hand. My ribs. My face. She saw everything, and she’s twelve years old and still trying to save the world one person at a time. 

I look away, suddenly ashamed. I don’t want to see the way he’s looking at me. I don’t want to see that worry, or sadness, or whatever it is sitting behind his eyes like it belongs there.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” I whisper.

Peeta doesn’t say anything right away. He just gently closes the door behind him, like he’s shutting out the whole world on my behalf. Then he walks toward the bed and sits beside me—quietly, carefully, like he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to be. Like he knows I might bolt if he moves too fast.

He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of him next to me. But he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t crowd me. “I know,” he says finally, his voice soft. “I figured that part out.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, my throat tight. I don’t know what to say. There’s too much. Too much I’ve tried to hold back, too much I didn’t want him to see.

“Prim didn’t want to tell me” he continues. “I could see it on her face, I think she promised you.” He pauses, then adds, “But I was the one who asked her to check on you this morning.”

That makes me look up.

Peeta’s eyes meet mine, and they’re full of quiet worry. Not pity. Just that deep, steady kind of concern that lives under his skin. “I was worried,” he says. “You didn’t call me last night.”

His voice catches a little, like he’s trying not to let it show how much that scared him. “And I waited. I thought maybe you were just tired. Or needed space. But something felt off. I couldn’t shake it.”

I want to look away again, but I can’t. I can’t stop looking at his face and thinking about how gentle his voice is right now, how careful he’s being with me.

“I told Prim if she saw you and everything was fine, she didn’t have to say anything. But if it wasn’t—if she was worried—she should come get me.”

I fold my arms around my ribs, too tight, like I’m trying to hold myself in.

“She shouldn’t have,” I whisper. “I told her not to.”

For a second, all I can feel is betrayal. After everything I said to her. After I begged her not to tell him. After I made her promise. And she still told him.

But then… the feeling shifts.

Because I remember her face. The hesitation in her voice. How long she stood at the top of the stairs after saying she was going to look for something to help. She didn't want to tell him. She was probably trying to figure out how not to. Probably trying to find anything else that might help before it came to that.

She tried to keep her promise. I see that now.

She gave me the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t march straight to Peeta’s house the second she saw the bruises on my face. She didn’t hand me over. She took me upstairs. She sat with me. Wrapped my bruises. Talked gentle. Tried everything she could.

But this—my hand—this isn’t something time can fix, this isn’t something she can help me with by herself. When she realized that, she knew she had to tell him, but she also knew I’d never agree. So she didn’t ask. She didn’t argue. She just tricked me. And maybe she had to.

I glance at Peeta without meaning to.

He looks tired. Not the Capitol kind of tired. Not the Games kind of tired. Just… worn out in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something heavy for too long. I picture him pacing last night, waiting for the phone to ring. Holding his breath every time someone passed his window. And instead of coming to the house, instead of doing something that might’ve made him feel better, he waited. He waited. Because he knew barging into the bakery would only scare me more.

Even now, he’s here like a question, not an answer. Sitting on the bed beside me with his voice soft, his hands steady. He didn’t storm in. He didn’t accuse me. He just came.

And then I think of Rye.

The way he helped me get ready for bed last night without flinching. The way his hands stayed steady, even though I could see the way he was breaking just from looking at me. He’s not good at this stuff—saying the right thing, knowing how to hold me when it hurts. But he stayed. He did my hair. He let me fall asleep feeling safe.

And when I begged him not to tell Peeta, he didn’t.

He could’ve. He could’ve called Peeta the second I closed my eyes. Walked down the street and knocked on the door. It would’ve been easier. He wouldn’t have had to do it alone. But he didn’t.

Prim. Peeta. Rye. They all did what they thought I needed. They all tried. Every one of them.

So why… why doesn’t it matter? Why doesn’t any of it break through? Why does it all feel like it’s sliding off the edges of me, like none of it can stick?

Because they care. They love me, even if they don’t say it out loud. I know they do. But all I keep thinking about—the only thing I’m still waiting for—is care from one person. Just one.

And I know she’ll never give it.

So what’s the point of all this other love, if it never quiets the part of me that still aches for hers?

I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m back in the kitchen. Back in the moment the rolling pin came down. Back in that silence that followed, like I’d stopped existing. All this care around me… and I still feel like nothing.

I think about the tests my mother gave me. Learn who’s in charge. Don’t ask for help. Don’t tell Peeta. Don’t tell Rye. Keep working. Keep quiet. Keep your head down.

And I tried. I tried so hard.

I bit down the pain and kept baking, even when it was hard to stand, even when all I wanted was a break. I didn’t cry in front of her. I didn’t scream. I didn’t ask her why. I did everything right—passed every test the way she wanted.

And it still wasn’t enough.

She still hurt me. In the worst way she ever has. She still walked out of that kitchen without a word. No glance. No hesitation. Just silence, like I didn’t matter at all.

And the worst part? I kept trying anyway. Even after that. Even after she broke my hand. I kept trying to do what she wanted. Kept hoping I could fix it. That maybe, if I just stayed good—just for today—she’d change.

And I think that’s when it hits me.

It’s not just about today. It never was. I’ve been trying to pass her tests my whole life.

Every time I said “yes, ma’am.” Every time I stayed quiet. Every time I pushed through the bruises and the broken pieces—some part of me was hoping this would be the moment. The one where she’d finally look at me like I was enough.

Like I mattered.

That maybe if I was strong enough, or still enough, or useful enough, she’d soften. Say something kind. Be proud.

And now, sitting here with bandages and tenderness I didn’t ask for—from people who actually see me—I feel hollow. Ashamed. Because some part of me still wants her to see me too. Still thinks that if I can just do it right next time, maybe she’ll look at me and feel something other than disappointment.

But she won’t.

And I don’t know how to let go of that hope. I don’t know how to stop trying. I don’t know how to stop waiting for a mother who isn’t coming.

My thoughts are spinning so fast I don’t even hear him move until the bed shifts beside me.

“What happened?”

I blink, my eyes snapping up to his. He’s still sitting next to me, watching me like he’s afraid I might shatter right there. The question is soft—barely more than a breath—but it lands like a stone in my chest. I shake my head. Not hard, not defiant. Just once. Slow. Almost apologetic.

Because I can’t tell him.

Not because I don’t trust him. I do. More than anyone. But the words catch in my throat before they even form. My jaw locks, and the ache in my ribs flares just from holding my breath too long. It still hurts to talk. It hurts to think about it. And there’s something else too—something quieter and older, something shaped like obedience. Like fear that’s been carved in so deep I don’t even know where it ends and I begin.

“She told me not to,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. “I can’t, Peeta. She told me not to.”

His eyes soften. He doesn’t ask who she is. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t press again—not with words. He just reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

And I don’t flinch.

It’s such a simple thing. So Peeta. The kind of thing he’s done a hundred times—when I was scared, or tired, or had flour in my face and didn’t notice. It’s gentle and familiar and safe.

“I won’t tell her I know,” he says softly.

His eyes stay on mine, steady and kind. “I just want to understand so I can help you. So you don’t have to carry this all by yourself.”

I shake my head again, but it’s weaker this time. Not a no—just the last defense I have left.

“I promise, Ellie.”

That’s what finally breaks something in me.

That nickname.

No one else calls me that. No one ever has. Just him. It’s not a big name. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s quiet. Warm. Safe.

Ellie.

Like the days before the Reaping. Before the Games. Before bruises I had to hide and broken bones wrapped in silence. Just me and him and the way he always made space for me, even when the world didn’t.

I blink hard. My vision goes blurry. I realize—I’ve never been good at hiding things from Peeta.

Not really.

When we were little, I used to try all the time. I’d break something in the bakery or spill something on the floor and swear up and down it wasn’t me. He’d never push, never accuse me of lying. He’d just nod, believe me—at least on the surface—and go back to what he was doing.

Then twenty minutes later I’d be in tears, tugging on his sleeve, telling him the truth.

It was always like that.

And now it’s all bubbling up. The bruises. The silence. The broken hand. The guilt. The pain. All of it. I’ve been carrying it for so long it started to feel like part of me. But Peeta’s sitting here like he still sees me, underneath all of it. I don’t want to lie to him anymore. Not Peeta.

And so I tell him everything.

Not just about yesterday.

Everything I’ve been trying to protect him from.

I start with the Games—how scared I was, all the time. How I couldn’t sleep unless the TV was on. How I stayed on the couch for days, just so I wouldn’t miss a second of the broadcasts. Just so I could see that he was still alive. How I started wearing his shirts because it was the only thing that made me feel close to him. Like he was still here. Like I wasn’t completely alone.

I tell him how I doubted him sometimes, even when I didn’t want to. How there were days I thought he wouldn’t come home, and how the guilt of even thinking that made me sick.

Then I tell him what happened after he did come home.

How at first it was okay—better, even. But how that didn’t last. How our mother started changing. How she stopped letting me go to Peeta’s house, how she started getting colder, sharper. How the slaps came back. How they got worse.

I tell him how I started pushing Rye away, just so he wouldn’t see. So he wouldn’t ask. So I could pretend I had control over something. How I covered the bruises with makeup, how I smiled through it, how I lied to Peeta every single night on the phone when he asked if I was okay.

And then I tell him the part that hurts the most.

Yesterday.

How my mother told me I had to prove myself. That I had to work hard and be silent and obedient. That I had to show her I could be trusted. That I knew my place.

I tell him how I tried. How I did everything she asked. How I worked all day, didn’t talk back, didn’t complain. I tell him how I slipped up—just once—and that was all it took.

How she grabbed the rolling pin. How she taunted me with it. How she told me to hold out my hand. How she kept swinging, not to hit it right away—but to make me flinch. And every time I did, she hit me. My ribs. My back. Over and over. And then, finally, she got my hand.

I pause, blinking hard, the pain still fresh in the memory. Still living under my skin.

“She knew what she was doing,” I whisper. “She was aiming for it. And when she hit it, she didn’t apologize, she didn’t even look guilty.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything right away.

He just sits there beside me, eyes locked on mine, like he’s trying to absorb every word I just said—every bruise, every lie, every time I broke and didn’t let him see it.

His gaze is soft. Devastatingly soft. Not with pity, but something quieter. Sadder. His eyes shine in the light filtering through Prim’s curtains, and for a second I think he might cry.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his hand finds mine—slow, careful, gentle. His fingers curl loosely around my wrist, like he’s afraid even that might hurt.

“I should’ve known,” he murmurs. His voice cracks just a little. “I should’ve known something was wrong.”

There’s no blame in it. Just guilt.

Too much guilt.

And suddenly I can’t stand it. Not after everything he’s already been through. Not after everything he survived.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I wanted to tell you sooner. I did.”

His thumb brushes lightly along my wrist. “Don’t apologize.”

His eyes flick to mine, soft and steady.

“I wanted to tell you,” I say again. “So many times.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything. He just waits—still and patient—because he knows me well enough to give me space. To let the words come out when they’re ready.

“I missed being around you,” I continue, voice trembling at the edges. “Even when you were just down the street, it felt like you were still gone. And I hated it. I hated lying to you. Every time we talked on the phone, every time I said I was fine… I wanted to tell you the truth so bad it made my chest hurt.”

His voice is low when he finally speaks. “Then why didn’t you?”

My eyes close, just for a second. Then I open them again—watery, but steady.

“Because I didn’t want to make it worse for you. You’ve always been there for me, Peeta. Always. I just… I finally wanted to be the one who made things easier for you. Just once.”

His expression tightens. Not angry. Just hurt.

He shifts closer on the bed, his voice thick with emotion. “Ellie,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t ever have to worry about that.”

I glance at him—and he holds my gaze like it’s something sacred. There’s something fierce in his eyes. Fierce, and steady, and unmovable.

“I’m your big brother,” he says. “No matter what happens, no matter what I have to deal with—I will always, always keep enough room to carry whatever you need.”

My breath catches. He means it. Every word. And it’s not just some promise to make me feel better. It’s the kind that sits in your bones. The kind that’s already been true for years.

I swallow hard, my voice cracking as I whisper, “I didn’t want you to come home and find everything ruined.”

Peeta reaches out and gently takes my face in his hands, his thumbs resting just beneath my cheekbones—close, but not too close. He doesn’t touch the swollen skin near my bruise. He keeps his fingers on the safe parts, the unhurt places. Like he’s memorized where not to touch.

His hands are warm. Steady. So careful.

“You’re not ruined,” he says again, voice low and certain. “You’re here. And I’ve got you now.”

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead.

And just like that, I’m little again.

Back when my hair was always tangled, and Peeta used to braid it after baths because our mother wouldn’t. When he’d hum under his breath while his fingers worked through the knots, and kiss the top of my head when he finished like some quiet little ritual.

Or when the nightmares got so bad I couldn’t breathe, and he’d wrap his arms around me, hold me still against his chest until the panic passed. He always kissed my forehead then too—soft and simple. Like it was the one thing he could give me that didn’t hurt.

I remember the time I got sick and couldn’t sleep, and he stayed up with me, sitting on the floor by my bed with a wet cloth for my head. Every time I stirred, he’d touch my shoulder, whisper “I’m still here,” and kiss my forehead before letting me drift back off.

And now, with his hands on my face and that kiss still warm on my skin, something breaks wide open inside me. Because I need him. I’ve always needed him. And it feels so good to finally let him back in.

I lean into him slowly and wrap my arms around his torso, careful not to press against anything that still burns. I rest my head against his shoulder, and with my good hand, I grip the back of his shirt. Tight. Like I’m afraid if I let go, this will all disappear. 

He doesn’t move at first. His arms hover behind me, uncertain, like he’s afraid of making something worse.

“Where does it not hurt?” he asks softly, voice rough around the edges.

I have to think about it. My ribs throb. My hand is still burning. My shoulders are sore, my skin bruised.

“…My lower back,” I say finally, voice muffled against his shoulder.

That’s all he needs.

One of his hands settles there—gently, firmly. The other comes to rest at the back of my head, his palm warm and steady against my hair.

It’s not a hard touch. He doesn’t pull me in tighter. Doesn’t try to squeeze the sadness out of me or try to soothe anything with words. He just holds me steady. Gentle. Unmoving. Like he’s not trying to fix anything—just letting me know he’s there. Like he’s reminding me that I can fall apart, and he’ll be the one to catch whatever pieces hit the floor.

And so I do. I grip the back of his shirt so tightly I’m afraid I’m going to rip it, and I let it all out.

The breath I’ve been holding since yesterday.

The fear I’ve been swallowing since the first time she raised her voice.

The ache of every lie I told him on the phone, every bruise I covered up, every time I convinced myself that maybe I did deserve it.

I let it all out in quiet sobs pressed into his shoulder, in shaky breaths that rattle through my chest, in the tears that won’t stop falling because finally someone is holding me, and it doesn’t hurt.

And the whole time, Peeta doesn’t let go. He just stays with me. Steady. Still. Safe. Like he always has.

Letting me fall apart and holding every piece.

He rubs his hand slowly down my hair, over and over, like he always does. Like he did when I was little and skinned my knees outside the bakery, when Mom yelled and I didn’t know why, when I’d asked for a hug just because.

That same rhythm. That same calm.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Eventually, the sobs start to slow. My grip loosens just a little, my chest aching from all the crying. when Peeta speaks, I’m still curled against him, breathing hard—his voice is steady, sure.

“We’re going to the doctor,” he says gently. “I’ll come up with something—say you fell, say you got hurt helping at the bakery. No one’s going to know the truth but us.”

I stiffen a little, already about to argue, but he keeps going.

“Then we’re going back to my house. You’re going to eat something. You’re going to rest.”

“Peeta—” I start, my voice hoarse.

“And you’re going to stay the night,” he says, like he didn’t hear me. “In your room. I’ll set everything up for you. You don’t have to ask. You don’t have to explain. You’re just going to be there.”

My chest tightens again. “I can’t—she’ll notice—I’m not allowed to—”

“Tomorrow,” he continues, voice unwavering, “I’m going to the bakery.”

I sit up straighter, panic spiking. “Peeta—please—”

“I’m not going to yell,” he adds, still calm. “I’m not going to cause a scene. I’m going to explain to her that you’re moving in with me.”

My whole body stiffens. “She won’t let me—Peeta, she’ll—”

“She doesn’t get a choice,” he says firmly, but not unkind. “You’re not safe there. That’s all that matters. I’m not asking her for permission, I’m telling her what’s going to happen and if she has a problem with it she can take it up with me.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

“She doesn’t get to hurt you anymore.”

His words are steady. Certain. He’s already decided. Like he won’t let the world move forward unless I’m safe in it.

“Okay?” he says.

I go quiet.

Not because I don’t believe him—I do. I trust Peeta more than anyone in the world. I know he’ll do everything he can to keep me safe, to make this real.

But deep down, fear knots in my stomach, tight and cold. What if it’s not enough? What if he says all the right things, does everything he can, and it still doesn’t work? What if I end up right back in that bakery, in that house, in that same quiet nightmare—only this time, worse?

But beneath the fear, another part of me is screaming. The part that’s been wishing for this for so long it barely knows how to hope anymore. The part that used to dream about what it would be like to move in with Peeta. To have a room like Prim’s—one with soft blankets and books stacked on a desk, and little things that make it yours. A room you’re allowed to fill. A house where you don’t have to wake up before the sun rises to knead dough with sore arms and an empty stomach. Where you don’t flinch every time a door creaks open.

I imagine it so clearly it almost aches. Waking up in that quiet house. Sitting at the kitchen table while Peeta makes breakfast. Laughing again. Sleeping in a room where the air doesn’t feel like it’s holding its breath. A place where I can rest without having to earn it. Where I’m allowed to just… be.

I hate that this is what it took. That things had to break so badly just to make space for something better. But I still want it. I want it so badly it makes my chest hurt.

So I nod.

Chapter Text

We walk in silence.

Just the sound of our footsteps on the gravel, soft and steady. No words. No rush. The sun’s barely made it over the rooftops yet, and the streets are still empty, like the whole district’s holding its breath.

Peeta’s jacket is wrapped around my shoulders. It’s too big—falls halfway down my thighs and swallows my hands in the sleeves. I haven’t said much since we left. Not because I’m angry. Not because I don’t want to. Because I can’t stop thinking about what he told me.

It started when I asked where Prim was.

I didn’t mean to sound sharp, but the words came out tight anyway—half dread, half fear. She wasn’t anywhere in the house when we got downstairs.

Peeta hesitated.

He doesn’t usually do that. Not with me. But he looked away for a second like he was debating something. Like he already knew whatever he was about to say would make me feel worse.

“She’s at my house,” he said finally.

I blinked. “Why?”

Another pause. Then, quietly, “Because she didn’t want to go home. And she didn’t think you’d want to see her.”

I stopped walking for a second. My stomach dropped.

I asked what happened—really happened—and he tried to wave it off. Said maybe it wasn’t important, that we should just focus on getting to the doctor. But I kept asking. Pushing. So finally, he told me.

Prim showed up on his doorstep crying. Full-on crying before he even got the door open. She was trying to talk, trying to explain, but she kept choking on her words. Kept saying, “I promised her. I promised her I wouldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to tell you.” Like that one promise was the only thing holding her together.

Peeta said she could barely make sense—her voice shaking, her thoughts scrambled. And when he tried to tell her we’d figure it out, that maybe she could come with him and see me—she said no.

Not because she didn’t care. But because she thought I wouldn’t want her there. That I’d be mad. That I’d look at her and see a traitor, someone who broke trust I never should’ve asked her to keep.

And she didn’t want to go home either. Not just because she didn’t want to run into me—but because Peeta realized something. If she went back, Mrs. Everdeen or Katniss would see her when they got home, and they’d know she wasn’t at school. That something was wrong. And Prim didn’t want to explain any of it. She just wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.

So Peeta gave her something warm to eat. Told her she could stay at his place for the day. No questions. No pressure. Just rest. And she’s there now—curled up on his couch with guilt in her chest, probably thinking I hate her.

And the truth is, I don’t.

She did everything right. She saw I needed help and found someone who could give it. She was gentle. She let me stay in her room. She wrapped my bruises so carefully I didn’t even realize how bad it hurt until she was done. And she never told me what to do—never tried to take control. She just stayed close, the whole morning.

She was good to me. And now she’s afraid I hate her for it.

So I walk beside Peeta, wrapped in his jacket, ribs aching with every breath—and I stay quiet.

Because I don’t know how to carry all of this at once. The pain. The guilt. The love. The fear. I don’t know how to say sorry for making someone feel like they had to choose between a promise and doing the right thing. So I don’t speak. And Peeta doesn’t ask me to.

We get to the doctor’s office, a squat little building on the edge of town that looks like it gave up trying to impress anyone years ago. The paint on the sign is so faded I can barely read it, and the front steps sag like no one’s fixed them since the Dark Days. The windows are cloudy. One of the shutters is missing.

I’ve never been here before.

Doctors are expensive. Too expensive. My mother wouldn’t spend money on something like this—not unless someone was dying. I guess most people in town feel the same. Judging by the silence around us, the empty porch, the weeds creeping up the railing… no one else could afford it either.

Peeta glances down at me, his hand still holding my good one. “You ready?” he asks. His voice is soft—not pushing, just giving me the choice. Always.

I look up at him. At the worry in his eyes. The steadiness behind it. And I nod.

We step inside. The place is quiet. Too quiet. No receptionist, no sounds from the back. Just peeling walls, a few lopsided chairs, and a faint antiseptic smell that doesn’t quite cover the scent of mildew.

I look up at Peeta. He’s frowning, just slightly, like something isn’t sitting right. I can tell he expected someone to be out front. Maybe he’s been here before. Maybe it’s supposed to look more… alive than this.

Before I can say anything, a door creaks open at the back of the room.

A man steps out.

He’s small and wiry, with thin, patchy hair and a face like he hasn’t slept in a week—or just doesn’t care to try. His clothes are wrinkled and stained, his coat hanging off him like a costume he forgot to take off. He doesn’t look surprised to see us, just annoyed we’re here.

His eyes scan the room, slow and lazy, until they land on Peeta.

Then he grins. “Oh, look at that. Fresh out the arena and already sniffing around for a little pain management,” he says, curling his fingers into exaggerated quotation marks.

Peeta straightens a little beside me, like he’s about to say something.

But the man doesn’t stop talking. “I hope you’re as desperate as your mentor,” he continues, his voice sharp and oily. “I used to charge him an arm and a leg for the tiniest vial of morphling.”

Then the man’s eyes drop to Peeta’s leg.

He smirks. “Don’t worry,” he says casually, “I won’t take the new one.”

Peeta’s jaw clenches so tight I can hear the muscle tick. But he doesn’t snap. Doesn’t even move.

“I’m not here for me,” he says flatly. “I’m here for my sister.”

The man’s gaze flicks to me—finally, like I just materialized out of thin air. His eyes narrow. His grin fades. “What’s wrong with her?” the man asks, his voice flat and impatient, like he’s already decided this isn’t worth his time.

Peeta doesn’t even hesitate.

“She was with her friend in my basement,” he says smoothly. “They were messing around with some of my weights, and one of them slipped. Fell on her hand.”

It’s not exactly believable, but he says it like it’s the truth. Calm. Steady. Like he’s dared people to question him before.

The doctor tilts his head, eyes flicking from me to Peeta, then back to me. “Mm,” he hums, exaggerated and skeptical. “That so?”

He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing.

“Did her friend throw a dumbbell at her face, too?”

The words land like a slap. My stomach knots. Peeta’s shoulders tense beside me. I can feel it before I even look at him. But he doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t flinch. He just stares the man down, quiet and unblinking.

“Are you going to help her,” he says, voice low and sharp, “or should I take her somewhere else?”

The man smirks, slow and smug, like he’s been waiting for a moment like this all day.

“Where else are you gonna take her?” he says, spreading his arms like he’s being generous. 

Peeta doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I can see it—his jaw tightening again, the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides.

The man chuckles under his breath, then looks at me like I’m the punchline to some private joke. “You want help or not?” he says, already turning toward the back. “Let’s see if the thing’s even broken.”

Peeta looks down at me, still tense—like every muscle in his body is pulled tight, holding something back. His jaw’s set, his eyes hard, but when they meet mine, the anger softens. Just a little.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. The question’s already there in his eyes.

Are you okay to do this? Do you want to stay?

I nod once. Not because I’m okay—but because I want to get this over with. Because the sooner it’s done, the sooner I can leave this place behind and never come back.

He gives the smallest nod in return, his hand brushing my shoulder for just a second before he turns to follow the man.

And I go with him.

We reach the back room, and the man’s already there, pulling a crinkled sheet of thin paper across the surface of the exam bed like he’s done this a thousand times and hated every one of them.

He doesn’t look up when we enter—just jerks his chin toward the bed. “Sit.”

I hesitate, glancing up at Peeta. He meets my eyes and nods once, gentle, steady. Then he helps me slide his jacket off my shoulders, folding it over his arm like it’s something fragile. His hand finds mine for a second as he helps me onto the bed, careful not to touch anything that still hurts.

He stays close—right beside me, like a wall between me and everything else.

The doctor notices. “I don’t like when people hover,” he says sharply, not even looking up as he fiddles with something on the counter.

Peeta’s jaw clenches again, but he doesn’t argue. He steps back, moving just a few feet away to lean against the wall. Still watching.

Then the man turns back to me and something changes. His eyes meet mine, and it’s like a switch flips—his posture eases just slightly, his voice lowers when he speaks next. Still rough, still tired, but not biting.

“What’s your name?” he asks, a little more carefully this time.

“…Briella,” I say, quiet.

He nods.

“Alright, Briella,” he says, not unkind. “Let’s take a look at that hand.”

His eyes don’t roam. His tone doesn’t sneer. When he reaches for my arm, he does it slowly, like he knows I’m already flinching inside. Like maybe he’s seen this kind of pain before and doesn’t want to make it worse.

His fingers are rough but precise, careful as he lifts my wrist and turns it gently, examining the swelling.

“Whole thing’s angry,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Bet it’s been hurting like hell.”

I nod, lips pressed tight. I don’t want to cry in front of him. Or Peeta.

But something about the way he’s talking now—less sharp edges, less show—it makes it easier to stay still. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer. Just keeps working, quiet and focused, like he’s decided I deserve a little gentleness, even if no one else here does.

“When did this happen?” he asks, still focused on my hand.

“Yesterday,” I say quietly.

He nods, not surprised. “I can tell.”

It’s not mocking. Just matter-of-fact. Maybe even a little understanding.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. “Why did it take so long for you to come here?”

I look down, my good hand twisting into the fabric of my shirt. “…I didn’t want anyone to know.”

His eyes flick up to mine—still sharp, still tired, but not unkind. “Nothing wrong with asking for a little help,” he says, voice softening in a way I didn’t expect. It’s strange, hearing that from him. From anyone.

Then he goes back to my hand. Gently, he starts to bend my fingers one by one. I flinch as a bolt of pain shoots through my wrist, and a sharp gasp escapes before I can stop it.

He pauses immediately and looks up.

“You alright?” he asks, and for the first time, there’s something that almost sounds like concern behind the words.

I nod too quickly, blinking hard.

He studies me for a moment—longer than before. Then his voice lowers again, steady and a little quieter. “I’ll be careful,” he says. “Just let me know if it gets too bad.”

He finishes examining my hand and steps back, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. His eyes flick toward Peeta, and suddenly his entire demeanour shifts. The softness and quiet carefulness vanish, replaced by a sharp, guarded edge. His posture straightens, and his gaze sharpens, sizing Peeta up like a challenge.

“I can’t tell what’s really wrong just by looking,” he says, voice colder now, clipped and businesslike. “You’re going to need an X-ray. No fancy equipment here—just enough to see what’s broken.”

Peeta tenses immediately. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides, but his voice remains steady. “When can we get that done?”

The doctor shrugs, irritation flickering across his face. “Soon as I can get the machine working. No promises. This place runs on luck and duct tape.”

Peeta doesn’t respond at once. Instead, he holds my gaze—steady, unwavering—before nodding, jaw still tight but determined.

“We’ll wait,” He says it like a promise. Like even if the whole building falls down, we’ll still be right here until someone helps.

The doctor grabs a worn coat and motions for us to follow. The room for the X-ray is down a narrow hall, the walls stained and the floor creaking under each step. Peeta walks beside me, his jacket still draped over his arm.

When we reach the X-ray machine, Peeta’s eyes narrow. The doctor smacks the side of the old, rattling device with a sharp crack that echoes in the small room. Peeta’s face tightens—a mixture of disbelief and frustration flickers across his features.

The doctor glances at him and smirks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, you expect a fancy Capitol contraption? This is all we’ve got. If it breaks, well… maybe that’s a sign it’s time to find a better one.”

Peeta doesn’t reply, just exhales slowly and shifts his stance, still watching the doctor carefully as he prepares the machine.

The doctor waves Peeta off with a jerk of his thumb. “You—back against the wall. Don’t need your nerves messing with the machine.”

Peeta hesitates for a beat, clearly not thrilled, but he steps back without a word, pressing himself into the far corner of the room, eyes locked on me the whole time.

The doctor turns back, his expression softening the moment Peeta’s out of arm’s reach. “Alright, Briella,” he says, voice low and surprisingly gentle again. “I know this thing looks like it’s about to explode, but it still does the job. Just need you to sit right here, hold your arm out straight. I’ll be quick.”

He crouches beside the machine, adjusting the angle with steady hands. “You let me know if anything scares you, alright? I’ll stop.”

I nod silently, unsure how to respond to the shift in him—how his gruffness vanishes the second it’s just me in front of him again.

He glances up at me as he checks the settings. “You’re doing good, kid,” he murmurs. “Try to stay still.”

The machine whirs to life with a shudder, rattling just enough to make me flinch. I hold still anyway. I need it to work. I need someone to tell me what’s wrong—because I don’t think I can guess anymore.

A second later, the image flashes onto the small screen beside him and the doctor’s whole face changes. Just for a second—barely long enough to catch—but I see it. The flicker of surprise. The way his mouth pulls tight. The way his eyes dart slightly, like he wasn’t expecting what he saw.

He covers it fast, schooling his expression back into something neutral. Detached. But it’s too late. I saw it.

He exhales through his nose and nods to himself. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching to shut the screen off. “That’s all I need.”

But I can’t help the pit forming in my stomach. Something about that flicker in his eyes—that split second of something’s worse than I thought—lodges in my chest like a stone.

He leads us back down the hall without a word, his steps quick and clipped now. Peeta stays close beside me, hand steady at my back like he’s making sure I don’t fall behind.

Once we’re in the exam room again, the doctor gestures vaguely toward the bed like I’m supposed to sit, but Peeta’s already moving to help. His hands are gentle as he steadies me, guiding me back onto the bed without saying anything. I ease myself down slowly, trying not to wince. He lingers for a moment, then gives me one last look—something quiet and unreadable in his eyes—before stepping away again, back to the wall.

“You’ve got a displaced spiral fracture of the third metacarpal,” he says, flipping a paper over. “Hairline stress along the proximal phalanx, early signs of swelling into the carpal tunnel. Ligament strain around the MCP joint. Bruising consistent with blunt force trauma.”

I blink. I don’t understand a single word of it.

I glance at Peeta—he doesn’t either. His brow is furrowed, arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he’s trying to translate the entire sentence with sheer force of will.

The doctor finally looks up and sighs. “In plain terms? It’s broken. Badly. And it’s going to stay broken if it doesn’t get set properly.”

Peeta stiffens beside me. “So how are you going to fix it?”

The doctor doesn’t even look up from the clipboard. “I’m not.”

“What?” Peeta’s voice cuts sharp through the room.

The doctor finally meets his eyes, exhaling like this is the part he was hoping to avoid. “She needs surgery,” he says flatly. “The bones were crushed. Fingers are delicate, complicated. This isn’t a wrap-it-up-and-heal situation. If I try to set it wrong, she could lose movement. Permanently.”

The word sinks like a stone. Permanently. I stare at my hand, still aching, still swollen. I thought this would get better. I thought we’d fix it.

Peeta’s jaw tightens. “So you’re not going to give her surgery?”

The man barks a humorless laugh. “Do you think I have the ability to perform surgery?”

He spreads his arms, gesturing at the cracked tiles, the flickering light, the X-ray machine that barely worked. “Look around, sweetheart,” he mutters. “You’re not in the Capitol anymore.”

Peeta goes quiet.

Not angry. Not yelling. Just still in that way he gets when something’s sinking in too fast for him to stop it. His eyes flick from the doctor to me, then to my hand—tucked beneath his jacket, cradled gently against my ribs.

And I can see it happen.

The realization hits him like a weight: there’s no one in District 12 who can fix this. No one here who will help. Not the way I need.

His voice is low when he speaks again. “If I take her to the Capitol… would they do it?” The words come out before he can stop them. Because if there’s even a sliver of a chance, he’ll take it.

The doctor snorts, shaking his head as he tosses the clipboard onto a nearby tray. “You think you can just book a ticket to the Capitol? Like it’s a pleasure cruise? That’s not how this works, kid.”

Peeta’s jaw clenches. “So what—you’re saying I’m supposed to sit by and let my sister never use her hand again?”

His voice is sharp now, angrier than I’ve heard it all day. But underneath it, there’s something else—something raw. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the flicker behind his eyes. He knows what it’s like to lose a piece of yourself. To look down and not see what used to be there.

The doctor sees it too.

For the first time, his mouth pulls into something that’s not quite a smirk. Not quite cruel. Just… tired.

“I get it,” he says, quieter now. “You think I like telling people this stuff? That I don’t want to help?” He looks at Peeta for a long moment, and finally sighs. “They make exceptions. Sometimes. Not here. Not in Twelve. But when I worked in Two… different story.”

Peeta’s head lifts slightly. “So it’s possible.”

The man gives a slow nod. “For the right people. The right districts. They’ve got a… better relationship with the Capitol. If someone high enough up wanted to make it happen, they could.”

The doctor exhales through his nose, running a hand through what little hair he has left. “Look, you’re the newest victor. Fresh off the train. They’re still parading you around like a prize hog.” He glances at Peeta, lips twitching into something that might be amusement. “They might go for it. If you make the right kind of noise.”

Peeta straightens. “What kind of noise?”

“Threaten not to go on your victory tour,” the man says bluntly. “Tell that crazy escort lady of yours that you won’t show your shiny new face in any district until your sister gets help.”

Peeta blinks. “That would work?”

The doctor shrugs. “Might. You’re valuable to them right now—PR value, goodwill, all that Capitol garbage. And besides…” A grin spreads slowly across his face. “I don’t like her very much. Be nice to see someone ruffle her feathers for once.”

He turns back to his tools, muttering, “God knows she needs it.”

The doctor starts rummaging through one of the drawers, yanking it open with a loud scrape. Metal instruments clatter as he sorts through them without much care. Bandages, scissors, wooden slats—he pulls everything out in a quick, practiced flurry.

Peeta watches warily. “What are you doing?”

The man doesn’t turn around. “I’m going to splint her hand. For now. So it doesn’t get any worse.” His voice is blunt, but there’s no bite to it.

He sets the supplies on the counter in a neat line—gauze, wraps, something that looks like padding—and finally turns toward me again. And just like before, that sharp edge in his face eases when his eyes land on mine.

“Alright, kid,” he says, quieter now, almost gently. “This part’s not going to be fun. But I’ll be careful.” The voice that snapped at Peeta is gone again. This one’s careful, like he’s patching something that broke a long time ago. Maybe not just in my hand.

He walks over slowly, giving me a moment to breathe, to brace. “I’m going to wrap your hand first. That’ll keep the bones from shifting too much. Then I’ll place a splint—these little wooden supports—on either side to hold it in place. It won’t fix anything,” he adds, “but it’ll stop it from getting worse while your brother figures out the Capitol side of things.”

He pauses, eyes meeting mine. “You ready?”

I’m not ready. Not for any of it. But I nod anyway.

The doctor glances at Peeta. “You can come closer now.”

Peeta moves immediately, sliding up beside me and gently taking my good hand in his. His touch is steady, a quiet anchor.

The doctor pulls up a chair in front of me, his hands surprisingly careful as he lifts my injured hand. He begins straightening my fingers, slow and deliberate.

A sharp pain shoots through me, hotter and sharper than I expected. I bite down hard, the sting crawling up my arm. My breath hitches.

The doctor’s voice is low, almost soothing. “I know it hurts, but it’s necessary. Just hold still.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I bury my face in Peeta’s shirt, letting the tears come as the pain radiates through my hand.

Peeta’s grip tightens just a fraction, but he doesn’t say a word. He just holds me—steady, safe—until the pain dulls enough to bear.

Just as the doctor adjusts my fingers again, pain explodes through my hand—worse than before. I gasp, eyes snapping open, and finally, I can’t hold it in anymore. “Please stop—that really hurts” I say, my voice cracking.

But he doesn’t stop. His hands stay steady, his touch sure, as he keeps wrapping. “I know it does,” he says, quiet but calm. “You’ve been strong so far. Just a little more, alright?”

I clench my eyes shut, breathing hard into Peeta’s shirt.

The doctor keeps going, voice lighter now, like he’s trying to distract me. “Push through this and maybe your fancy Victor brother will buy you something shiny in the Capitol. That’s the deal.”

I sniffle against the fabric, my voice muffled and small. “I don’t like shiny stuff.”

Peeta lets out the faintest breath of a laugh above me, and I feel him press a kiss into the top of my head.

The doctor doesn’t smile, but something in his face eases again. “Good,” he says. “Less to carry.”

The doctor finally steps back, gently lowering my hand into my lap. “All done,” he says, his voice softer now.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My whole body feels wrung out, like the pain soaked through everything and left me hollow.

Peeta squeezes my hand, just once, and I lean into him without thinking, my splinted fingers resting stiffly in my lap like they don’t belong to me.

The doctor straightens. “Keep it elevated when you can,” he says. “And don’t get it wet.”

I nod faintly, still trying to catch my breath.

The doctor turns away from me, reaching for the towel he tossed earlier and wiping his hands again. Then he glances back at Peeta with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“She might not want anything shiny,” he says dryly, “but I sure do. And thanks to you, Victor, I’ll be getting it.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow.

The doctor tosses the towel aside. “X-rays aren’t cheap, and neither is pretending I don’t know exactly what happened to her.” His smirk sharpens, but not cruelly. “Congratulations. You just bought me a new set of tools. Or boots. Haven’t decided.”

Peeta’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just looks down at me again—and this time, there’s a flicker of something tired in his eyes. Not defeated. Just quietly worn.

The doctor turns back to the counter and opens a small drawer, rummaging around until he pulls out a tiny vial of morphling. He holds it up to the light, gives it a shake, then holds it out to Peeta between two fingers like he’s handing over a piece of candy.

“Only if the pain’s real bad,” he says, the humor dropping from his voice for just a second. “And I mean really bad, it’ll knock her sideways”

Peeta reaches to grab it but the doctor pulls away slightly, a smirk forming on his lips. “Or hey, if that runs out—ask your girl if she’s got any sleep syrup left over. That stuff’ll knock her out good.”

Peeta doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink. He just reaches forward, takes the vial quickly, and tucks it into his pocket. Quiet. Controlled. But his jaw’s tight again. I don’t know if it’s the joke or the mention of Katniss, but I can feel the shift in him, even from here.

Peeta glances up, his voice low. “How much do I owe you?”

The doctor doesn’t look up from his shelf. Just lets out a short laugh and smirks over his shoulder. “I’ll send you an invoice later. I doubt you carry that much money around in your fancy Victor pockets.”

Peeta doesn’t rise to it. He just nods once, jaw still tight. Still holding my hand.

As Peeta starts guiding me toward the door, he pauses and reaches for his jacket. Without a word, he holds it open for me, helping me ease my good arm in first. Then, carefully—so carefully—he lifts it over my splinted hand, adjusting it so nothing pulls or presses the wrong way. His fingers are warm as they brush my shoulder, tugging the collar into place.

The doctor glances over his shoulder one last time. His voice shifts—gentler now, without the usual edge. “Take it easy with that hand, alright? No more working out. Be careful.”

I nod quietly, cradling my splinted hand against my chest.

Then he looks at Peeta, and the smirk is already back. “And try not to get yourself killed before you pay me.”

Peeta doesn’t flinch. Just opens the door and steps aside so I can walk through first, his hand still warm around mine.

As we step outside, the sharp air hits my face, but somehow it feels lighter than the stale quiet of the doctor’s office. Peeta pulls his jacket a little tighter around my shoulders, and I glance up at him.

Peeta squeezes my hand. “I think he likes you,” he says, deadpan.

I huff a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah. Think he’s gonna miss me?”

“He’s probably already mourning the loss of his favorite patient.”

This time, the laugh actually comes. Small, but real. It slips out before I can stop it, surprising both of us.

My gaze drops to my hand. I can’t see it—Peeta’s jacket sleeves are too long, swallowing it whole—but I can feel the splint beneath the fabric. The dull ache is still there, but it’s manageable now. The sleeve doesn’t rub against the skin anymore, and the cold air can’t reach the bruises. It already feels better.

And the doctor… he was nice—in a weird way. He didn’t get mad at me for flinching. Didn’t sigh or act annoyed when I couldn’t answer right away. He just talked to me like I was worth listening to, worth helping. Like I wasn’t weak for being hurt.

He wasn’t like that with Peeta. With him, it was all teasing and smirks, that sharp edge in his voice like he expected him to be fine no matter what. But with me, he softened. Not in a way that made me feel small—just… safer.

I glance sideways at Peeta, his hand still wrapped around mine like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Maybe he noticed the difference, too. Or maybe he’s so used to being spoken to like that, he doesn’t think twice about it.

But I do.

And my thoughts slip to the Capitol—the doctors there, after the Games, when he lost his leg.

What were they like? Were they kind? Did anyone hold his hand? Did he have anyone to lean on when it hurt? I can’t imagine it. The Capitol always feels so cold, so sharp and distant.

And suddenly, I feel a tight knot of guilt twisting inside me. Because here I am, holding his hand now, safe and warm, and I know he didn’t have that when it mattered the most. He was alone, really alone.

But then the thought hits me sharp and cold—what if I’m going to the Capitol, too? I never thought I would—not unless I got reaped. But if Peeta really manages to convince someone to help, if they pull strings for me then I’ll be going there.

Will they be kind? Will they talk softly when I’m scared, like this doctor did?

Or will they make Peeta completely leave the room? Step so far away he might as well have disappeared?

I look up at Peeta, still holding my hand. His gaze is fixed somewhere ahead, but his jaw is tight now, shoulders drawn just slightly in. That tension wasn’t there a moment ago.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. 

For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then his eyes flick to mine, and whatever’s in them—worry, fear, something heavier than either—gets shuttered too quickly.

“Change of plans,” he says. “I’m going to the bakery today.”

I frown. “Why?”

He hesitates, just long enough to make my stomach tighten.

“I thought this would all be over by tonight,” he says quietly. “That we could go home and deal with everything else later. But now I won’t have time to go tomorrow.”

There’s something final in the way he says it. Like he’s trying to stay calm, but the ground’s already moving under us.

And suddenly, I feel it too—that shift. That drop. I thought this would be over tonight, too. That we’d leave the clinic, and my hand would be fixed. Not perfect, not healed, but… on its way. I thought I could go home and finally start putting the pain behind me.

But now Peeta’s talking about the Capitol. And surgery.

Surgery.

I don’t even really know what that means.

They don’t do that in District 12. If something’s broken, they wrap it up. If it doesn’t heal right, you learn to live with it. That’s what people do here. They limp. They favor one arm. They live with pain. Because no one cuts you open to fix things. Not here.

So when Peeta says “surgery,” all I can picture is… nothing. Just empty space in my head where that understanding should be. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t even know if I want it. I just know I’m scared.

And then another thought hits—what if he can’t get me there? What if they say no? What if I walk back into that bakery with my hand still splinted and nothing waiting for me but more pain?

What if I don’t get better?

I blink hard, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I want to go with you,” I say quietly. “I need to get my stuff.”

Just that. Not the rest. Not I don’t understand any of this or I don’t want to stay here if it means I stay broken.

Peeta doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel his eyes on me—watching the shift, the way my voice faltered, the way I haven’t looked at him since I said it.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he just squeezes my hand and says, “I’ll help you carry it.”

The words are simple. He means my things, the stuff I left behind. But the way he says it—quiet and steady—it feels like more than that. Like he means I’ll help you carry all of it. The fear. The not knowing. The part of me that’s suddenly terrified this might not work.

And for a moment, I believe him.

Chapter Text

We step into the bakery through the front door, the bell overhead giving a soft jingle that feels too light for everything we’ve just been through. The warm air wraps around us, thick with the familiar scent of yeast and sugar and something faintly scorched. it feels wrong.

Rye’s at the counter with a customer, wrapping a loaf in brown paper. He doesn’t see us at first—not until the woman shifts to adjust her shawl and his eyes lift just past her shoulder.

His gaze catches on us.

His whole body goes still for a second, like he’s making sure he’s really seeing what he’s seeing. Then his shoulders drop, just a little, and a breath leaves him like something he’s been holding all morning finally lets go.

Relief.

He nods once, almost to himself, and goes back to tying the twine around the loaf.

The woman—older, with a cane leaning against the counter and a blue knit hat perched crooked on her head—turns to follow his line of sight. Her face brightens when she sees us.

“Oh, well would you look at that,” she says, her voice warm and scratchy. “If it isn’t our victor.”

Peeta gives a small, sheepish smile, his fingers brushing against mine. “You’ve known me since I was five, Mrs. Emmer,” he says gently. “You don’t have to call me that.”

She chuckles, waving a hand. “Doesn’t matter how long I’ve known you. You went into that arena and came out again. That makes you something special.”

Then her eyes soften even more. “You were always such a lovely boy. We’re all so glad you came home.”

She turns to me, and her expression grows warmer. “I bet you’re the most glad, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

I nod automatically, my throat too tight to answer. Because she’s right.

The woman gives one last smile, pressing the warm loaf against her chest like it’s a gift instead of a purchase. “Well, I won’t keep you,” she says, glancing between us. “You’ve got things to do. Take care of that hand, darling.”

She gives my splinted arm a soft look—just a glance, not a pitying one—and then she’s gone, the bell jingling overhead again as she disappears into the morning.

The bakery quiets. No customers. No movement. Just the low hum of the ovens and the thud of my own heartbeat.

But my thoughts don’t follow her out the door. They snag on what she said.

You were always such a lovely boy.

And he was. He’s always been the kind of kid who’d offer to carry people’s groceries when he was barely tall enough to reach their hips. The kind who sat with the quiet kids at lunch, never letting them feel alone. The kind who joked around with customers at the bakery, making them smile even on the hardest days. I can still see him—dirt on his knees, flour smudged on his cheeks—grinning crookedly as he handed half his lunch to some kid who looked like they needed it more.

But I can’t hold onto the thought for long. Because Peeta lets go of my hand. He turns wordlessly and steps back toward the door, flipping the lock with a soft click. Then he turns again, facing the room—and Rye.

And his face sharpens.

All the softness from moments ago—the quiet smile, the warmth in his voice—it’s gone now, tucked away beneath a different kind of stillness. Like he’s gearing up to say something hard. Like he already knows it won’t come out gentle.

But Peeta doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, jaw tight, eyes locked on Rye.

And that’s when it hits me.

I didn’t tell him.

Not about Rye. Not about what really happened. He doesn’t know I told Rye to leave the house. That there was nothing he could’ve done to stop what she did. That I begged him not to tell. That he listened—because he saw how scared I was, how desperate.

Peeta doesn’t know Rye helped me get dressed when my fingers wouldn’t work. That he sat with me while I fell asleep, even though he looked like he hadn’t slept either. He doesn’t know Rye was there, when no one else was.

And standing here now, I feel the fear crawl back in—tight and cold. Because I saw how Peeta reacted to one bruise. Just one thing Rye didn’t say. 

His eyes narrow, his jaw locks, and when he speaks, his voice is too quiet to be calm.

“You knew,” he says.

Rye doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“I did.”

“You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

Peeta’s voice stays low, but the force behind it makes my heart pound. Like he’s holding back everything else he wants to say. Every shout. Every curse. Every ounce of panic.

“We had a deal,” he says, stepping forward. “You’re supposed to tell me about these kinds of things.”

“I know,” Rye says evenly. “And I told you what she said I could.”

Peeta stares at him like he’s trying to make sense of it. Like that answer just isn’t enough. “You didn’t tell me anything, Rye.”

“I know.”

“And you let me sit around my house without telling me that she—”

“I didn’t let you do anything,” Rye snaps, finally. “She asked me not to. She begged.”

That stops Peeta cold.

His expression doesn’t change much—but the air around him does. He turns slowly toward me, like he needs to see it for himself. Like maybe it’ll sound different coming from me.

I can’t speak. I just nod.

Peeta doesn’t react right away. His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. And then something shifts in his face—not anger, not disbelief. Just that quiet, familiar ache I’ve seen before. The one that says he’s blaming himself. Again.

He swallows hard. “So she was alone?”

“No,” I say quickly, before the guilt can dig any deeper. “I wasn’t.”

He looks at me.

“Rye stayed the whole time,” I tell him. “He helped me get dressed when my fingers wouldn’t work. He put salve on my bruises. He didn’t leave until I fell asleep.”

I glance at Rye, who’s staring at the floor again, jaw tight like he’s holding something in.

Peeta’s eyes flick back to me. There’s still a storm behind them—anger, fear, that helpless kind of protectiveness that always seems to eat him alive when it comes to me. But something about what I said lands. Grounds him. Not all the way, but enough to keep him from unraveling.

“I didn’t want you to know yet,” I add quietly. “He asked me over and over if he should tell you. I begged him not to.”

Peeta’s shoulders drop, just barely. Like a little of the weight has shifted, even if it hasn’t gone away.

His eyes stay on mine, searching. Then, slowly, he turns back to Rye.

They lock eyes. Not with anger anymore. Just something heavy. Tired. Like they’re both carrying pieces of something they don’t quite know how to hand off.

Peeta’s voice is low and rough. “We’ll talk later.”

Rye raises a brow, deadpan. “Great. I’ll pencil it in. Right after inventory.”

The corner of Peeta’s mouth almost twitches. Almost. But he doesn’t respond—just turns to glance at me, like he’s making sure I’m still okay.

Rye’s voice softens as he looks at me too. “So… what are you doing here?”

Peeta answers for me. “Briella’s getting her stuff,” he says simply. “And I’m telling Mom she’s moving in with me.”

Rye nods once. No questions. Just a flicker of relief passing over his face as he glances toward the back of the bakery. “She’s in the office,” he says.

Then he steps forward, his tone lighter now, almost gentle. “C’mon. I’ll help you pack.”

I nod. Just once. My throat’s too tight for anything more.

Peeta heads for the office without a word, his shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact.

I keep my head down as we pass the kitchen. I don’t look toward the door. Don’t listen for voices. Just follow Rye up the stairs, my splinted hand tucked close beneath Peeta’s jacket.

He pushes open the door to my room and waits for me to step inside before closing it behind us. The moment the latch clicks, he turns to me. “How’d he find out?”

I let out a sigh, already sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Prim.”

Rye nods like he expected it. “Had a feeling.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You knew?”

“I wouldn’t have let you leave the house if I didn’t think she’d tell him.”

Something like a laugh slips out of me—tired, a little sharp around the edges. “I should’ve seen it coming. I can’t believe I thought I’d make it through the whole day without someone asking questions.”

Rye smirks. “Sometimes your stubbornness is a gift.”

His eyes flick down as I shift on the bed. He catches the edge of the splint sticking out from under Peeta’s jacket. “All better?” he asks, voice light but careful.

I shake my head. “No. I need surgery.”

His brow twitches just slightly, but he doesn’t say anything right away.

“Peeta’s gonna try to take me to the Capitol,” I add, softer this time.

Rye blinks. “That’s allowed?”

“I don’t know.”

He nods once, slow. And doesn’t press.

“I’ll help you pack,” Rye offers, already stepping toward the closet.

But I shake my head. “I don’t need much help. There’s only a few things I need.”

He doesn’t argue. Just stands back as I open the closet and reach for the clothes that don’t really belong to me. A couple of Peeta’s old shirts, worn soft at the sleeves. His shorts that hang past my knees. The orange dress from the reaping.

I lay them carefully on the bed, one by one. Rye steps forward and starts folding them without a word.

Then I cross the room to my desk.

The old book is right where I left it—its spine frayed, the corners soft. I flip it open just enough to check that the drawings are still there, all the little pieces of Peeta I’ve pressed between the pages over the years. I close it again and set it gently on the desk.

Next, I open the drawer. The notes are still there too—dozens of them, folded neatly or crumpled from being stuffed into lunch bags. Some are barely legible from flour smudges or smears of chocolate. I gather them into a small stack.

And then, at the very bottom, my fingers brush the edge of a jar.

Agnes’s hair cream.

I almost forgot about it—I haven’t used it in a while. I lift it out slowly, the lid slightly dented, the label worn thin. My chest tightens as I place it beside the notes.

These aren’t things I need for warmth. Or survival. But they’re mine. And I’m not leaving without them.

As I start peeling the drawings off the wall above my desk—careful, so careful with the tiger—Rye reaches for the stack of notes I laid down. He picks one up and unfolds it absently.

I glance over just in time to catch his expression.

He’s frozen for a second, brow slightly furrowed. Not frowning. Just… surprised. Like it never occurred to him I might’ve kept them. Like he thought they were just scraps to be tossed with crusts and wrappers and crumbs.

He blinks, then catches me looking. And just like that, the wall goes back up.

“Wow,” he says, holding up the note between two fingers like it’s something embarrassing. “This one says ‘don’t forget you’re allergic to stupidity.’ Touching stuff.”

I snort, turning back to the drawings. “It was inspirational.”

He smirks faintly. “Glad to know my lunchtime wisdom didn’t go to waste.”

But when I glance back again, he’s still looking at the note. Not reading it anymore. Just holding it. And this time, he doesn’t hide the softness in his face.

Rye sets the note down and stands, brushing his hands on his pants like he’s shaking something off. He crosses the room and crouches by the far wall, where the old guitar rests. He picks it up, tests the strings lightly with his thumb, then carries it over and lays it gently on the bed.

I freeze.

His eyes flick to me. One brow lifts. “You don’t want to take it?”

I swallow. Shake my head. “It’s not that, it’s just…”

My voice trails off as I glance down at my splinted hand, cradled against my chest.

“If my hand doesn’t get fixed…” My fingers twitch uselessly against the wrap. “It’ll kind of be pointless.”

Rye doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me—really looks—and then sits back down beside the bed, quieter now.

But he doesn’t move the guitar. Doesn’t put it away. Just leaves it there, like maybe it still belongs in the pile of things worth hoping for.

Then, with a small shrug, he says, “You should take it anyway.”

I glance at him.

“Even if your hand doesn’t get fixed,” he goes on, “you should take it. Because if you leave it here, I’ll get bored and try to play it.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a grave secret. “And nobody wants that.” He holds my gaze for a beat, waiting for the laugh. When it comes, he grins like he just won a small victory.

“Exactly. Think of it as protecting the district.”

I’m still smiling as I sink into the desk chair, warmth lingering at the corners of my mouth. But then my eyes drift toward the window.

And just like that, something shifts.

The street below looks the same as always—grey and quiet—but now it feels distant. Like I’m already on the other side of it. Like I’m not just watching the morning go by, but leaving it behind.

Rye notices. “Shouldn’t you be more excited?” he asks lightly.

I shrug. “I am. Sort of.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”

I don’t answer right away. My fingers trace the edge of the desk. “I’m still worried,” I admit. “What if Peeta can’t convince her? He already tried once and it didn’t work.”

Rye leans back against the bedframe, arms crossed loosely. “That was before she hurt you this bad,” he says, voice steady. “She can’t hide it anymore. And Peeta… he’s not going to back down this time.”

I nod slowly, but it doesn’t help. The knot in my stomach doesn’t go anywhere.

Rye watches me for a second, then tilts his head. “Okay. That’s one thing. What else?”

I hesitate.

Then I look at him. “I want you to come too.”

His expression softens instantly.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I say, and the words land harder than I meant them to. “Even if I’m safe, even if everything goes right… I’m still not used to doing this without you.”

Rye smiles—gentle, not teasing. “I’m gonna miss you too. But someone’s still gotta keep the ovens running.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out small.

He nudges my foot with his. “Hey,” he says. “I’m gonna be over there all the time. You’re gonna get sick of me.”

I finally glance up. “No I won’t.”

“You say that now,” he grins. “But wait until I show up at Peeta’s four nights a week, stealing your bread and hogging the fireplace. You’ll be begging me to leave by the end of the month.”

That pulls a real smile from me, even if it trembles. He sees it, and doesn’t say anything more. Just stays there, steady as ever—close enough to lean on if I need it.

Rye glances toward the door. “I’ve gotta grab something. Be right back.”

I nod, and he slips out, the door creaking shut behind him.

I sit still for a long moment, my splinted hand resting stiffly in my lap, the jacket sleeve draped awkwardly over it. The desk chair creaks beneath me as I shift, turning slowly toward the window. The light outside is soft, angled—late morning sliding towards afternoon—and for a moment, everything feels suspended. Like I’m stuck in the breath between two chapters.

I glance around—at the walls, the bed, the worn edges of the desk I used to do schoolwork at. It still smells faintly like flour and firewood. It still feels like mine. But it won’t be for much longer.

This is the house I grew up in. The only one I’ve ever known. Every room holds a piece of me, a version of who I used to be. Especially this one.

I think about how, for the longest time, this was the room Peeta and I shared. I remember all those quiet nights when it felt like it was just the two of us in the whole world—when we’d whisper back and forth long after we were supposed to be asleep. When he’d make up stories and talk about things he wanted to draw and I’d just listen, warm and safe and small, knowing he’d always be there when I woke up.

It was always Peeta, always steady. Always making space for me in his world.

And then there was Rye.

Not the Rye I know now—but the one from before. The one who used to roll his eyes when I asked to tag along. Who’d shut his door when he needed quiet and didn’t want me around. He wasn’t mean. Just distant. Like I was always two steps behind where he wanted me to be.

But that changed.

Not all at once, not cleanly—sometimes it felt like a silent truce, other times like I was still waiting for him to shut the door in my face. But slowly, those moments when he didn’t turn away became enough.

And it happened here, in this house. Somewhere in the middle of the Games, when everything was falling apart, he started showing up. With quiet jokes, dry smiles, awkward pats on the shoulder that slowly turned into real ones.

He distracted me when I needed it. Let me cry without saying a word. Carried me upstairs when I was too tired and too scared to move. He let me lean on him, even when he didn’t really know how to be leaned on.

I learned who he was here. The new version of him. The one who tried .

And now I’m leaving.

I’m taking what matters—what I need—but I’m leaving this . The walls that held the versions of me who depended on both of them. The version who felt safe just hearing Peeta breathe in the bed beside her. The version who looked up one day and realized Rye was finally looking back .

That girl lived in this house.

And even if I’m ready to go… I don’t know how to leave her behind.

The door creaks open again, and Rye steps inside, a folded stack of laundry in his arms. “Just got these off the clothesline,” he says, setting them down on the bed like it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing.

My eyes catch on a few pieces right away. The soft grey sweatpants and that baggy shirt of Peeta’s I wore to bed last night—the one I could barely pull over my head because my hand hurt too much to move right. And on top, folded neatly, is the flannel pyjama top. The one Peeta gave me the other night, when I stayed over. The one I was still wearing when it happened.

I reach out without thinking, brushing my fingers along the edge of the blue sleeve. The fabric’s clean now, sun-warmed and dry. But I can still feel it—how cold it was when I curled up in it, How it barely shielded me from the world outside—and how small, how helpless, I felt inside it.

He notices the way I’m staring at it. “You don’t have to take that,” he says quietly. “I washed it just in case.”

I nod, my hand still lingering on the fabric, like it’ll anchor me. Then I lift my wrapped hand a little, flexing my fingers just enough to remind myself that I still can’t. “The doctor said I can’t get the splint wet.”

Rye raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“So,” I say, glancing up at him, “you’re gonna need to come over and help me do my laundry.”

Rye raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t Peeta have a washing machine?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, “but the clothes feel better when you wash them by hand.”

He tilts his head, one corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. He knows I’m lying. Peeta’s fancy Capitol machine makes everything soft and warm and fluffy. Hand-washed clothes come out stiff and cold half the time. But Rye doesn’t call me on it.

Because we both know—it’s not about the clothes. It’s about something else entirely. The routine. The quiet moments. Sitting on the porch while he grumbled about soap getting in his sleeves. The sound of the clothesline creaking in the backyard. The life we had, even when everything else was broken.

He just nods once. “Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll come over.”

And somehow, that promise—that small thing—makes it just a little easier to let go.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Even. Familiar. My stomach knots. I know it’s Peeta before I even see him—something in the rhythm, the weight. And still, my breath catches. Because I don’t know which version of him is coming through that door. The one who stood beside me at the clinic with a hand around mine, or the one whose face went sharp when he walked toward the office.

The knob turns.

Rye straightens beside the bed, his hand brushing the edge of the folded clothes like he might need something to do.

The door opens, and there he is.

Peeta steps inside, quiet. Calm. His gaze moves past Rye and lands on me—and he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look tired or weighed down. He just looks at me. Soft gaze. Steady eyes. And then he nods. That’s all. Not a word. Just the smallest nod, meant only for me. But I feel everything in it.

I exhale slowly, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders all at once.

He did it. He convinced her.

Peeta’s eyes stay on me for a moment longer before he speaks. “You get everything?” he asks gently.

I nod. “Yeah.”

He glances at the bed, then around the room—at the folded clothes, the little stack of drawings and notes, the book. Then he looks back at Rye.

“Alright,” he says. “Can you bring her stuff later?”

There’s no edge in his voice. No bite. Just a calm request, like he’s choosing not to push any deeper than he already has.

Rye nods without hesitation. “Of course.”

For a moment, no one moves. The air in the room feels different than before—less tense, more settled. Like we’re all starting to understand the shape of what comes next.

Peeta glances down at me again. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

I stand, and Rye stands with me. We walk toward the door together, but just as I reach it, something in me crumples. I don’t think—I just move.

I crash into Rye. It hurts—my ribs, my hand, all of it—but I don’t care. I bury my face in his shirt like I used to with Peeta, like I did the nights I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’m gonna miss you,” I whisper, voice muffled and trembling.

Rye doesn’t flinch. He just presses his hand gently to the back of my head, his other arm coming around my back.

“Me too, Crazy,” he murmurs.

And for a moment, it’s just us. Not perfect. Not fixed. But real.

We head downstairs together, the three of us. The steps creak under our feet, and for a moment, everything feels still—like the house is holding its breath.

But when we step into the kitchen, I feel Peeta’s hand tighten slightly around mine. It’s not rough, not rushed. Just… tense. Like he’s bracing for something.

I glance up and see her.

She’s standing at the counter, folding a dish rag slowly between her hands like it’s the only thing in the world that needs her attention. No flicker of surprise when we enter. No sharp breath. No raised voice.

Peeta keeps walking, steady and silent, like he expected this.

But I stop. I pull his hand back, just enough to make him pause too —not because I’m afraid, but because I need to face her on my own terms.

And I just stand there, staring at her. Waiting.

I don’t even know what I’m waiting for. Not an apology. Not a flicker of guilt. Not anything that would suggest she feels the weight of what she did. Maybe just for her to yell. To sneer that I’m weak. To tell me I can’t do anything without Peeta and Rye. Something sharp, something loud, something that would make this feel real.

But she doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t even look at me.

She folds the rag in her hands one more time—slow, measured, like nothing around her is worth noticing. Like I’m not here at all.

And that’s when it lands—hard, deep, cold.

She’s not staying quiet because she’s ashamed. Or overwhelmed. Or even angry. She’s staying quiet because I’ve stopped being hers to control.

There’s no need to scream if I’m already out of reach. No need to slap, or snap, or spit my name like a curse. Because I’ve stepped outside of her power—and without it, I’m nothing to her.

Not worth punishing. Not even worth noticing.

My chest tightens. Not with fear this time. Not even with sadness. Just that cold, aching hollow of someone finally seeing the truth they didn’t want to believe. Maybe I never mattered to her. At least when she was yelling, I could pretend it meant something. Now, with the grip gone, I see she doesn’t care. Not now. Not ever.

Peeta’s hand squeezes mine again. Gentle. Present. “Let’s go,” he says quietly.

My throat’s too tight to speak, but I nod and turn away from her. And she lets me. Because I’ve stopped being hers. And she was done the second she realized she couldn’t break me anymore.

Somehow, that hurts worse than anything she’s ever done.

The door creaks open, and we step into the front of the bakery. The light from outside spills in through the glass, cold and pale against the floorboards. Peeta’s still beside me, his grip warm and steady, but my feet feel heavy like they don’t want to move.

Rye stops at the doorway. He leans against the frame like he’s trying to look casual, but I can see it in the way his arms cross a little too tightly, the way his eyes flick to me and linger.

I look up at him, and I can already feel the tears pressing against the corners of my eyes. Not because of her—though that’s part of it—but because I don’t want to leave him, either. Not really. Not the version of him I finally got to know. The one who held me up when everything was falling apart.

He sees it in my face. Of course he does.

He gives me a soft smile, crooked and warm, the kind that doesn’t push too hard. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice quiet. “Okay, Crazy?”

I nod, and the tears finally slip free. Just one or two. I don’t bother wiping them away. Then I step outside, Peeta still at my side, and the door closes behind us.

And just like that, I’ve left the house I grew up in.

Chapter Text

The door clicks shut behind us, and for the first time all day, it feels like the air doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. It’s quiet inside—dim and still, the way Peeta’s house always is when the ovens aren’t going. My boots make a soft sound on the tile as I step forward, Peeta’s hand still wrapped around mine like he’s not quite ready to let go.

Peeta slips out of his boots and shrugs off his jacket, his movements slow, almost careful. I follow his lead, but my eyes are already drawn across the room.

Then I see her. Prim.

She’s still on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, a book open in her lap but unread. Her eyes lift the moment we walk in, and they go straight to me.

We lock eyes.

And just like that, something tightens in my chest. She looks worried—really worried. Not the kind that knots your hands or makes you pace, but the kind that sinks quiet and deep into your face. Like she’s afraid I haven’t forgiven her. Like she thinks I still hate her for telling Peeta. Like she’s already halfway convinced I think she betrayed me.

And maybe earlier, I did feel that sting of betrayal. Just for a second. I’d begged her not to say anything. I’d made her promise. But now, with everything that’s happened, I know why she broke that promise. I know what she saw—and what it cost her to tell him.

I already lost a lot today. And for the first time in a long time, I get to decide what I keep. What I hold onto.

So I walk over and lower myself onto the couch beside her, not too close, just enough that she knows it’s not an accident. Her body tenses a little, eyes still fixed on mine like she’s bracing herself for a scolding, or worse—silence. But I don’t say anything right away. I just look at her, really look, at the girl who tried everything before telling him. At the one who didn’t run. The one who stayed.

Then I give her a quiet smile—sincere, certain. “Thank you.”

Prim blinks. She doesn’t say anything at first. I can see it all running through her—the surprise, the relief, the emotion she’s trying to hide but doesn’t quite manage. Her shoulders drop, just a little, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the moment I walked in. And even though neither of us says another word, something shifts between us—small, but real. The kind of forgiveness that doesn’t need to be explained.

Prim shifts a little closer on the couch, her hand still resting on the closed book in her lap. The silence between us has settled now—lighter, easier. I lean back and lift my wrapped arm slightly, angling the splint toward her with a wry smile. “I got an X-ray.”

Her eyes widen instantly. “Really?”

I nod, and she leans forward like I just told her the most fascinating thing in the world. “What was it like? Did it hurt?”

“No,” I say slowly, glancing at Peeta across the room, who’s lingering near the kitchen, giving us space but clearly listening. “It was… weird. The machine looked like it was about a hundred years old. The doctor had to hit it to make it work.

Prim’s eyes are lit up, all worry forgotten for the moment. “Was it a portable unit? Did they use a flat plate or a grid panel? Was it digital or developed on film?”

I blink. That could’ve been gibberish for all I know. “I—what?”

She sits up straighter, her hands animated now. “There are different kinds. I read about them in a medical book my mom has. Some of the older ones use special film, like photographs, but the Capitol probably uses digital imaging. Did they show you the scan?”

I glance at Peeta again, helpless. “I don’t know. I just saw a picture. It looked like a hand. But… see-through.”

Prim laughs softly, not at me, just amused by the gap in our understanding. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“Good,” I say, grinning a little. “Then I understood at least one part.”

She shakes her head, still smiling, and rests her elbow on the back of the couch, facing me now like we’re just two girls talking again, like everything heavy has been set aside. “I’ve never seen a real one before. I mean, I’ve read about broken bones and traction and internal pins, but no one around here has access to that kind of stuff. Usually it’s splints, slings, willow bark, and hoping it heals straight.”

“Sounds like a solid system,” I joke.

She snorts. “You’d be surprised. But still… I wish I could see something like that someday.”

I study her for a second, the way her eyes still carry that fire when she talks about healing, even after everything. She’s not like me. She doesn’t want to run from this place. She wants to fix it.

“You probably will,” I say.

She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe it—but maybe she wants to.

Prim shifts a little, tucking her legs beneath her as her eyes flick down to my splinted hand again. She’s trying to act casual, but I can see the curiosity simmering just under the surface—healer curiosity.

“What bones were broken?” she asks gently.

I shrug. “I think… all of them?” I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “It hurts everywhere.”

She winces. “Did they set it?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t. Said I need surgery.”

Her whole face lights up. “You’re getting surgery? I didn’t even know you could, here.”

“I’m not.” My voice drops a little. “Not in Twelve. Peeta wants to take me to the Capitol.”

The words land between us, heavier than I expect. Prim’s face shifts. The light dims in her expression, though it doesn’t vanish completely. Her lips part like she might ask something else, but she doesn’t.

We go quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just… full. We both know what the Capitol did to us.

The silence stretches a little too long, heavy with things we’re both still holding. So I glance over at her, and force a smile back onto my face.

“Guess what?” I say, like we’re swapping secrets and not sitting in the middle of something that still aches.

Prim blinks. “What?”

“I’m moving in here.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait—here? In Victor’s Village?”

I nod. “Right across the street from you.”

Her mouth drops open. “We’re gonna be neighbours?”

“Looks like it.”

For a second, she just stares at me, and then the excitement floods in, too fast for her to hold back. “We’re gonna be neighbours!” she says again, like she has to test the words out loud. “Oh, this is so good. We can walk to school together. And I can help you with your bandages. And you can come over for dinner—my mom won’t even notice if there’s an extra plate. And when your hand heals, we can pick flowers in the meadow and bring them back and put them in those weird little glass things Peeta keeps pretending are vases—”

I laugh, and she doesn’t even stop to breathe.

“—and maybe you can help me with herb-drying in the fall, and we can have sleepovers and—”

“Prim,” I say, still grinning. “You’ve got a whole year planned already.”

She laughs, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I’m just—I’m really glad.”

And for the first time in hours, I don’t feel heavy. I just nod. “Me too.”

The floor creaks behind us, and Peeta steps into the room, brushing his hands on a towel. “I put some bread in the oven,” he says casually, like we haven’t just upended our whole lives. “Figured I’d warm up some stew I made yesterday too.”

He glances at Prim. “You want to stay for dinner?”

Her face lights up like someone flipped a switch inside her. “Really?”

But then it fades just as fast. Her shoulders lower a little, like someone letting out a breath they were hoping to keep. “I probably shouldn’t,” she says. “School’s done now, and if I’m out too long, Katniss is gonna interrogate me.”

She gets to her feet, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt, then looks down at me with a grin.

“We’re neighbors,” she says quietly, like it’s still sinking in.

“We are,” I say, smiling up at her.

Prim turns toward Peeta, her voice a little softer. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Peeta nods, just as gentle. “Anytime, Prim.”

And with that, she heads for the door, the quiet click of it behind her the only sound left for a few seconds. It feels quieter without her—like the house has exhaled—but not emptier.

Peeta comes up behind the couch, leaning his elbows on the backrest. I twist around to look at him, and he gently brushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His voice is soft, careful. “You want me to run you a bath while we wait for the food to warm up?”

I glance down at my splinted hand, tucked carefully against my side. Peeta catches the movement and gives me a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “I’ll keep it dry.”

I nod, but I don’t answer right away. Because it’s not just the hand.

It’s the way the air in the bathroom always feels too still. The way I see her face every time I close my eyes for more than a few seconds. It’s the thought of peeling off layers of fabric and skin and armor, sitting exposed in the quiet. Letting someone take care of me like that again.

But it’s also Peeta.

And if there’s anyone I can let my guard down with, it’s him. He’s already seen me at my worst—curled in pain, shaking, scared. He didn’t look away then. He didn’t flinch. So maybe a bath isn’t just a bath. Maybe it’s a chance to let go of a little more of the day. To feel clean again, not just on the outside. Maybe it’s okay to want that. Just for a little while.

I look up at him and nod again.

He smiles—soft and steady, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask anything from me, just gives. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

Then he disappears up the stairs, footsteps quiet against the wood.

I glance around the room, at the couch we just sat on, the wood that’s ready to be lit in the hearth, the folded blankets stacked neatly by the wall. And it hits me—this isn’t just a visit. I’m not going back to the bakery tonight. I’m not creeping out after everyone’s asleep or listening for footsteps overhead. I’m staying.

I think about waking up here tomorrow morning, and the next, and the next. About the sun through the kitchen window, the smell of fresh bread and soap and safety. About falling asleep without having to brace for creaking floorboards or raised voices. About leaving my clothes on the chair and knowing they’ll still be there in the morning. About knowing Peeta’s here too—just down the hall, always steady.

For the first time, I let myself think of this house as mine. Not just a place I run to when things fall apart. But a place I can live in. For good.

But then, almost without meaning to, my thoughts drift back to the old house.

I’ll never have to wake up before the sun rises to knead dough in the dark kitchen. That realization should feel like relief—like freedom—but instead, it lands with a strange, quiet ache. I never liked baking. I never liked the stiff apron strings or the flour in my eyes or the ache in my hands before breakfast. But I liked doing it next to Peeta. And Rye. I liked the rhythm of it, the silent understanding, the way we moved around each other without needing words.

I’m never going to sit on that lumpy old couch again, the one that smelled like ash and stale bread. I won’t feed the pigs in the back pen, or scrub soot off the oven door, or sneak bites of sugar crust when no one’s looking. I won’t wait for Peeta to come home from the square, or steal Rye’s last biscuit just to make him roll his eyes.

That house was cruel, most of the time. But it was mine too, in all its broken, complicated pieces. And even now—even after everything—I think a part of me is going to miss it.

I decide I’m thinking too much. I shake the thoughts from my head like flour off a towel and push myself up from the couch. The sound of running water draws me toward the stairs, soft and steady, like it’s been waiting for me. I follow it up, through the quiet hallway and into Peeta’s room.

I stop at the doorway of the bathroom, one hand braced lightly on the frame. Peeta’s crouched beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted faintly with flour that didn’t get washed off. He’s pouring salt into the steaming water from a small jar, careful and focused.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you going to turn me into stew?”

He glances up, and the corner of his mouth tugs into a smirk. He looks down at the jar in his hand like he’s considering it. “Depends,” he says, voice light. “You feeling well-seasoned?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. He walks over and sets the jar down on the counter with a soft clink, brushing his palms on his pants.

“Prim gave it to me a while ago,” he says, nodding toward the jar. “Said the salt helps with sore muscles. She thought it’d be nice on my leg.”

I nod, eyes flicking to the warm steam rising from the tub.

“Figured it would be nice for you too,” he adds quietly.

Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache a little—in a good way. Like every small thing he does is just another way of saying you’re safe now.

Peeta straightens and gives me a soft look. “Do you want help getting in?”

I nod before I can second-guess it. “Yeah… I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

He steps closer, hands gentle as they reach for the edge of my jacket. “Okay. Just tell me if anything hurts too much.”

I let him ease the jacket off my shoulders, moving slow so nothing jars my hand. He’s careful, peeling it back in pieces, tugging the sleeves past the splint like he’s afraid to cause more pain. Then he moves hem of my shirt—the one Prim helped me into earlier. His hands pause there, like he’s checking, making sure I’m still okay.

I nod again, and he keeps going.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me like I’m broken or fragile or like this is strange. Just moves with that same quiet patience he always has when he’s frosting a cake or smoothing out a pie crust. Like I’m something worth being careful with.

Once the shirt’s off, he crouches again and gently starts unwrapping the gauze from around my ribs. Prim had been quick earlier, her hands practiced. Peeta’s aren’t. He’s slow, careful not to tug at the tape or brush too hard against the bruises beneath.

As Peeta peels back the last of the gauze, I see it—the flicker.

It’s fast, barely there, just a tightening around his mouth, a flash in his eyes when the bruises come into view. They’ve darkened since this morning, splotchy and raw-looking, scattered across my ribs like something blooming in reverse. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the shift in him—the way he goes still for half a second, the breath he forgets to take. Like he wasn’t expecting it to be this bad. Like the bruises are louder in person.

His eyes linger, and I can already see the guilt creeping in, pulling at the edges of his expression. He always gets like this when I’m hurt. Even when it wasn’t from Mom. I’d burn my hand on a hot pan or scrape my knee falling on the ice, and somehow he’d still find a way to make it his fault.

Like if he’d just been a little faster. A little closer. Like it’s always his job to catch me before I fall.

“Peeta, I’m cold,” I say softly, the words barely above a whisper—but enough to pull him back.

He blinks, like he’s just now realizing how long he was staring. “Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head quickly. He sets the last of the gauze down on the counter, then moves to help me out of my pants, gentle as ever. The fabric sticks slightly to my skin, but he’s careful, like every motion might break me further.

Then he guides me toward the tub, his hand steady at my back. “Let me know if it’s too hot.”

I nod and ease my foot in. The water is warm—almost too warm—but not quite. He keeps his hand at my elbow as I lower myself slowly, mindful of my splinted hand. When my torso meets the water, I flinch. The heat crashes into every bruise at once, like a thousand pinpricks lighting up across my skin.

For a second, I almost jolt back out. But then… the pain shifts. It softens, ebbs. The warmth spreads deeper, coiling through my muscles until it stops burning and starts to soothe. I sink in a little further, exhaling slowly, and feel the tension in my shoulders start to melt.

Peeta sets a folded towel on the edge of the tub, his hands moving with quiet care. “Keep your arm here,” he says gently.

I nod and lift my splinted hand, resting it where he showed me. The fabric is soft and warm from the heat in the room. He wraps the edges of the towel lightly around the splint, shielding it from any stray drops of water.

Then he stays there—crouched beside the tub, one arm draped over his knee, the other still hovering close like he’s not sure whether to adjust the towel again or just stay still. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t speak again. Just stays there, like he’s making sure nothing else hurts me. Like he’s still holding me up, even without touching me.

He reaches forward and gently tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear, a smile tugging at his lips. “I used to help you shower all the time, you know.”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He nods, the smile growing. “You were so annoying. You used to whine about how cold the water was, and glare at me when you got soap in your eye—like I was the one who put it there.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Sounds like me.”

“You’d always try to wiggle away the second I turned around,” he says, leaning his elbows on the edge of the tub. “It was like trying to wash cooked spaghetti. I used to have to come up with these elaborate stories just to keep you distracted long enough to get all the flour, mud, and grumpiness off.”

I smile at that—really smile—and shake my head. “What kind of stories?”

He grins. “Oh, you know. Mostly ones where you were the hero. Brave Briella, champion of bath time. Defender of soap bottles and slayer of the evil shampoo dragon.”

I let my head tilt back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I forgot about that one.”

“I didn’t,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice—fond and fragile all at once. “You were always easier to take care of when I made you laugh.”

I open my eyes and look at him again, the steam rising gently between us. “You always made it easier to be taken care of.”

Then a memory starts to tug at the edge of my mind. It’s one of those half-formed things, soft and faded around the edges—something you’re not quite sure actually happened or if you just made it up over time.

“Did you…” I pause, frowning slightly. “Did you used to carry boiling water up the stairs to give me baths in the winter?”

Peeta blinks, like I just reached into the past and tugged on something he didn’t expect. “You remember that?”

“Not clearly. Just… parts of it. How warm I felt. Like the water had been touched by sunlight or something.”

He lets out a quiet breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I always hated giving you showers in the winter. And not just because you somehow managed to get more water on me than on yourself.”

I huff out a small laugh, and he grins, but then his face softens again.

“You were always so cold afterward,” he says. “That stupid shower would freeze you to the bone. Blue lips, shivering, teeth chattering so bad you couldn’t even complain properly.” He shakes his head. “I hated watching you shake like that.”

He pauses, and I can see the memory behind his eyes.

“So I had this idea one time,” he continues. “I figured if I boiled enough water and mixed it into the bath, it’d be warm enough. I must’ve gone up and down those stairs ten times with pots from the stove. Nearly burned my hands trying to carry them fast enough.”

Peeta lets out a soft laugh. “Still can’t believe no one questioned a nine-year-old hauling pots of boiling water up the stairs.”

A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth before I can stop it, and for a second, it’s like I’m back there again—knees pulled to my chest, Peeta perched on the edge of the tub, steam curling in the air around us. A small, quiet act of love I didn’t even understand the shape of until now.

I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, letting the warmth soak through me, letting Peeta’s words echo in my mind. Boiling water on the stove. Carrying it up the stairs. Just a kid, nine years old, hauling heavy pots so I wouldn’t shiver after every bath.

And it hits me—harder than I expect—that he’s always been like this. Always taking care of me. Not just now, not just when things got bad. Always.

When did that start? When did he decide it was his job to look out for me? Who even taught him how to do that? Because it wasn’t our parents.

It wasn’t our mother, with her sharp words and sharper hands. And it wasn’t our father, who stood by and let it all happen.

So how did Peeta learn? How did he know I needed warm baths and soft distractions, stories to keep me still while he scrubbed flour out of my hair? How did he always know what I needed—even when I didn’t?

He was just a kid. A boy. My brother. And yet, somehow, he always made space for me. Made warmth out of nothing. Gave me safety when we had none.

Even now—he’s sixteen. Still a kid, really. Still dealing with more than anyone should have to. But he’s here, kneeling beside the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, watching me like making sure I’m okay is the most natural thing in the world.

And the awful part is—I don’t know if anyone’s ever done that for him.

I don’t know if anyone’s ever looked at him and thought, he’s just a boy. Not a victor. Not a provider. Not someone who has to hold everything together.

Just… Peeta.

And the ache in my chest is suddenly bigger than my body.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Peeta looks up, eyes catching mine like he doesn’t understand at first. “For what?”

“For all of it,” I say, voice a little rough. “For the stories. The warm water. For… being the one who always made me feel safe.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. His expression softens, and something flickers in his face—something quiet, almost sad. He reaches forward, tucks the edge of a towel tighter around the side of the tub where my splint rests, making sure it stays dry.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he murmurs, barely above the sound of the water. “That’s just what you do when you love someone.”

And even though the water’s warm and the room is quiet, I feel my throat tighten. Because that’s the thing—he’s always loved me like that. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just constantly. Like it was never even a question.

Peeta’s voice breaks the silence, soft and steady. “Let’s wash that hair, huh?”

I nod, and lean forward over the edge of the tub, resting my arms carefully on the folded towel. Peeta crouches beside me, and I feel his fingers brush against the back of my neck as he gently tugs out the hair tie. My curls spill free, tumbling over my shoulder, and he smooths a few strands back before reaching for the handle of the shower.

He doesn’t turn it on full, just a soft stream—barely more than a trickle—warm water flowing gently over my scalp. I flinch at first, just from the surprise of it, but it fades quickly, settling into something comforting.

Peeta pours a little shampoo into his hands and starts working it through my hair with slow, careful movements. He’s quiet, completely focused, his fingers moving in gentle circles like he has all the time in the world. The rhythm of it—his fingertips against my scalp, the warmth of the water, the low hum of the pipes—starts to lull me. My eyes flutter closed without meaning to.

He’s so gentle I could almost forget everything else. Forget the splint on my hand. Forget the last few days. Forget the house I just walked away from.

I let my head tip forward more as his hands move to the base of my neck, still massaging, still impossibly patient. I think I might fall asleep right here.

“You always had the thickest hair,” he murmurs quietly beside me. “Used to take forever to get the knots out.”

A sleepy breath leaves me in something that’s almost a laugh. “You were always the only one who had the patience for it.”

His hands pause for just a second, and then he starts rinsing. And even though we don’t say anything else, I know he heard what I meant.

I lean back against the curve of the tub, my eyes slipping half-closed again, and Peeta laughs under his breath.

“Hey,” he says softly, teasing, “don’t fall asleep in there. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, not bothering to open my eyes. I hear his footsteps retreat, then the faint creak of the bathroom door as it closes behind him. The warmth of the water is starting to fade now, but I don’t mind. I’m so relaxed I could melt into the porcelain.

A few minutes later, the door opens again and Peeta steps back in, holding something folded in his arms. He sets it on the counter and moves toward the tub.

“Alright, come here,” he says gently, offering his hand.

I let him help me up, water trickling down my back as I step carefully onto the mat. He doesn’t let go. Just steadies me, then reaches for a towel and wraps it around my hair, tucking it in loosely. It’s warm—fresh out of the dryer—and a sigh slips out before I can catch it.

He grins. “Yeah. I wanted it to be warm for you. Unlike that old freezing death-trap shower you used to love so much.”

I snort. “Love is a strong word.”

He just smirks and picks up the other thing he brought with him. It’s soft and white, and as he unfolds it, I see the sleeves and tie—a robe. Without a word, he eases it gently over the splint, moving slowly to keep from bumping anything. Then he wraps it around my waist and ties the belt in a loose knot.

I glance down at it. “Where’d this come from?” I ask, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, tugging the end of the belt snug. “I bought it for you.”

I roll my eyes a little, mostly out of habit. And the second I do, he grins like he’s been waiting for that.

“Check this out,” he says, and before I can react, he flips the hood up over my head.

“It’s got bunny ears.”

I blink, caught off guard, and look at the mirror in front of us. For the first time in what feels like days, I don’t see the bruises. I don’t see the split lip or the swelling in my cheek or the exhaustion carved under my eyes. I don’t even see the heaviness that’s still curling somewhere inside my ribs.

All I see are the droopy little ears hanging over my forehead. Silly and soft and entirely unthreatening. And Peeta’s reflection—standing just behind me, proud and grinning like he’s just fixed the world.

“You’re such a loser,” I say, but it comes out too soft. Too full.

We step into Peeta’s room, and I feel the warmth hit me before anything else—soft lamplight, the smell of clean sheets and something faintly sweet, like bread that lingered in the air too long to leave. It’s quiet. Safe.

On the bed, he’s laid out a pair of pajamas. Dark green. Next to them, a folded pair of thick socks.

I freeze.

They’re the same ones I was wearing that night. Not the exact ones, but close enough—same fabric, same softness, same fit. Just a different colour. I feel my chest tighten before I can stop it.

Peeta notices instantly. “What’s wrong?”

I try to shake it off, but the words come out slow. “I was wearing the blue ones when…” I trail off. My throat clenches. I can’t finish it. I don’t want to.

His face falls. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, already stepping toward the bed, reaching to gather the clothes. “I’ll get you something else.”

“No,” I stop him, voice firmer than I expected. He turns back, brows drawn.

“It’s okay,” I say, quieter now. “I’m not letting her ruin anything else.”

His eyes search mine for a second, then he nods. He doesn’t try to argue. He just steps forward and helps me into the pyjamas, slow and gentle like he’s afraid I’ll splinter if he moves too fast. Once I’m dressed, he takes his time folding the towel and robe, setting them aside before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment.

When he comes back, there’s a brush in his hand.

He sits behind me on the bed and starts brushing, carefully working through the damp tangles with long, even strokes. It’s quiet except for the sound of bristles moving through hair. The motion calms me more than I expect it to—each gentle tug grounding me in something soft and familiar.

Then he starts to braid it, his fingers weaving slowly, methodically. My eyelids start to slip shut before he’s even halfway done. By the time he ties the end, I’m barely awake.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my damp hair, and I lean back into him just a little. The bruises on my back still ache when they press into him, but I’m too tired to care.

He wraps his arms lightly around me, then murmurs into my ear, “C’mon, Tiger. Why don’t you take a nap while I figure some stuff out.”

I feel too warm and safe to ask what he means. What stuff. I just nod, and let him guide me gently down to the pillow. The blanket comes up around my shoulders, soft and warm, and I sink into it like it’s holding me up.

He moves to the window, pulling the curtains closed until the light disappears. The room goes dim—quiet and safe.

Then he sits on the edge of the bed, leans over, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I’m just gone.

Chapter Text

I wake up warm.

Not just under the blankets, but all through me—like the heat settled in my bones sometime while I was sleeping and decided to stay. The sheets are soft, the air still. I don’t hear shouting or footsteps or anything sharp. Just quiet. Just peace.

For a moment, I don’t move. I let myself float there, in the hush of Peeta’s bed, in the warmth that still lingers from the bath and the weight of his arms around me.

But then I shift, rolling onto my side—and pain blooms sharp and fast beneath my ribs. One of the deeper bruises catches the pressure, and it jolts through me like a snapped wire.

I gasp softly, teeth gritting. The blanket crinkles under my hand as I brace myself, breathing through it.

And just like that, I’m back.

Back in my body. Back in the ache. Back in the memory of how it got there.

I blink, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes. The room’s darker than before, lamplight now dimmed to a soft, hazy glow. Shadows spill across the floorboards and tuck into the corners, gentle but deep. The kind of dark that doesn’t feel threatening—just quiet.

I push myself upright, slow and careful. The pyjamas Peeta helped me into are still soft against my skin, still warm from the blankets. My braid brushes my shoulder as I move.

Then I hear it.

A voice—low, steady.

Peeta’s voice.

It’s coming from downstairs—soft and muffled, like he’s trying not to wake me. I can’t make out the words yet, but I know the shape of his voice anywhere. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my socked feet touching down on cool floorboards. And I follow the sound of him.

I make my way down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the railing. The closer I get, the clearer Peeta’s voice becomes—low and even, but laced with that quiet urgency he gets when he’s trying to keep things calm.

When I reach the bottom, I pause in the hallway and peer into the kitchen.

He’s standing at the counter, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, one hand gripping a spoon as he stirs something in a pot. His other hand rests lightly on the edge of the counter, like he needs the grounding.

He glances up the second he hears me and lifts his head. Our eyes meet. Something soft flickers across his face—relief, maybe—and he lifts a hand with a small gesture. One second.

I nod and step into the room, padding over to the counter while he turns back to the stove. With practiced ease, he ladles steaming stew into a bowl, careful not to spill. He sets it down gently in front of me, the smell hitting me immediately—warm, savory, familiar.

Then he turns, cuts a thick slice of bread from the fresh loaf beside him, and places it on a napkin next to the bowl. It’s still warm from the oven, the crust golden.

He moves around the counter, one hand still holding the phone to his ear, and leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. I close my eyes for half a second, just breathing him in. Bread and soap and home.

Then he pulls back and whispers, barely loud enough to catch, “Be right back.” He nods toward the dining room and slips out, his voice resuming on the other end of the line as he disappears around the corner.

I look down at the bowl in front of me. Steam curls in soft spirals above it. I lift the spoon with my good hand, but before I take a bite, I glance toward the dining room, trying to make out Peeta’s voice.

I can hear him talking, steady and low, but the words are too quiet to catch—just a muted hum behind the wall. I lean a little toward the sound, straining to make sense of it, but it’s no use. Whatever he’s saying, he doesn’t want me to hear.

Then the smell of the stew hits me—savory and warm, sharp with herbs and something soft and slow-cooked beneath. My stomach growls, loud and sudden in the quiet kitchen.

That’s when it hits me.

I haven’t eaten. Not since… I don’t even know. Not since before everything—before my hand, before the bakery, before I walked out of that house.

It’s been almost two days.

And the weird thing is, I didn’t even feel hungry until now. Not really. I was too busy being in pain, too busy being scared, too busy surviving. But now… now that I’m clean, and dry, and safe… It’s like my body was waiting for that. Like it didn’t trust the world enough to ask for anything until it knew it was okay.

I look down at the bowl again, the steam curling up to meet me. And then I look toward the doorway, where Peeta disappeared. His voice is still soft in the other room.

He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just knew.

So I take the first bite. And then I don’t stop.

The stew is rich and hot and exactly what I didn’t know I needed. I finish the first bowl faster than I mean to—barely pausing between bites—then mop up the last of it with the thick slice of bread. I don’t even hesitate before getting up and pouring myself another.

Cutting a second slice of bread is harder with only one working hand. The crust is stubborn, and the knife slips more than once, but I manage. I’m not delicate about it. I just need food. Something solid. Something warm.

By the time Peeta comes back, I’ve finished three full bowls of stew and eaten nearly half the loaf of bread. I’m leaning against the counter with the empty bowl in front of me, spoon in hand, still chewing.

He stops in the doorway and just looks at me for a second, a smile blooming across his face. “Someone’s hungry.”

I swallow the last bite and glance at him sheepishly. “Apparently.”

He grins and walks over, reaching past me to take the bowl. “You feeling a little more human now?”

I nod, slower this time. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Peeta rinses the bowl in the sink, sets it in the sink, glancing over at me with a tired but satisfied look. “So,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. “After what felt like six hours and five different phone calls—one of them to a guy who called me ‘Mr. Mellark,’ by the way, like I’m eighty—I finally got it approved.”

I blink. “What?”

“The trip,” he says, like it’s obvious. “To the Capitol. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

And just like that, the stew in my stomach turns to lead. I stare at him, the warmth that had settled in my chest gone in an instant. It’s like my whole body tightens at once. My grip on the edge of the counter shifts.

Peeta notices right away. “Hey—what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to go to the Capitol,” I say quietly.

He smiles, trying to be reassuring. “I know. But the train ride’s not that bad. Actually kind of nice. They feed you every five minutes and the beds are pretty soft. And they said the procedure’s simple—they’ll put you under, you won’t feel a thing. We’ll be back before you know it.”

I nod, like I’m trying to believe him. But it doesn’t help. Not really.

“Can’t I do it somewhere else?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He shakes his head. “They don’t have the right stuff in Twelve. If it was something smaller, maybe. But this—your hand needs more than what we’ve got.”

I hesitate, my throat tightening. Then I finally say it.

“They’re the ones who took you away.”

Peeta’s face softens—not with pity, but something steadier. He sets the towel down on the counter and walks over, leaning his hip beside me. His voice is low.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “They did.”

He doesn’t try to deny it. Doesn’t say it was for the best or that I’m wrong to feel the way I do. He just lets the truth sit there for a second, between us.

“But this time…” he adds, “we’re choosing it. No one’s forcing anything. No train pulling me away while you’re stuck behind. I’m going with you. And we’re doing it for a good reason.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “I want you to get your hand back.”

I glance down at the splint, cradled awkwardly against my chest. For a second, I can almost feel what it would be like to move my fingers again without pain.

“I want you to be able to tie your shoes without help,” he says, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I want you to be able to stir pancake batter again. Burn toast like a pro. Sneak extra sugar when you think I’m not looking.”

That almost makes me laugh.

Then his tone shifts—gentler. “I want to hear you play again, Ellie.”

My throat tightens. “I’m not that good.”

“You always say that,” he says without missing a beat.

That finally pulls a real smile out of me. He sees it, and something eases in his shoulders.

“So yeah,” he says, more softly now. “The Capitol still sucks. But this trip? It’s for you. And I’d go ten times over if it means you come back with both hands working again.”

He bumps my arm lightly. “We’ve got this. Okay?”

I nod slowly, the fear still there—but lighter now. Quieter. Something I can carry.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Peeta sees me nod and smiles, that playful spark creeping back in. “Good,” he says. “Because while you’re knocked out, I’m gonna raid every shop in the Capitol.”

I blink. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “You’re gonna wake up with twelve new sweaters, six pairs of fuzzy socks, and probably a fancy hairbrush shaped like a swan.”

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth lifts. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just grins. “And you’ll be unconscious, so you can’t stop me.”

But before I can answer, the front door creaks open.

Peeta glances over—and then lifts a hand. “Hey.”

It’s Rye. He steps inside, the cold from outside still clinging to his jacket. He’s carrying a box in one hand, and my guitar in the other.

My breath catches a little.

He walks in without fanfare, but there’s something careful in the way he moves, like he knows exactly what this means. “Here,” he says, nodding toward me. “Your stuff.”

I stare for a second, then glance at the box as he sets it down on one of the dining room chairs. I recognize the orange reaping dress folded neatly inside, and the sleeve of the shirt Peeta outgrew that I always kept. The things I picked out, packed, placed on the bed.

I look up at him, “thank you.”

He just nods at me and smiles, he’ll never say it out loud, but I know it wasn’t easy for him to bring this stuff here, and not because it was heavy.

Peeta doesn’t say anything when I stand and pick up the box, but Rye is already picking up the guitar and moving toward the stairs.

“I’ll help,” he says simply, and I follow.

The hallway upstairs is quiet, still faintly warm from the bath, but darker now, like the house is resting. My door’s already cracked open. I haven’t come in here yet.

Rye pushes it open the rest of the way and takes the box from my hand. He steps inside first, setting the guitar gently on the bed. Then he places the box of my things beside it. “There.”

I linger in the doorway for a second. The room’s simple—clean sheets, desk by the window, closet cracked just enough to show empty hangers inside. And for the first time, I realize I get to change that. I get to fill this room. Make it mine.

I cross to the bed, and look inside the box. I pull the clothes out one by one—just a few soft shirts, the orange reaping dress, the sweater with the tear at the sleeve—and carry them to the closet. The hangers are stiff and awkward with one hand. I struggle with the first, plastic biting into my splint, until Rye steps forward and gently takes it from me. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts hanging things up for me, quiet and methodical.

I return to the box.

I lift out the other stuff—the drawings, the notes, the hair cream—and carry them to the desk. I set the jar on top of a blank sheet of paper, then line the drawings up beside it. They’re curled at the edges from being packed too many times, but they belong here now.

Then I sit on the edge of the bed, next to the guitar.

It’s still lying flat on the bed, warm from the room. I place my hand gently over the strings and press down with my fingertips. I can’t chord properly like this. But I can still strum. So I do. One slow sweep across the strings. It’s messy and off-key. But it’s mine.

Rye glances over, and when he sees me sitting like that—next to the guitar, fingers twitching, brow furrowed in concentration—he smiles.

I glance up, then down at the guitar again. My voice is quiet. “I’m going to the Capitol.”

His smile shifts—softens. And I can see it in his eyes before he says anything. He understands what that means. What it could mean.

He walks over, hands in his pockets now. “Yeah?” he says, voice just as quiet.

I nod, my good hand still resting on the strings. “They’re gonna fix it. My hand.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, warm and full.

Then Rye looks at the guitar, and back at me. “Guess you’ll be playing again soon.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I think I will.”

There’s a pause. I expect it to stay quiet, but then Rye shifts his weight and says, “good thing you’re not living at the bakery anymore. I won’t have to hear your awful singing through the ceiling.”

I blink. “You said it was good.”

He shrugs. “I was being nice.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, and for a second, that seems to be enough.

Then he goes quiet.

He watches me—really watches me—for a long second, something unreadable passing across his face. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t quite find the shape of. The silence stretches, and I feel it press around us.

But then he clears his throat and glances at the now-empty box on the bed. “Also, just so we’re clear, I better be getting fed for carrying all this. My back’s never going to recover.”

I roll my eyes. “It was one box and a guitar.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his shoulder, “but it was emotional weight. Very heavy.”

That earns a real laugh from me.

We walk down the stairs, and Rye heads straight for the kitchen like he owns the place. He grabs the bowl Peeta just finished washing and starts ladling stew into it without hesitation.

Peeta glances over, deadpan. “I just washed that.”

“Yeah,” Rye says, lifting the bowl like a toast. “Thanks for the clean dish.”

He starts heading toward the living room, but Peeta lifts his head from the sink. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Rye doesn’t even slow down. “My back hurts. I wanna eat on the couch.”

“You better not spill any.”

“Don’t worry, Peeta,” he says, smirking over his shoulder. “I won’t get any on your fancy couch.”

I follow him into the living room. He drops into the armchair like he’s claiming territory, props his legs up on the coffee table, and starts shoveling stew into his mouth like it might vanish. I sink into the couch across from him, my body still tender but grateful for the cushion.

A moment later, Peeta steps in with a bundle of kindling. He kneels by the fireplace, strikes a match, and gets a fire going like he’s done it a hundred times. The warmth starts to build immediately, soft and golden.

He sits down beside me, and without thinking, I curl up next to him—tucking my knees beneath me, leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make room, resting his arm gently along the back of the couch.

I start to nod off.

I know I just woke up not that long ago, but after everything that’s happened today, it feels like I’d need to sleep for three days straight just to feel fully rested. Between the soft pyjamas, the warm food still settling in my stomach, and the heat of the fire filling the room in steady waves, I can barely keep my eyes open. The couch cushions are soft under me, the room dim and safe, and it’s quiet—just the quiet crackle of flames and the low hum of Rye chewing across the room.

Peeta notices. Of course he does. He always does. “You wanna go upstairs?” he asks, his voice soft beside me.

I should say yes. The bed’s made, the room’s waiting. But the thought of walking up those stairs and lying alone in the dark with my thoughts buzzing and my heart already clenched about tomorrow… I don’t want that. I still haven’t fallen asleep since everything happened without one of them next to me. And now there’s something new for my brain to chew on—going to the Capitol. Letting strangers put me under. Letting myself be vulnerable in a place that already stole so much from me.

So I just shake my head against his shoulder.

“No,” I mumble. My voice is thick, barely there. “With you.”

It doesn’t even make sense. Just two words, slurred and soft. But Peeta understands anyway. He shifts just a little to grab the throw pillow from beside him, then gently guides my head down to his lap, placing the pillow beneath it so I don’t bump my hand. His fingers are in my hair a moment later, brushing slowly through the strands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He always does that when I’m close to sleep—fingertips moving lightly across my scalp, calming me without a single word.

I lie there for a second, letting the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of his hand sink into my bones. My body’s already starting to drift, but my mind lingers.

He gave me so much today.

Took me to the doctor. Spoke to our mother. Moved me in. Helped me wash my hair and tied a ridiculous robe around me just to make me laugh. Made sure I ate. Made me feel safe. It’s not just today. He’s always done this. Even when we were younger, even when he didn’t have to, he did. I think about the way he looked at me by the bathtub. Like making sure I was okay was all that mattered.

And then I think of Rye.

I open my eyes just slightly and glance across the room.

He’s still in the armchair, half-curled around his bowl of stew, but his eyes are on me. Not in a suspicious way. Not even worried. Just watching. Present. Like he’s been trying quietly to step into the space Peeta held alone for so long. I never thought he’d care like this. But he does. He shows up in his quiet ways—bringing my stuff here, folding clothes, making stupid jokes just to make me smile.

Why is it so easy for them to care, and so hard for her?

Shouldn’t it be easier for her?

Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? You give birth to someone, and the love just comes with it. You protect them. Hold them when they cry. You don’t… you don’t leave bruises where love should be.

But then I feel Peeta’s hand still moving through my hair, steady and gentle, and Rye still sitting across from me like he’s not going anywhere. And I realize something.

I’m never going to figure it out.

I’ll never understand why she couldn’t love me the way a mother is supposed to. I’ll never understand what I did wrong, what I didn’t do, what made her pull away and never come back. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe one day I’ll learn to live with that.

Because I have them.

And tonight, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The fire’s still crackling in the hearth, soft and steady. The only other sound is Briella’s breathing—slow, shallow, her cheek pressed against Peeta’s leg. She’s been asleep for a while now, curled so tightly into him she looks smaller than she is, like she’s trying to disappear into his warmth.

The bowl I was eating from earlier sits empty on the coffee table. I haven’t moved it. I haven’t moved much of anything.

I lean forward a little, elbows on my knees, and watch her. Not in a creepy way or anything. Just… watching. Trying to figure out how it all happened. The way she clung to him the second he sat down, like gravity shifted and he was the only thing keeping her from floating away. How she asked to stay here, not in her room or on the couch—on him. How she fell asleep without a fight.

She’s never been like that with me.

And I get it. I really do.

While Peeta was braiding her hair and making up bedtime stories, I was slamming doors and telling her to leave me alone. Pushing her out. I don’t know why I thought it was easier that way, I guess I figured she already had Peeta, she didn’t need me too. Or I guess I was too stupid and young to realize how much family should mean.

I just wish I stepped up sooner. Not because I wish she curled into me like that. I know she can’t lean on me the way she does with Peeta—even now, I know I’ll never be able to take his place, and I don’t want to. That bond they have, it’s always been theirs. But I do wish I’d been there more, wish I’d shown up in all the little ways he did. Not because I want that kind of closeness, but because I wish I could’ve witnessed it—seen the things I missed. The quiet nights. The inside jokes. The way she used to look at him like he was the whole world. Maybe he was. Maybe he still is.

I glance over at Peeta.

He’s not asleep, not even close. He’s watching her like she’s something delicate he’s afraid to lose. Like he’s memorizing her face. His fingers are twirling the end of her braid—he probably did it earlier. He always did her hair, even when she had two good hands. Ever since she was little. He’s always been gentle.

He’s going to want to talk soon. Peeta doesn’t do quiet for long—not when something’s broken. He’s going to want to name it, understand it, fix it. That’s always been his way. The opposite of me. He doesn’t shove things down like I do. He holds them up to the light, even if they burn.

And when he does speak, I know what he’s going to ask.

Why I didn’t tell him.

Why I wasn’t there.

I press my hands together, palms damp. My legs bounce once before I force them still.

I already know I don’t have the answers he wants.

What was I supposed to do? She flinched when I tried to hug her. She couldn’t even tie her own pants. She looked at me like I was the only thing holding her together—and then she asked me for one thing. Just one thing. To not tell him.

How could I betray her?

But I still let her stay there. In that house. Shaking from fear, too scared to even sleep. I watched as our mother pushed her to the edge—until she collapsed right there on the kitchen floor. And I just stood there, with my hands clenched into fists and my mouth shut.

If the roles were reversed—if she had asked Peeta not to tell me something—he would’ve found a way. He would’ve written it on a loaf of bread or sent some elaborate excuse just to get me to show up. He would’ve done something.

But me? I did nothing.

And not just because she asked me to. The truth is—even if she hadn’t begged me to stay quiet. I still don’t think I could’ve picked up the phone. Couldn’t picture myself saying the words: Our mother broke our little sister’s hand with a rolling pin, and I just let it happen.

Maybe that makes me a coward.

No—not maybe. It does.

I sit back against the chair, eyes drifting back to her. She’s shifted a little in her sleep, one hand curled in Peeta’s shirt. Her face soft in the firelight. Peaceful, for once.

The fire snaps softly. I don’t know how long we sit there, both watching her sleep, letting the weight of everything settle in the quiet. Then Peeta speaks, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

I look over, confused. He’s still staring down at Briella, but his words are meant for me.

I frown slightly. “You’re apologizing to me?”

He nods. Slow. Hesitant. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you this morning. I shouldn’t have tried to blame you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “You were angry at what happened, and you needed somewhere to put it. I get that.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s my fault.”

“Peeta—” I start, but he keeps going.

“The only reason this happened was because of me.” His voice is quiet. Fractured. “Because I asked you to let her sleep over. I told you not to come back for her.”

And just like that, I’m back there again—standing in his doorway, the night already too dark, my stomach tight with something I didn’t have a name for. He was walking me out, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes asking for something he never asks for.

Let her stay.

Just one night.

He said he’d wake her up early, walk her to the bakery before anyone noticed. Said she needed it. Said he needed it.

And I didn’t press. I didn’t push. I just nodded, because how could I say no to him? He never asks for anything—not really—and there was something in his voice that night, something quiet and pleading. And maybe I was just so damn tired of seeing both of them hurting. Maybe I thought, just this once, they deserved a night without the world crashing in.

I should’ve known better.

We were already pushing our luck by tricking Mom. Already gambling with too many pieces on the board. But the day had been good. Easy. She was laughing. He was laughing. For a few hours, it felt like nothing was broken. Like maybe we’d made it through the worst of it. I didn’t want to take that away from them.

“Peeta,” I say again, softer this time. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” he says, with so much certainty it hurts. “I was being selfish. I put my needs above hers. And she’s the one who got hurt for it.”

His voice cracks on the word hurt.

And I don’t know what to say. Because part of me wants to argue, to shove the blame as far away from him as possible. But another part—the part that’s lived in that house longer than either of us care to admit—knows there isn’t just one person at fault.

There’s a thousand little things. A thousand cracks in the walls that we all ignored. Things we buried. Promises we didn’t keep. And she paid the price.

Still, I look at him. “You’re not selfish. You were trying to give her something good. Something safe.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps his hand gently threaded through the end of her braid.

I sit with it for a while, the silence thick between us. Peeta’s still gently twisting the end of her braid between his fingers, like letting go of it would unravel him completely.

I glance back at Briella, her face soft in sleep. Peaceful. Safe.

And then I ask, careful not to sound like I’m digging. “Why’d you ask me to leave that night?”

Peeta doesn’t look at me.

“Why’d you ask her to stay?”

Still nothing.

I lean forward a little, elbows on my knees. “I’m not trying to blame you, alright? I just—” I swallow. “I need to know why. Why then.”

He shifts, just barely. His hand twitches around hers. “It’s really hard to sleep,” he says finally. “This house is so big. And it’s so quiet. Every time I close my eyes, I go straight back into that arena.”

His voice is steady, but I can feel the weight behind it. The kind of weight that doesn’t go away, no matter how many victory tours or Capitol interviews they make you smile through.

“But when she used to sleep over sometimes…” He trails off for a second, then continues. “It made it easier. We’d sit on the couch, talk about nothing. Joke around. She’d fall asleep right next to me. And something about her just made it better.”

He looks down at Briella, his thumb brushing gently across her sleeve. “I’d still have nightmares sometimes. But when I woke up and saw her there, it helped. It made it easier to catch my breath. To remember that I’m awake.”

I don’t say anything. I just listen.

“The worst ones are about her,” he says, and his voice is quieter now. “The ones where she gets reaped. I’m in the arena with her, trying everything—fighting, shielding her, screaming. But I can’t stop it. I never can.”

He swallows hard. “And then there’s the other kind. The ones where she goes in alone. Where I have to watch it all from a screen. Call myself her mentor. Smile for the cameras. Convince people to bet on a little girl with no chance.”

My stomach twists. I don’t know how he says any of this without breaking apart.

“When I’d have those ones,” he says, “it took everything in me not to walk over to the bakery in the middle of the night. Just to see her. Just to convince myself she’s okay. That she’s still alive.”

There’s a silence. Not an awkward one. Just the kind that comes after someone says something that leaves no room for noise.

“So when she was here,” he goes on, “it was easier. And that night—every time I saw her smile, every time she laughed—I kept thinking about how she’d walk out that door soon. And I’d be alone again. And I’d have to watch her die a million different ways in my sleep.”

He finally looks at me, and his eyes are tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “So I asked her to stay. I know it was stupid. But I didn’t have any dreams that night.”

He looks back down at her, voice barely above a whisper now. “And I thought maybe we’d all be okay.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t think there is anything to say.

He takes a shaky breath and adds, “So that’s why when you asked if you should come get her… I couldn’t say yes. I should have. I know I should have. But I wanted one more night.”

I sit back slowly, heart pounding. I want to be angry. Or blame him. Or say none of that matters now. But it does. All of it does. And the truth is—I would’ve done the same.

Peeta exhales, long and shaky. He leans his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling like maybe if he doesn’t look at her, he won’t break.

“None of it matters now,” he says like he was reading my mind. “Not the smile. Not the sleep. Not the dreams I didn’t have. Because I thought she could only get hurt in my head. In the nightmares. And then she did. Right down the street.”

His voice cracks on the last few words.

I shake my head fast, like I can cut him off with motion alone. “No. Don’t do that.”

He looks at me, eyes rimmed red.

“You’re not the only one who made a choice,” I say. “I should’ve been there to stop it.”

He doesn’t answer, so I keep going, even though my voice is starting to shake.

“She told me to leave, Peeta. Said she needed to talk to Mom. Said it would be better if I wasn’t there.”

My jaw tightens. “I don’t know why I believed her. Mom doesn’t talk things through. She punishes. That’s how it’s always been.”

I blink hard. “But there was something in her eyes, that day. Something desperate. Like she already knew she was gonna get hurt, but maybe if I pushed less, if she could just say what needed to be said without me there, it wouldn’t be as bad.”

My chest feels too tight. I try to swallow it down. It doesn’t work.

“I thought I was giving her control. I thought maybe, for once, she could handle it on her terms.”

I pause. My hands curl into fists. “But maybe if I’d stayed. Maybe if I didn’t listen—”

I stop. The words don’t come out right after that. They start to twist, to hurt.

What if I’d made it worse?

What if Mom would’ve gone after her even harder just to prove a point?

What if she hadn’t just broken her hand?

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if I pushed harder.”

And I don’t want to finish the thought. Because the truth is, the version in my head ends worse than this.

Peeta says nothing. Just shifts a little, tightening his arm around her as if the warmth of his grip can hold back the rest of the world.

I look at her too. Sleeping. Bruised. Breathing. And thank god that’s the version we got.

Peeta’s quiet for a long time. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty—but full. Full of everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

Then, finally, his voice comes—rough and low, like it’s being torn out of him.“How does she do it?”

I look over at him. His eyes are locked on Briella, still curled into his side like she belongs there. Like she always has.

“How does she look at her own daughter,” he says, and his voice cracks, “and hit her?”

He shakes his head once. Like he’s trying to solve a riddle with no answer.

“I was there, Rye. From the beginning. I held her when she was hours old. I used to rock her when she couldn’t sleep—when Mom wouldn’t even look at her.”

His hand rests over her back, barely touching, like he’s afraid that even now, he might scare her.

“I was the one who made her laugh for the first time,” he adds. “I remember the exact sound. It was barely more than a squeak, but it was real.”

He exhales shakily.

“She followed me everywhere. Even when she could barely walk—she’d trail after me, tripping over herself just to keep up. And she’d look at me like I was—” he falters. “Like I was someone special. Like I mattered.”

He swallows, hard.

“You know what her first word was?” he says, glancing up at me for the first time in a while.

I shake my head.

“Peeta.”

The name lands like something sacred.

“At first I thought she was just repeating it because she heard it all the time. But she’d point at me—her little finger barely even steady—and say it like she knew.”

His mouth pulls into the faintest, broken smile. “I was so proud. I must’ve told everyone in town.”

The smile fades.

“And then I’d see the way Mom looked at her,” he says. “Like she was a burden. Like she was taking up too much air just by existing.”

His eyes go glassy again.

“I never understood it. Still don’t.”

He looks back down at Briella.

“That’s why I stepped in. That’s why I took the hits. Because I couldn’t understand. Because I couldn’t watch her flinch. Couldn’t hear her cry and do nothing. Not when she was so small. So good.”

His voice cracks again.

“I don’t understand. I don’t. How could anyone want to hurt her? What kind of person sees her—and chooses to be cruel?”

He swipes a hand across his face, quick and shaky, but it doesn’t hide the tears. I pretend not to notice.

“She’s just… she’s always been good,” he says again, softer now. “Even after everything. She still laughs. She still forgives. I don’t know how. I don’t know why.”

He looks down at her. “Even after the Games, when I came back and barely knew how to be in my own skin—she still looked at me like that. Like I was safe.”

His fingers brush her braid again. “And now I have to sit here and accept that I wasn’t enough. After all that, after every night I stayed up to keep her safe, after every bruise I took for her. All those years of trying to protect her still ended with her lying on the floor, sobbing, with her hand broken.”

He can’t say anything more. And he doesn’t need to. Because I get it. I feel it too.

And between the two of us, in the flicker of firelight and silence, it hangs there—this shared, unbearable truth: We loved her with everything we had. And it still wasn’t enough.

I let his words settle, the fire flickering across the curve of her cheek, the tear tracks drying on his.

And then I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have had to protect her alone.”

Peeta doesn’t look at me, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders draw in like he’s bracing for something.

“I should’ve stepped in sooner,” I say. “I should’ve noticed more. I did notice, I just didn’t want to see it for what it was. Thought maybe if I ignored it, it wouldn’t be real.”

I glance at him, my throat tight. “But you were always there. Always stepping in. I left you to carry it. Her. All of it.”

I pause, then add quietly, “I shouldve protected you too.”

His eyes flick to mine.

“You were just a kid, Peeta.”

For a moment, it’s dead silent.

Then Peeta says, just as quietly, “So were you.”

And that’s when it hits me. We were both just kids. Caught in something too big, too cruel, too complicated. Just two boys growing up in a house with locked doors and careful footsteps. Learning how to take the hits without letting them show. Learning how to pretend.

I look down at Briella again. Curled up, breathing evenly. Safe—for now. And I wonder if we’ll ever stop blaming ourselves for all the times she wasn’t.

We sit in silence, both of us staring at the fire like it might burn away the weight in the room.

Then the bitterness creeps up my throat before I can stop it. “Do you think Dad’s sitting around blaming himself?”

Peeta looks over at me, but I don’t give him time to answer.

“I do,” I say. “At least, I hope he is.”

There’s a sharp edge to my voice now. The kind that’s been dulling itself for years.

“I never understood it,” I mutter. “He was a good dad. He taught us how to wrestle in the back yard. He made up songs about kneading dough. He used to put raisins in the oatmeal even when she said not to, just because you liked it.”

A small, hollow laugh escapes me. “Remember when he taught the three of us to shave?”

Peeta glances up, and there’s the faintest flicker of a smile—sad, but real.

“You were so serious about it,” I murmur. “Like it was some sacred rite of passage.”

“You cut yourself twice,” Peeta says softly.

“And you made fun of me for a week.”

He huffs a quiet breath. “Briella kept asking when she’d get to try.”

I nod, the corner of my mouth twitching despite everything. “And he just laughed. Said she could practice on apples until she was ready.”

The warmth of the memory fades as quickly as it came.

“But for some reason,” I go on, “he never stood up to her.”

I glance at Peeta, then back at the fire. “The minute she walked into a room, it’s like he stopped being our dad.”

The words sit heavy between us.

“He just disappeared,” I say quietly. “Like whatever he was thinking, whatever he felt, didn’t matter anymore. He let her fill the whole space. He let her hurt us.”

My voice drops. “And he never stopped her.”

I don’t know if I’m expecting Peeta to argue. To defend him. But part of me hopes he doesn’t. Because I’m not wrong. Our dad could be warm, and kind, and full of softness—when she wasn’t around.

But when she was? He just vanished. And we were left to figure out how to survive her on our own.

Peeta doesn’t answer right away.

He’s quiet for a long time, his thumb still moving slowly across the fabric of Briella’s sleeve. Then he speaks, voice low and distant. “He said something to me once.”

I glance at him. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me, like he’s back in another moment entirely.

“We were a lot younger. I don’t even remember what she got mad about—Mom, I mean. Something small. It’s always something small. But I remember her yelling at Briella. And I remember stepping in.”

He shifts slightly, gaze dropping to Briella again.

“I took her upstairs. She couldn’t stop shaking. I held her until she fell asleep, and the whole time I was just… boiling. Because he was right there. He saw it happen. He was just standing there, like he always did.”

Peeta’s jaw tightens.

“So when she was finally asleep, I went to find him. He was outside, sitting on the back step, just staring into space like none of it happened.”

His voice softens.

“I asked him why. I said, ‘Just tell me why, please.’ And all he said was…”

Peeta swallows.

“‘She looks so much like her.’”

I blink, confused. But Peeta keeps going.

“That’s when he told me. About his sister.”

There’s something heavier in his voice now. Like he’s carrying more than just his own memories.

“She was a lot younger than him. Loud. Stubborn. Just like Briella. He loved her, I could tell just by the way he talked about her. Said she used to follow him everywhere. Always wanted to be close.”

Peeta draws in a slow breath.

“She died during a reaping. Not from being chosen. From what came after.”

I sit up a little, listening closer.

“He said he was sixteen. She was nine. He was with the other kids waiting to be reaped, and she was supposed to be safe. She was supposed to be in the crowd with their parents. But the boy who got reaped that year—he tried to run. The peacekeepers shot him, right there in the square. In front of everyone.”

Peeta’s voice falters for a second.

“Panic broke out. People screamed, tried to run. And the peacekeepers—” he closes his eyes for a second “—they started shooting into the crowd.”

A beat of silence.

“She got hit.”

I don’t move. I can’t.

“She was standing at the edge of the crowd,” Peeta says. “She always wanted to be close to him, even then. And he saw it happen. He froze. Couldn’t do anything. Someone had to hit him in the back of the leg to knock him down, so he wouldn’t get shot too.”

Peeta finally looks at me. His eyes are red, but dry.

“He told me, ‘You can’t stop the violence, Peeta. You just have to learn how to live through it.’”

I stare into the dying fire, my chest a knot of grief and rage and something worse: understanding.

“I think he blames himself,” Peeta says. “Because she moved closer for him. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.”

Silence stretches between us.

And I see it, suddenly—how that day shattered our father. How he learned the wrong lesson. That trying to stand still in a storm was safer than trying to fight the wind.

“He froze once,” I whisper. “And he’s been frozen ever since.”

Peeta doesn’t answer. Just looks down at Briella again.

I follow his gaze. Her broken fingers. The way she curls in toward his chest, trusting.

“I’m not gonna freeze,” I say, and this time, it’s a promise. “Not again.”

Peeta nods, slow and certain. “Neither am I.”

We sit in silence after that. Not the heavy kind we started with. This one’s different. Something has shifted. Settled.

I glance over at him, at the way he’s holding her. Protective, gentle. Exhausted.

“When are you leaving for the Capitol?” I ask, voice low.

Peeta doesn’t look away from her. “Train’s coming at eight.”

I nod.

“Should be there early the day after tomorrow.”

I nod again, but my chest sinks. Because I can’t stop thinking about her getting on that train for another reason.

Not as a passenger.

As a tribute.

I’ve already watched it happen once—watched them take Peeta away and known there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing I could say that would bring him back. I don’t know how I’d survive watching them do it to her.

Peeta shifts a little, careful not to wake her. She lets out a soft sigh and leans further into him.

“You wanna go to sleep?” I ask.

He huffs a tired breath. “Not really.”

I watch him for a second. “You want me to stay?”

There’s the smallest pause. Then he nods.

I stand and grab the extra blanket off the back of the chair. Toss it over both of them. Then I sink back into the armchair beside them.

I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to.

I’m here.

Finally.

Chapter Text

The hum of the train is soft beneath me, steady enough that it almost feels like I’m not moving at all. But I am. We are. Each mile taking us closer to the Capitol. Closer to the place that ruined everything.

I’m lying in one of the rooms, on a bed too soft to feel real, staring up at a ceiling I don’t trust. My hand’s still wrapped. My chest feels too tight. Peeta went to get food a few minutes ago, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat.

I keep thinking about this morning. I woke up shaking. Heart racing, shirt clinging to my back. It took me a second to remember where I was. To remember I was safe. Kind of.

The dream was about the Capitol. Not the version I saw on TV—the shiny one, all gold and silk and smiles. This one was twisted. Empty. I was standing on a stage, lights burning hot on my face, and no one was clapping. No one was even looking at me. Just those cameras. A hundred red lights blinking back, recording everything. I tried to speak, but no sound came out. I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t listen.

When I jolted upright, I was in my bed. My real bed. Someone must’ve brought me up there after I fell asleep on the couch. I think it was Peeta. Or maybe Rye. Maybe both.

I stayed there for a minute, trying to catch my breath, trying to remind myself it was just a dream. But the fear didn’t fade. Not really. Eventually I made myself get up. My fingers throbbed when I pushed off the mattress, but it was dull now. Manageable.

When I came downstairs, Peeta was at the kitchen counter. His back was to me. He was packing something, but stopped when he heard my steps.

I asked, “Where’s Rye?”

And when he said, “He went back to the bakery,” something inside me twisted.

I don’t know why that made me even more scared about today. Maybe because I thought he’d come with us. Or maybe just because everything already felt too final. Like something was shifting, and we were all pretending it wasn’t. Like he had to go back to being normal again, and I was the one being taken out of orbit.

I didn’t say anything after that. Just nodded. Sat down at the table and watched him finish packing.

The door creaks open a little, and Peeta steps inside, balancing two plates piled high with food. More than I’ve seen in one place in a long time. My stomach growls at the smell, even though I wasn’t sure I could eat five minutes ago.

I start to sit up, pushing the blanket off my legs. “I can help—”

“Stay,” he says, not sharp, but firm. “We can eat in here.”

I hesitate, but I do as he says, shifting upright against the pillows. He walks over carefully, sets one of the plates on my lap and the other on the side table. The plate is warm, heavy, full of roasted vegetables and soft bread and something that looks like actual chicken.

It smells like something from the Capitol. But it also smells a little like home.

“Wow,” I murmur, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as I feel. “They feed you like this the whole way?”

Peeta shrugs a little, settling on the bed beside me. “Pretty much.”

I glance down at the plate again. “Feels wrong.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “It did the first time too.”

We sit like that for a second, the train rattling quietly beneath us, the smell of real food curling through the room. Then I reach for a piece of bread—awkward with one hand, but I manage—and take a bite.

It’s warm. Buttery. Soft in a way that’s hard to describe.

“Is it weird,” I say, “that I don’t even know if I’m hungry or just trying to feel normal?”

Peeta doesn’t answer right away. Then he says, “Does it matter?”

I look at him.

He takes a bite of his own food, chews thoughtfully, and then glances at me again. “Either way, you’re eating. You’re here. That’s enough.”

And somehow, it is. I don’t put anymore food in my mouth. I just watch him.

The way he picks up his fork like this is just any other meal. Like the world hasn’t tilted sideways. Like we’re not speeding toward the place that almost killed him. He chews slowly, evenly. Doesn’t flinch when the train jolts. Doesn’t glance at the window like it might hold something worse. His shoulders stay relaxed, like the worst part is already over.

How does he do that?

How does he sit here and act like this isn’t the same train that took him away from us? From me?

It hits me all at once—this isn’t just scary for me. It should be so much worse for him. He’s already been on this ride. Already stood in that station. Slept in that Capitol bed. Woke up in that arena.

And yet he’s the one who’s been reassuring me the whole way. Since the second we got on. Since before that, even. Since this morning, when he caught me shaking and didn’t say anything, just wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders and rubbed my back until I could breathe again.

I look at him now, the soft curve of his brow, the calm in his eyes that can’t possibly be real. He doesn’t look brave. He looks… steady. And somehow that’s even more powerful.

When we finish eating, Peeta takes the plates without a word. He doesn’t mention how full mine still is. Just stacks them together and carries them out like it’s nothing, like he didn’t notice—or like he knows bringing it up won’t help anything.

When he comes back, he doesn’t say much. Just sits beside me again, close enough that our arms touch. He does those little Peeta things—the quiet ways he always tries to make me feel better. Reaches over to fix the blanket where it slipped off my shoulder. Taps the end of my braid and says something dumb about how it’s “lopsided but valiant.” Leans back just enough so I don’t feel crowded, but not enough to feel far.

He’s not trying to distract me. Not really. Just… soften things. Ease the edges. That’s always been his way.

But all I can focus on is the window.

How dark it’s getting outside. How the trees are thinning, the hills flattening, the stars blinking out behind the silhouette of distant buildings. We’re going to have to sleep soon. And when we wake up… we’ll be in the Capitol.

Peeta glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me. His voice is low, careful.

“You wanna shower before bed?”

I shake my head almost instantly. “No.”

He doesn’t press. Just nods once, like that’s the end of it. And maybe it is. But I feel the answer hanging in the air between us anyway, all the parts I didn’t say out loud.

It’s not the splint. Not the awkwardness of trying to do everything with one hand, or the frustration of having to ask for help. It’s something else. Something heavier.

I don’t want to stand in a room lined with mirrors, steam clinging to my skin while I try not to look too closely at what’s left behind. I don’t want to be alone with the sound of water and my thoughts echoing off tile. I don’t want to scrub at bruises that still haven’t faded or trace my fingers over the skin where her hand landed.

I just don’t want to be alone at all.

Peeta doesn’t ask why. He never does when it matters. “Alright,” he says softly. “We can just get ready for bed.”

So we do. Quietly. I pull on one of the softer long-sleeved shirts he packed, the fabric worn and warm, and crawl under the covers without saying much. Peeta flips the light off after he brushes his teeth, leaving the room in a soft navy blue. The moon is low in the sky, the glow from the window carving pale shapes across the floor. He settles beside me without a word.

And I try—I really try—to let myself drift.

But I can feel it coming. The shift. The moment where sleep should come but doesn’t. My heart won’t slow down. My hand curls tight in the blanket. I know what tomorrow is.

And no matter how still I lie, I can’t stop thinking: This time yesterday, we were still home. Now we’re halfway to the place that broke him. And I don’t know what it’s going to take from me.

I lie still, eyes wide open in the dark. I try not to move, like maybe if I’m quiet enough, still enough, the thoughts will settle and sleep will come.

But Peeta notices anyway. Of course he does. “You okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft in the dark.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “You don’t have to say that.”

I hesitate. Then I whisper, “I know.”

He shifts slightly beside me, the bed dipping just enough to remind me he’s there. “You want me to talk about something dumb until you fall asleep?” he offers gently. “Like I used to?”

I almost smile. Almost.

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“I know,” he echoes. “But I will.”

And he does. He starts telling me about some ridiculous Capitol bread he saw in the tribute train dining car last year. Something shaped like a swan, stuffed with something green, and frosted like it was a cake. He keeps his voice low and calm, his rhythm steady, like the click of wheels beneath us.

I let the sound of his voice fill the space where fear was a moment ago. It doesn’t make everything go away. But it softens the edge. And after a while, when he pauses to check if I’m still listening, I don’t answer. Because I’ve finally started to drift. Still scared. Still sore. But not alone.

“Ellie.”

His voice comes soft, right beside me.

I stir, eyes heavy, breath slow against the pillow. For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Everything’s quiet, still. No bakery sounds. No creaking floorboards above me. Just the faint hum of motion beneath us.

Then I feel the mattress shift.

“Hey,” Peeta says again. He’s crouched next to the bed now, one hand resting lightly near my shoulder. “It’s almost time.”

My heart kicks once, slow and cold.

I open my eyes. He’s already dressed, hair damp like he just ran water through it. His voice is warm, but there’s something behind it. Something quiet. Careful.

“We’ll be there soon,” he says.

I nod, or try to. My body’s stiff with sleep. My hand aches faintly inside the splint. Everything aches, in a deeper way.

Peeta glances toward the small bench at the end of the bed, then reaches for the folded clothes waiting there—mine. From home. Soft shirt, comfortable pants. The sweater I always liked wearing on market days, the one with the buttons he helped me sew back on last winter.

He sets them gently beside me. Doesn’t ask if I want to change. Just waits.

I shift slowly to sit up. He moves to help before I can even try—hands careful, movements practiced. Like this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Like helping me dress is just something brothers do.

He eases the blanket down and guides my arm through the sleeve, pulling the fabric around my shoulders with quiet precision. Then the pants, slow and patient, steadying me when I sway.

He doesn’t talk while he does it. Doesn’t make a big deal out of any of it. Just buttons the sweater at my chest and steps back when he’s done.

“There,” he says, voice low. “All set.”

I glance down at the clothes. They still smell like home.

But when I look out the window, I see it in the distance—the shine, the scale, the impossible reach of the Capitol skyline as it begins to rise from the hills. Cold light bouncing off silver buildings. Everything feels too fast.

Peeta sees me looking. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits beside me again. Close, but not crowding. His presence solid. Steady.

Then the train starts to slow. It’s subtle at first—just a shift in the hum under my feet, a low hiss of brakes building beneath us. But my body knows before my mind does. My stomach sinks. My fingers curl in my lap.

Peeta moves beside me. I don’t look up, not even when I hear him set something down on the seat.

“Let’s get your shoes on,” he says gently.

He crouches in front of me, lifts one foot at a time, and slips the shoes on like it’s nothing. Like he used to when I was little, half-asleep and grumpy before school. He doesn’t meet my eyes, just works quietly, then ties the laces in neat, practiced double-knots. Then he takes my good hand and holds it lightly.

I still don’t look up.

“Ready?” he asks.

I don’t answer. Just nod once.

He grabs my small bag with his other hand and starts guiding me toward the door. I follow. Step by step. Still not looking up.

Not when the doors hiss open. Not when the heat of the Capitol air hits my face. Not when the world outside feels like it’s holding its breath. I let Peeta guide me. His hand around mine is warm and solid, and I hold on like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

We climb into the car waiting for us. Sleek. Too quiet. Peeta pulls me in beside him, and I don’t hesitate—I curl into his side, tuck my knees up a little, and press my face into his shoulder like I used to when I was scared of thunder. He shifts slightly, makes room without a word. His arm comes around my back. I breathe him in—bread flour, soap, home—and try to let it hold me together. Peeta starts talking to the man driving. Polite, effortless small talk. The kind Peeta’s always been good at. His voice smooth, steady, like this is just another errand. Just another morning.

But it isn’t.

I don’t look out the window. I don’t want to see it. When the car stops, I still don’t lift my head. Peeta helps me out and I just keep my gaze on the ground. I don’t want to know what the Capitol looks like. I don’t want to see the colours or the size of the buildings or the faces of the people who think this place is something to be proud of.

So I stare at the sidewalk. Even that looks different. Even the air feels different. It’s too sharp. Too clean. Like it’s never known smoke or ash or bread baking at dawn. Like it doesn’t belong to people like us.

We walk into the hospital. The doors slide open on their own, smooth and silent. I stay close to Peeta as we step inside. He walks up to the front desk and tells the woman what we’re here for—his voice calm, even. Like he’s just checking us into a hotel. She nods, types something, and then glances at me. She smiles.

I think it’s supposed to be reassuring. But it doesn’t make me feel better. If anything, it makes my stomach twist harder. Like she already knows what I’m here for. Like she’s smiling because it’s routine. Normal.

It shouldn’t be normal.

She clicks around on her computer for a moment, then stands. “Right this way.”

We follow her down a long hallway. The floors are white. The walls are white. Everything smells sharp and sterile, like chemicals and lemon and cold metal. It should make me feel better, right? The cleaner it is, the safer it is.

But all I can think about is the run-down doctor’s office back home. How it smelled like mold. How the ceiling tiles were stained and the lights buzzed. And somehow, I felt safer there.

The woman leads us to a small room and gestures us inside. “The nurse will be here shortly,” she says with another soft smile, then disappears.

I take a few steps in.

It looks a little like the room from home—an exam bed in the middle, counters along one side, cabinets above and below—but everything here is… different. Nicer. Too nice. The bed isn’t ripped or taped together. The counters gleam. There are machines I don’t recognize, screens and wires and blinking lights. Even the paper on the bed looks freshly printed and tucked with perfect corners.

It’s like the Capitol version of a place I’ve already been. And I hate it.

Peeta helps me onto the exam bed, one hand at my elbow, the other steady on my back like I might slip. I don’t fight him. I just let him move me.

He stops in front of me and leans down slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It’ll all be over soon,” he says gently. “We’ll go home by tomorrow, and then you can start healing.”

I nod, barely. It’s the kind of nod you give when someone needs you to agree, even if every part of you feels like it’s coming undone. But Peeta doesn’t call me on it. He just steps behind me and carefully pulls the tie from my braid.

“Your braid got a little messed up last night,” he murmurs.

We both know it’s not really about my hair. He’s trying to anchor me with something familiar, something safe. And for a second, it works. His fingers move with the rhythm I know by heart—brushing gently through my hair, separating the strands, weaving them back together with practiced ease. When he finishes, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head like he always does, and I close my eyes, taking a long, deep breath. Maybe it really will be okay. Maybe, as long as Peeta’s here, I can get through this.

Then the door opens.

A woman steps into the room, dressed in pale blue scrubs with a clipboard in her hands and a calm, professional smile. Peeta steps forward right away, all easy charm and steady presence, and offers her a handshake. She smiles back like she already knows him.

They talk, and it’s about me—about what happened, about why we’re here. Peeta tells the story we agreed on, something about a dumbbell slipping while I was with Prim. He sounds smooth and sure, like it’s the truth, like he’s had practice lying to keep me safe. I stay quiet and let him handle it. We both know he can’t tell them what really happened.

The woman nods, scribbling something down, and then looks up at him with that same professional calm. “You can wait outside while we get everything ready,” she says, still gentle.

Something drops in my stomach.

But Peeta doesn’t even hesitate. “If it’s all right, I’d like to stay with her until it’s time for the surgery,” he says with an easy, practiced smile, gesturing toward me. “She’s a little nervous.”

It’s not even a stretch. I probably look like I’m about to bolt.

The woman glances at the machines, at the small room around us, then back at him. “I understand that, Mr. Mellark. But we need space to work. We don’t normally let loved ones stay.”

And just like that, the air in the room feels tighter.

Peeta doesn’t back down right away. “Can’t you make an exception?” he asks, still calm but more insistent now. “She’s really young. And she’s not used to any of this.”

The woman’s expression softens slightly, but her voice stays firm. “I understand, but we have protocols in place. It’s for safety.”

I can see it in his face—the moment the worry creeps in. His posture shifts, his smile falters just slightly. It’s the first time he’s looked nervous since we stepped on that train.

And that’s what gets me. Not the nurse, not the hospital, not even the thought of being alone in this room. It’s the way Peeta looks suddenly unsure, like he’s torn between following the rules and staying beside me no matter what.

I don’t want to make this harder for him. Even though every part of me is screaming for him not to walk out those doors, I know he has to. I know if he keeps pushing, he’ll end up pacing the hallway, sick with worry, wondering if I’m scared—which I am. But I don’t want him to carry that too.

So I make myself smile. It wobbles a little, but I try to hold it. “It’s okay, Peeta,” I say, quiet but clear. “I’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, studying my face like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then he steps closer, lowers his voice. “I’ll be right there when you wake up,” he promises. “The second you open your eyes.”

I nod, and this time the smile comes easier.

As soon as the door shuts behind Peeta, the energy in the room changes. The woman doesn’t smile now. She doesn’t speak gently, either. Her whole demeanour shifts—professional, cold, like a switch flipped the second he walked out.

She moves further into the room without looking at me, starts opening cabinets, pulling things out with brisk, practiced motions. Then she grabs something folded and blue and sets it on the bed beside me.

“Put this on,” she says flatly.

I nod and slide off the exam bed. The gown is stiff in my hand, like it’s been ironed with too much starch. I wait for her to turn around. Look away. Anything. But she doesn’t. She just stands there, watching, arms crossed like she’s already thinking about her next task.

I toe off my shoes, hesitating as I reach for the knot on my pants. I shouldn’t have to do this in front of her. Not like this. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer privacy or a curtain or even a nod to say she’ll wait outside.

So I do it anyway.

I fumble with the tie, awkward with one hand, and then start pulling my sweater off, trying not to let the pain show as I twist my arm the wrong way. It catches at my elbow, and I stumble. She doesn’t move to help.

I slip the gown on fast as I can. It’s cold and rough against my skin, brushing the bruises along my ribs and back. The thin fabric clings wrong—it smells too clean, like chemicals and bleach.

I reach back to try and tie it, but I can’t get my arm up that far with the splint. The knot slips through my fingers twice. I try a third time anyway, more out of frustration than anything. Finally, the woman steps forward. Not gently. Not kindly. She grabs the strings and yanks them into a knot, too tight, like I’m just something to check off her list.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Just moves back to her clipboard. And I stand there, barefoot and cold in the middle of the room, feeling smaller than ever.

I miss him.

Not just because I’m scared, though I am. But because of the way he always stays close—how he stood beside me the last time I went to the doctor in 12. That doctor was kind of crude, blunt in a way that made Peeta roll his eyes. But when it came to me, he saw right away that I was just a scared kid. He was gentle. Explained things slowly. Talked me through what he was doing even when I didn’t answer. Said things like “This part’s gonna feel weird, not painful, just weird,” and gave me the choice to hold Peeta’s hand when it was gonna hurt. I held it the whole time.

It still hurt. But it felt like everyone in the room wanted it to hurt less.

It’s not like that here.

The nurse jerks her head toward the exam bed, and I climb up, the paper crinkling under me. She rolls over a metal tray table and gently but silently picks up my arm, setting it down like it belongs to someone else. She doesn’t look at me, just reaches for the scissors.

They’re shiny. Sharp. Clean.

The cold metal touches my skin as she starts cutting away the old bandages. I flinch. She doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t even pause. Just keeps working in that efficient, mechanical way like I’m not even in the room.

And all I can think is: Peeta would’ve told me it was almost over. That it was okay to squeeze his hand. That I was doing great, even if I wasn’t. But he’s not here. And I told him it was okay to leave. I really wish I hadn’t.

The nurse finishes cutting the last bit of wrap and peels the splint away from my arm. I brace myself for what I already know is there.

But it still knocks the air out of me.

My hand is worse than the last time I saw it. Still broken. Still swollen. The bruises have deepened—dark purple blooms around my knuckles like something rotting from the inside. And lower down, near my wrist, the yellow has spread, sickly and dull like old fruit. I knew it would look bad. But seeing it unwrapped—exposed and vulnerable—it makes the pain sharper, more real.

And now that nothing’s protecting it, it hurts. Not like a dull throb or an ache I’ve gotten used to. It’s the kind of pain that’s loud. Raw. Like it’s screaming from under my skin.

I’m right back there. In that kitchen. In that moment.

The slam of wood. The breath I couldn’t catch. The flash of white-hot pain that stole my voice. The counter pressing into my back. The sound of my own heartbeat drowning everything out.

The nurse doesn’t notice.

She just grabs my wrist and flips it over with quick fingers, her grip too tight. I can’t help it—I gasp. A sharp breath that jerks out of me before I can swallow it down. But she doesn’t look up. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t ask if it hurts or if I need a break. Just keeps pressing along the bones, her thumbs poking into the worst spots.

I bite the inside of my cheek and keep my eyes on my hand. It’s not just the pain. It’s the way it looks—like proof. Like this awful, permanent reminder that it really happened. That it wasn’t just some nightmare or bad fall. That someone who was supposed to love me let this happen. Chose to do this.

The woman steps out of the room through a door I didn’t even notice before—tucked in the corner, part of the wall until it wasn’t. She’s gone for only a minute, maybe less, but it stretches too long in the silence.

When she comes back in, she’s rolling something in front of her. A machine. It hums faintly as she positions it beside me, cold metal brushing my arm as she adjusts the angle. My hand goes underneath it, like I’m offering it up for something I don’t understand.

She presses a few buttons on the side. There’s a low mechanical sound, then a soft click, and the screen attached to the side flickers to life. I watch her watch it, her face unmoving. When the image appears, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t explain. Just nods once.

Then she pulls a marker out of the front pocket of her shirt.

Without warning, she starts drawing on my hand. The pressure is sharp, stabbing into the already raw places. I wince, but she doesn’t apologize. Just draws again. She glances back at the screen and presses the tip of the marker into my skin, firm and exact, like she’s working on something that doesn’t feel anything.

Another mark. Then another.

A little X.

I look down and realize my hand is covered in them—X’s and O’s scattered across my fingers and knuckles like some kind of code.

It reminds me of when me and Peeta used to play tic-tac-toe in the leftover flour on the bakery counter. He always let me go first. Always made the last move so that I won.

The thought is soft enough to steady me, just for a second. “What are you doing?” I ask.

The woman doesn’t look up. “Marking where the incisions should go.”

My throat tightens. “What does that mean?”

The nurse’s eyes stay fixed on the screen as she replies, voice flat and without any softness. “We have to open up the skin to get to the bones.” 

I stare at her, heart pounding suddenly, a cold wave of panic flooding through me.

“Cut… my hand open?” I whisper, barely able to say it out loud.

She shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “How else do you think we get the screws in?”

The room feels smaller all of a sudden, and the coldness of the hospital gown against my bruises is unbearable. I want Peeta here. I want to curl into him and disappear. But all I can do is swallow the lump in my throat and watch her keep marking, precise and methodical, like I’m nothing but a broken thing she’s fixing.

Without another word, the nurse begins moving around the room. She pulls a cuff from a nearby cart and wraps it tightly around my arm. The pressure is sharp but doesn’t stop her as she clicks the device on and watches the numbers.

Next, she grabs a thermometer and slides it under my tongue without so much as a glance in my direction. I try to stay still, but my hands tremble.

She writes down a few notes on a clipboard, barely acknowledging my presence. No gentle words, no reassurances—just a steady, impersonal efficiency.

I want to ask what’s next, what she’s doing, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I watch her prepare syringes and other tools on the counter, still silent.

She picks up one of the syringes and flicks it sharply with her finger, the little beads of air bubbles rising to the top. Without a word, she steps beside me and lifts the sleeve on my left arm.

“This should help you calm down,” she says flatly, her voice lacking any warmth or comfort.

The nurse presses the needle into my skin before I can even react. The sting fades fast, but almost immediately, a strange heaviness starts to seep through my limbs.

It’s like my arms and legs are filled with lead, dragging me down, pressing me into the exam bed. I try to move my fingers on my good hand, the one that still works. I want to make a fist, to squeeze away the panic clawing at my chest, but my fingers barely respond.

They twitch weakly, refusing to obey.

It’s not like the warmth I imagined, the calming wave I hoped for. Instead, my body feels slow and thick, weighed down, as if I’m sinking but my mind stays wide awake, racing and terrified. The drug isn’t calming my brain. It’s just making my body heavy—like it wants to keep me still, but the storm inside won’t settle. I blink, trying to focus, but the heaviness pulls at me harder.

The nurse returns, pushing a wheelchair behind her. She doesn’t say a word or offer a hand, just motions for me to sit. I try to shift, but my limbs feel so heavy I almost fall before I settle onto the cold, hard seat.

The nurse starts wheeling me out of the room, the wheels clicking loudly against the sterile floor. The hallway stretches out long and cold, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I stare straight ahead, not daring to look around. The walls feel too bare, too unfamiliar.

Every echo of the wheels feels like a reminder that I’m trapped—moved like a fragile thing, no control. I want to call out, to ask where we’re going, but my mouth feels dry, and my body too sluggish to do more than sit and watch the sterile world pass by.

The doors swing open, and the nurse wheels me into a room that’s too bright, too white. There are people inside—doctors, more nurses—but none of them even look at me. They’re adjusting machines, moving trays, talking in low voices I can’t quite make out.

I look around. The machines beep steadily, tubes and wires looped around stands like vines. There’s a metal table in the corner, lined with knives—scalpels and tools I don’t know the names of. My stomach flips.

The nurse stops beside the bed and says only one word. “Up.”

I try, but it’s hard to move. My limbs still feel like they’re filled with wet cement. I fumble, shaking, as I try to lift myself, but it’s useless. The nurse grabs me under the arm and helps me up, not gently—just enough to get the job done. She lowers me onto the bed and arranges me the way she needs, not the way that’s comfortable. I don’t even resist.

I stare up at the ceiling. It’s metal. Shiny. Cold. I can see faint shapes reflected in it—gloved hands, the outline of a light. I try to breathe, but it’s like the air won’t go all the way in.

Now that I can’t feel my body, the rest of me is too aware. Every beep of the machines feels sharp, like a pinprick in my ears. Every step they take sounds too loud. I can hear fabric rustling, trays clinking. I can smell the sharp, sour scent of antiseptic, like alcohol and plastic and something bitter underneath it all.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. The fear is still there, curling tight in my chest like a fist. And Peeta isn’t here. He said he’d be there when I woke up. I just have to make it to that.

One of the nurses reaches for my left arm—my broken one—and starts positioning it out to the side. I flinch, trying to pull back, but my body’s too heavy, too slow.

Panic cuts through the fog. “Wait—that one hurts” I whisper, the words barely making it past my throat.

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even glance at me. Just lowers my arm until it’s flat against the table, fingers splayed awkwardly from the swelling.

Then I see it—her hand reaching for a thick black strap.

“No—wait—”

But it’s too late. She buckles the strap tight across my wrist, right over the bruises. My whole body jolts at the sudden pressure, a sick jolt of pain shooting through my hand and up my arm.

It hurts.

It really hurts.

The kind of hurt that makes everything else fall away. I try to sit up, but another nurse is already there, pushing me gently but firmly back down. Her hands are strong. She doesn’t say a word. Just guides me flat against the table like I’m a puzzle piece being locked into place.

Then another strap pulls tight across my chest. I stare at the ceiling, blinking fast. It’s metal. Too bright. Too close.

Around me, the room keeps moving. Voices trade words I don’t understand. Machines beep. Someone laughs quietly, but not like anything’s funny. No one looks at me. No one says what’s happening. And I realize—I’m not a person in here. I’m just something to be fixed. Or cut open. Or ignored.

I try to lift my right hand, the good one, but it barely twitches against the weight dragging it down. I’m not even sure if it’s strapped or if I just can’t move anymore.

My chest feels tight. Like I’m breathing wrong. Like I forgot how. The room is too cold. And somehow too hot. I can feel the sweat starting at the base of my neck, soaking into the back of the gown, but my feet are freezing. My toes curl involuntarily, brushing against each other beneath the thin blanket.

Everything smells like metal. Like bleach. Like things that are too clean to be safe. The machines beep again. Louder this time. One near my head hisses to life. Someone walks past me—quick steps, rubber soles squeaking on the tile—and it’s like a knife in my ear. I jerk at the sound, but the strap around my chest keeps me from moving more than an inch. It’s a quiet reminder that I don’t get to move unless they say so.

I want to say something. Anything. I want to ask for Peeta. But my throat won’t work. Even if I could talk, I don’t think anyone would answer. They’re talking about me, but not to me. I hear them say “clean incision” and “bone depth” and “stabilization screws.”

My stomach twists. I can’t do this.

I want to sit up. I want to scream. I want to run. But I’m flat on my back, and my hand is tied down, and I can’t even breathe right. The ceiling looks blurry now. Like I might start crying. Or already did.

I try to think of something else. Anything else. Peeta’s voice. Rye’s arm around my shoulders. The smell of fresh bread.

But none of it sticks.

All I can feel is my broken hand throbbing under the strap. All I can hear are voices that don’t care if I’m scared. And all I can think is—please, please, someone see me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walk toward me. She’s wearing a mask now, but I recognize the eyes—it’s the same nurse from before. She’s holding something in her gloved hands. A mask. Tubing already connected. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I know enough to understand what’s coming next.

She doesn’t ask if I’m ready. Doesn’t explain. She just leans down and starts lowering the mask toward my face.

I flinch. Or I try to.

The strap across my chest keeps me pinned in place. My broken hand throbs under the pressure of the one holding it still, and the other—my good hand—is too heavy to lift, to push her away.

“No—” The word barely comes out. Just a whisper.

“Breathe normally,” the nurse says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

But how am I supposed to breathe when the mask smells like plastic and chemicals and everything in my body is screaming not to let it in?

I try to turn my head, but her hand follows, keeping the mask sealed over my mouth and nose. The strap across my chest tightens slightly with the movement, like a warning.

Panic claws at my ribs. I can’t see Peeta. I can’t hear his voice. There’s just this cold room, these strangers, this machine that’s going to drag me under whether I’m ready or not. The air starts to change. Sweet, artificial. I try not to breathe, but my body betrays me.

Everything starts to feel fuzzy. The edges of the room go soft, like someone smeared them with oil. My limbs, already too heavy, feel like they’re slipping away from me completely. My chest is still tight, but the panic is starting to float too—like it’s getting farther and farther away.

My eyes flutter, trying to stay open. My fingers twitch again. Still trying to move. Still trying to reach for him. I want to fight it. Just a little longer. I want Peeta.

I want Peeta.

But the ceiling tilts sideways. The lights blur into stars. And then there’s nothing at all.

Chapter Text

When I open my eyes, everything’s too bright.

The lights overhead blur at first, then come into focus—round, white, humming quietly. I blink, slow and groggy, but even that feels like too much effort. My mouth is dry. My throat aches. My whole body feels like it’s been dragged through wet concrete.

I try to move and immediately regret it.

Pain pulses through my hand—dull, but deep. Throbbing, like something alive inside the bandages. I glance down. My arm is wrapped again, thick and stiff, elevated on a folded blanket beside me. An IV drips into the crook of my other elbow. There’s a plastic bracelet around my wrist with my name on it in clean, black letters.

I’m alone.

The room is quiet, too quiet, except for the slow beep of a machine beside the bed and the faint buzz of the overhead lights. The air smells like antiseptic and something too clean to feel safe.

The sheets are tucked tight around me, like they were trying to keep me still. I shift a little, wince, and then stop. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know what time it is. The window is a little wet, the sky outside a pale gray-blue. Morning? Evening? I can’t tell.

Where’s Peeta?

That’s the first real thought that manages to cut through the haze. He said he’d be here. He promised. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

My chest tightens. Maybe they didn’t let him in yet. Maybe he’s still in the waiting room. Maybe I was asleep too long, and something went wrong. Maybe—

The door clicks faintly. I twist my head toward it, too fast, and the world spins for a second.

It’s her.

The same nurse from before. The one who never looked at me like I was a person.

She doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask how I’m feeling. Just walks in holding a chart, flipping through it as she crosses the room.

“Where’s Peeta?” My voice is hoarse, fragile.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance at me. Just reads whatever’s written on the clipboard like I didn’t speak at all.

“He said he’d be here,” I say again, a little louder, panic rising up under my ribs.

The woman’s voice is flat when she finally replies. “He’s been notified now that you’re awake.”

That’s all she says. Like it’s a fact that should comfort me. It doesn’t.

She moves to my left side and reaches for my arm without asking. Lifts it gently, but not kindly, checking the thick white cast now wrapped around my hand. I look at it too, dazed. It’s harder than the last one—thicker, more solid. My entire hand is swallowed by it, every finger wrapped and tucked away beneath layers of white, except for my thumb, which sticks out just enough to remind me I still have a hand at all. I move it slightly, just to see if I still can. It twitches. That’s something.

But the rest of it feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. Like it’s someone else’s hand. There’s a strange pressure underneath the cast too—tight, but not unbearable. Like my bones are braced from the inside out. I guess they are, now. Screws. Metal. Things that weren’t there before. Things that don’t feel like mine.

She sets it back down on the little pillow without a word.

“Pain level?” she asks.

“…Nine,” I say hoarsely, because it hurts to breathe around the truth.

She presses a button on the machine beside me, and I watch clear liquid trail down through the tubing and into my arm.

I wait for her to say something else—for anything. How the surgery went. If I was brave. If it’s over now. If I’ll be okay. But she just turns back to her chart, scribbles something down, and doesn’t even look at me.

The nurse gathers her things without a word, her movements brisk and distant. She barely glances at me as she steps toward the door and then leaves the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her filling the sudden silence.

And in that silence, with the cold creeping back in and the medicine starting to drag down my body again, I close my eyes and try not to cry. Not until Peeta comes. Not until I’m not alone. Just as I’m sinking into the stillness, the door creaks open again.

Peeta walks into the room, his voice soft but urgent. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. They wouldn’t tell me where you were until now.”

I manage a hoarse, tired, “It’s okay.”

He smiles gently and reaches over to brush a strand of hair away from my face, but his eyes are still full of guilt. Like he’s trying to convince himself I’m not mad. That I’m not hurt. That he didn’t let me down.

“The doctors said it went well.”

I nod, even though the words almost make me laugh. Went well. Like I wasn’t strapped down. Like I didn’t feel my own body screaming under hands that didn’t care if I flinched. Like I didn’t stare at the ceiling trying not to cry while they talked about cutting me open like I wasn’t even there.

Peeta pulls up a chair beside the bed and leans in close. “How was it? How are you feeling?”

I blink at him, and for a second the words almost come. I was terrified. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. They didn’t talk to me, Peeta. Not like a person. They tied me down like I was dangerous. They hurt me before they ever gave me anything for the pain. And I couldn’t stop thinking about you—not because I needed you to fix it, but because I needed to know someone remembered I was still me.

But I don’t.

Because the guilt’s already on his face. I can see it behind his eyes. Hear it in the way he’s still trying to be steady, still trying to be strong enough for both of us. He’s already punishing himself for not being there when I opened my eyes. If I say it out loud—if I tell him how scared I really was—he’ll carry it like it was his fault.

So I shove it all down. The panic, the pain, the sting of being treated like a thing instead of a girl with a name.

And I look at him. “I’m okay,” I whisper.

It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

Peeta’s eyes search mine a little longer, as if he’s looking for the truth I’m not giving him. Then he asks softly, “Did it hurt… more than you thought it would?”

I swallow hard, then try to lighten the mood. “Well, it wasn’t as bad as that time Rye tried to make stew and forgot the salt.”

Peeta blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before a slow smile breaks through. “You always did have a sharp sense of humor.”

He leans back, the tension in the room easing just a bit. “Honestly, the hospital food here was worse than that stew. I swear, the bread tasted like it was baked out of dust and regret.”

I picture Rye’s disappointed face and the awful stew, and for the first time in a while, I manage a small laugh.

“When we get home,” Peeta continues, “I’m going to make you all your favourites. Real bread, fresh and warm. Maybe even some cinnamon buns.”

I let the thought settle between us—the smell of flour, the warmth of the bakery kitchen, the quiet comfort of home.

“Sounds like a plan,” I whisper.

He nods, eyes steady and warm. “You just focus on healing. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The room feels a little less cold, a little less lonely, with him here. And maybe that’s enough to start healing.

A few minutes later, the door opens again. This time it’s not the nurse—it’s a man in a white coat, a clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s tall, older, maybe in his late forties, with kind eyes and a gentle sort of presence. Peeta stands quickly when he sees him.

“Dr. Marlow,” he says, offering his hand.

The doctor smiles, shaking it warmly. “Peeta Mellark. Good to see you. How’s the leg doing these days?”

Peeta huffs a soft laugh. “Still attached.”

“Always a good sign,” the doctor says with a grin, then turns to me. He doesn’t brush past me, doesn’t talk like I’m not here. He walks right up to the bed and meets my eyes.

“You must be Briella,” he says kindly. “I’m Dr. Marlow. I was the one who operated on your hand this morning.”

I nod, my throat dry. He notices.

“I didn’t get in there until you were already under,” he explains, voice gentle. “I wanted to check in beforehand, but I had a packed morning. Still—I’ve been keeping a close eye on your chart.”

He pulls over a stool and sits beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

I hesitate, but I don’t lie. “It hurts.”

Dr. Marlow nods like he expected that. “It will, for a little while. But from what I can tell, the surgery went very well. You gave us quite the challenge—your bones weren’t aligned when you came in, but we managed to get everything back where it’s supposed to be.”

“So it’s gonna be okay?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He smiles at me. “Yes. You should get full function back. Not right away, of course. It’ll take time, and you’ll need to do some exercises to rebuild strength. But you’re young, and you’ve got a good support system. You’ll get there.”

I glance at Peeta, who’s already watching me like he’s memorizing every word.

Dr. Marlow notices too. He shifts his attention back to Peeta and grins. “If she’s anything like her brother, I’m not worried. You were one of the most stubborn patients I’ve ever had—showed up to every session, did all your exercises. That’s how you got back on your feet so fast.”

Peeta shrugs modestly, but there’s a quiet pride in his expression. “She’s tougher than I ever was,” he says.

“Then she’s going to be just fine.”

Dr. Marlow rises from the stool with a gentle pat to the edge of the bed. “I’ll let you rest for now,” he says. “I’ll come by again tomorrow morning to check on things. If everything looks good, you should be cleared to go home by the afternoon.”

Peeta nods quickly. “Thank you. Really.”

The doctor offers him a kind smile, then gives me one more look before heading out of the room. The door clicks softly shut behind him.

The room settles into quiet again. But something about it feels lighter than before.

I watch the door for a few seconds after he’s gone, then let my head sink back against the pillow. That doctor—he was different. He talked to me like I mattered. Like I was someone worth explaining things to. Like I wasn’t just a job or a chart or a broken hand on a metal table.

And I can’t help but think… if he had been there from the beginning, it wouldn’t have been like that.

Maybe he would’ve answered my questions. Maybe he would’ve spoken gently, told me what was going to happen, what the markers meant. Maybe he would’ve let Peeta stay.

Just the thought of that makes my chest ache. It would’ve changed everything. The waiting. The fear. The way my whole body locked up when the nurse started strapping me down. If Peeta had been there, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so small. So powerless.

I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it might have felt like—his hand in mine, that steady voice in my ear telling me it was going to be okay. Instead of that cold, echoing silence. But it didn’t happen like that. And I don’t get to rewrite it.

Peeta’s voice breaks through the fog in my head, gently pulling me back. “You hungry?”

I blink and look over at him. He’s watching me closely, but not pushing. I nod, even though I’m not. Not really. But I know he’s trying. And maybe food will help settle everything still spinning inside me.

He presses the call button. A few moments later, the door opens and the nurse from earlier steps in.

“Would we be able to get her something to eat?” Peeta asks, his voice polite but firm.

The nurse smiles like none of the rest ever happened. “Of course.”

She disappears down the hall, and for a moment it’s quiet again. Then she comes back holding a tray, the smell hitting me before I even see what’s on it. She sets it down on the small table beside the bed and rolls it forward, positioning it just over my lap.

“Nothing too heavy yet,” she says lightly. “Just some soup and fruit.”

Peeta nods. “Thank you.”

She leaves without another word, and we’re alone again. I stare at the tray. A small bowl of broth. A few slices of apple. Something that looks like melon in a plastic cup. It doesn’t make my stomach turn, but it doesn’t make me hungry either. Still, I pick up the spoon with my good hand. Just because he asked. Just because he’s here.

I eat slowly, one-handed, careful not to spill. My fingers are stiff around the spoon, and every time I bring it to my mouth, the motion feels heavier than it should. Across from me, Peeta leans over and steals one of the apple slices off the tray. He bites into it with an exaggerated crunch and grins at me like he’s proud of himself.

I try my best to glare at him, but it doesn’t hold. The truth is, I probably wasn’t going to eat it anyway—and him teasing me like this, even a little, helps everything feel just the tiniest bit normal.

He leans back in the chair and picks up the remote. I hadn’t even noticed the TV mounted in the corner until now. It’s small and boxy, nothing like the enormous Capitol screens, but it glows to life when he clicks it on. He starts flipping through channels—Capitol news, a cooking show, something with music. I’m not really paying attention. I’m still focused on the soup, still trying to feel like a person again.

Then Peeta gasps, loud and dramatic. Not shocked. Not scared. Just enough to make me look up.

“It’s your favourite show,” he says, eyes wide in mock excitement.

I glance at the screen—and immediately groan. “Peeta, I hate this show.”

He smirks. On screen, two actors with far too much makeup and even more hair are whispering dramatically in a candlelit ballroom.

“You say that,” Peeta says, biting into the apple, “but I seem to recall you refusing to leave the room the last time this episode aired.”

“I was mocking it.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Mockery counts as engagement.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re the one who remembered all the names.”

He points at the screen like he’s making a case. “Because they’re terrible and amazing. Lord Avan has no idea his best friend is actually his long-lost uncle.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s the Capitol. Nothing makes sense.”

After that, I forget about the soup. I forget about the ache in my hand, about how strange the room smells, about everything that’s waiting once we leave here. All I focus on is the absolute trainwreck playing out on the hospital television. One of those terrible Capitol soap operas Peeta always manages to find, the kind with soft lighting and dramatic string music and too many people with the same face.

And somehow—somehow—Peeta knows exactly what’s going on.

He leans forward a little in his chair, like he’s genuinely invested. “Okay, so that’s Maelion,” he says, pointing to the screen, “and yes, she did push her twin sister off a balcony, but in her defense, the sister was secretly married to Maelion’s husband’s father. It’s a whole thing.”

I blink. “How do you know all this?”

Peeta shrugs like it’s obvious. “They replay these every night after the Capitol news. There’s nothing else on.” Then he grins. “Don’t act like you haven’t watched it with me before.”

“I never paid attention!”

“Well, you’re missing out.”

I snort, just as one of the characters slaps another across the face and storms out of the room. The camera zooms in for a close-up, and Peeta gasps like it’s the most shocking betrayal he’s ever seen. “Oh no. She just found out that was her real mother.”

“She—what?”

“Long story,” he says, waving a hand. “There was a fire. And amnesia. And a horse with a secret will.”

I stare at him. “You need help.”

He smirks, unbothered. “You love it.”

And the thing is… maybe I do. Because for a little while, I forget where I am. I forget the cast, the hospital gown, the fear. I just sit there, half-smiling, half-laughing as Peeta fills in the blanks of this ridiculous, over-the-top story, and I start to picture what it’ll be like to go home. To sit on that too-big couch in his house, legs tucked under me, a blanket over my lap, this awful show on in the background while Peeta talks through every insane plot twist like it actually matters.

I start to grow more and more tired, and this time, I let it happen. I don’t fight it. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I wake up and get to go home. Back to something that feels real. Safe.

Peeta notices, of course he does. He always does.

He picks up the remote and clicks off the TV. The room feels quieter instantly, dimmer without the flickering light.

“You wanna go to sleep?” he asks gently.

I nod, but hesitate for a second. Just long enough for that last memory to flash behind my eyes—the cold table, the straps, the ceiling I couldn’t stop staring at. I was asleep, technically, but it wasn’t real rest. I was strapped down and scared and all I wanted, all I kept thinking, was where’s Peeta?

I glance over at him, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Do you think you can fit in the bed?”

Peeta tilts his head, a little surprised. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

I shake my head quickly, not wanting to explain the real reason. Just needing him close. “Please.”

His expression softens, and he gives that small, familiar smile. “Alright.”

He stands and walks around to my good side, careful as he steps over the IV tubing. I shift as much as I can, turning over and scooting to make room. The sheets rustle. The bruises on my back don’t hurt as much—not with all the medication—but I’m still bracing for it, just in case.

Then I feel him climb in beside me. He moves slowly, cautiously, curling his body to mine without pressing too close. His arm comes around me, warm and familiar. I melt into it.

“This okay?” he asks, his voice quiet in my hair.

I nod. “Thank you.”

And for the first time in what feels like days, I close my eyes without fear. Just Peeta. Just his arms around me. And the steady, safe feeling that comes with knowing I’m not alone.

I wake up slow, groggy and stiff, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones. For a second, I forget where I am.

Then I realize I’m alone.

The bed beside me is empty. Peeta’s not there. Panic surges up before I can stop it—tight and sharp, like a breath held too long. My eyes flick wildly around the room.

Then I see him.

He’s sitting in the chair by the window, flipping through a magazine. His foot’s bouncing a little, like it always does when he’s distracted. He looks up as soon as I stir, and that familiar smile tugs at his mouth.

“Hey, Ellie.”

“Hi,” I say softly, my voice still coated in sleep.

He sets the magazine aside and leans forward a bit. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

His eyes flick down to my cast. “How’s the hand?”

I follow his gaze. I stare at it for a moment. It still feels strange—tight and heavy—but not the way it did before. There’s pressure, yeah, but not the blinding kind. Not the kind that made everything else disappear.

“It doesn’t hurt as much,” I say. “Still feels weird. But better.”

Peeta nods, his smile turning a little warmer. “Good.”

And just like that, the panic starts to drain away. Because he’s still here. Because I’m not waking up alone on a metal table, or in a cold room with someone who doesn’t care.

I glance around the room again, slower this time, now that I’m more awake. That’s when I see it. In the corner. A black guitar case, propped neatly against the wall.

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Peeta follows my gaze, and his face goes guilty in that way only Peeta can. “Okay, don’t kill me.”

He stands and walks over to it. My eyes stay locked on him.

“So I woke up kind of early this morning,” he starts, sounding way too casual. “One of the nurses told me I should take a walk. Clear my head.”

I narrow my eyes.

“So I did,” he continues, holding up the case like it explains everything. “I was just walking around the streets when I passed by this music shop. I was only going in to buy you a new string for your guitar, I swear. But… one thing led to another…”

He carries the case back toward me and sets it gently on the edge of the bed. Then he flicks open the latches like he’s unveiling a birthday present.

“Peeta,” I say, sharp now. “You bought me a guitar?”

He winces. “Okay, yes, technically, I did. But hear me out—the guy was really persuasive, and it’ll be good for your recovery, you can practice moving your fingers.”

“I have a guitar,” I grumble.

“Not like this one,” he says, already lifting the lid.

And just like that, I lose the argument.

The guitar inside is beautiful. The wood is a rich, dark matte brown that catches the light without gleaming. The tuning pegs are silver and clean, the strings taut and perfect. I can already tell just by looking—this thing is leagues beyond the old one.

Before I can stop myself, my fingers reach out and pluck one of the strings. The sound that rings out is smooth and full, no twang or buzz. Just clear music.

I look up at Peeta. He’s smirking.

I force a scowl onto my face. “I don’t need it. Return it.”

His smirk grows into a full grin. “I can’t. You’re already in love with it.”

I groan and lean back into the pillows like maybe if I stop looking at him, he’ll stop pulling surprises out of thin air. But Peeta just smiles wider as he gently closes the guitar case and sets it down beside the bed.

“You wanna see what else I bought you?”

Another groan slips out of me, half real, half theatrical. “It’s not another guitar, is it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, and I catch the glint in his eye right before he reaches for a bag that looks way too full to be safe.

He starts pulling things out one by one—shirts, pants, some hoodie I think might actually be his, and more fluffy socks than I know what to do with. He rattles off excuses as he goes, things like ‘you’re gonna need something comfortable for recovery’ and ‘you don’t have any blue shirts.’

I watch silently as the pile grows taller beside me. I want to kick it just to knock the smile off his face.

Then he pauses, both hands still in the bag. “Okay, you’re gonna like this one.”

He pulls it out slowly, with way too much ceremony.

It’s a stuffed tiger. Small, orange and black, with soft fur and big shiny plastic eyes. One of the ears is lopsided—just enough to make it charming instead of broken.

He sets it gently on my chest, like he’s giving me something sacred.

It’s about the length of my forearm, golden and squishy, with stitched stripes, soft little felt paws, and a tail that curls slightly to one side. Its face is too round to be fierce. The expression is stuck somewhere between sleepy and smug.

It’s completely ridiculous.

And somehow—perfect.

I blink at it. “Peeta.”

“I know,” he says. “But it looked like it could rip someone to shreds and then fall asleep in a sunbeam. I thought you two might get along.”

I stare at it for a second longer. Then, without meaning to, I reach out with my good hand and pinch one of its little arms between my fingers. The fabric is soft—really soft—and the stuffing gives just enough to feel warm, not stiff. The little paw dangles from my grip, like it’s letting me hold on without protest.

I run my thumb gently over one of the felt stripes. I don’t say anything. Don’t smile. But I don’t let go, either. Peeta watches me, still grinning like he’s already won.

“You’re so annoying,” I murmur, eyes still on the tiger.

“Yeah,” he says easily, “but you love it.”

I tug the tiger closer to my chest. I do.

A knock sounds at the door and a second later, the doctor from yesterday steps in, holding a folder and a small cloth bag. “Good morning,” he says lightly as he walks over to the counter. “How’s your hand feeling today?”

I glance down at it, the thick white cast still wrapped around everything but my thumb. “Feels better,” I say quietly.

He smiles. “That’s a good thing. We weaned you off the pain medication last night while you were sleeping.” Then he glances at Peeta, amused. “The nurses told me it was a bit of a challenge to get to the IV. Apparently you were holding her like a vise.”

Peeta smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Force of habit.”

The doctor chuckles, then turns back to me. “We just wanted to see if the pain spiked without the medication, and since it didn’t, that’s a very good sign. It means your body’s already starting to heal.”

“She’s the most stubborn little girl I know,” Peeta adds. “I’m not surprised her bones are, too.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s hard not to smile.

The doctor opens the folder he brought in and pulls out two sheets of thin blue film. He holds them up to the light coming in through the window. “These are your X-rays,” he says. “This one’s from before we set the bones.” He tilts it toward me and I see it—jagged lines, the bones pulled out of place, like something crumpled and trying to hold itself together. “And this one’s from after.” He lifts the second one, cleaner and straighter, the fractures aligned. I can see the outline of small black screws that are holding the bones together.

My stomach twists a little when I see them.

The doctor catches my expression and lowers the images. “You won’t even know they’re there,” he assures me. “They’re tiny. But they’ll hold everything steady while the bones finish healing.”

He slips both images back into the folder and hands it to Peeta. “This has everything your doctor back home will need. Full scans, your vitals, notes on the procedure, details on which bones were fractured…”

“Can I get a copy too?” I ask suddenly.

The doctor raises an eyebrow. “Of course. Any particular reason?”

“My friend back home… she’s really into this kind of stuff. She wants to be a doctor. She’d want to see it.”

His expression softens. “Then we’ll definitely make a copy for her. Who knows? Maybe she can help you with your physical therapy.”

He turns to the bag he brought in and pulls out a small rubber ball and a thick rubber band. “These are for that,” he says. “There are instructions in here too, for when the cast comes off. The exercises don’t look like much—just squeezing the ball, stretching your fingers—but they’ll be harder than they look. You’ll need to stick with them if you want full range of motion back.”

I nod, staring at the items in his hands, already picturing Prim sitting beside me back in 12, holding the instructions, helping me count reps and stretches. And for the first time since I got here, I feel something close to hope.

The doctor tucks the X-rays and instructions neatly back into the bag, then sets it gently on the counter. “You’re healing well,” he says kindly, turning back to me. “You’ve already made it through the hardest part.”

Then he turns to Peeta, his tone shifting slightly, still warm but more familiar. “Since you’re here,” he says, “I wanted to see how my handiwork is holding up. I can make any adjustments you need.”

Peeta hesitates. His eyes flick to me, uncertain. “It’s okay,” he says quickly, “maybe another time—”

But I can see it. The way he holds himself a little stiffly, the way he shifts his weight every so often like his leg aches more than he wants to admit. And I’m starting to feel better now. Not great. Not perfect. But better.

And Peeta deserves someone to look after him too.

I give him a small smile. “It’s okay, Peeta. You can go.”

He still doesn’t move.

I lift the little tiger off my lap and wiggle its stitched paw at him. “I’ve got my tiger to keep me company.”

That finally makes him smile. “Alright,” he says softly, still watching me like he’s trying to make sure. I nod again, a little more firmly this time.

He glances at the doctor and nods. “Let’s check it out, then.”

And just like that, for once, I’m the one sending him off to be taken care of.

“I won’t steal him away for too long,” the doctor says with an easy smile as the two of them step out into the hallway. The door clicks softly shut behind them.

I smile faintly to myself and glance back down at the tiger. I reach for its little crooked ear and rub it between my fingers, feeling the soft stitching, the curve of felt. My chest finally starts to loosen a little.

Then the door opens again.

I look up quickly, expecting Peeta—but it’s the nurse from earlier. The same one. She doesn’t say anything. Just walks in like she belongs here, like she has a reason. My eyes follow her warily as she crosses to the side of the bed.

Before I can ask what she’s doing, she grabs my right arm and presses it down to the bed.

“Hey—” I start, but it comes out too soft, confused more than scared.

She grabs one of the tubes from the machine—the same one that used to be in my arm when I woke up after the surgery. I glance at it, then back at her, my heart climbing slowly into my throat.

She peels off the bandage from earlier and wraps a rubber band around my upper arm, tight. My skin prickles. Her grip on my wrist is too strong. This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.

“What are you doing?” I ask, a little louder this time.

She doesn’t answer. Just slides a needle into my vein.

I flinch, gasping softly, but she doesn’t even glance at me. Her eyes are on the machine now, fingers tapping buttons. I watch helplessly as the line of tubing fills with clear liquid—just like before.

My voice is shaky, panicked. “The doctor said you guys stopped the medication. I don’t think you’re sup—”

But I don’t finish the sentence.

Because the world lurches sideways.

My fingers go numb.

The room spins.

And then—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

When I wake, everything feels… wrong.

The lights are off. The curtains are drawn. The air is heavy and still, like no one’s breathed in this room for hours. My mouth is dry. My limbs feel thick and far away, like I’m underwater. Groggy doesn’t even begin to cover it—my head is packed with wool, and I can’t think straight.

I shift—try to sit up—and stop short. There’s something across my chest. A strap. Thick, tight, holding me down.

My breath stutters.

I try to lift my right hand. It doesn’t move. There’s resistance—tight and familiar—and a second later, I realize there’s another strap around my wrist, pinning it to the bedrail.

Panic shoots through me, sudden and sharp. My pulse jumps. I tug at the restraints again, harder, but they don’t give. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

No. No, not again.

Am I going back into surgery? Did something go wrong? Is this a dream, or—

The door clicks.

Light spills into the room in a sudden burst, bright enough that I have to squint. My eyes blur. I try to raise my free hand, but it’s too slow, too heavy, and I can’t shield myself from the glare.

Then I smell it.

Roses.

But not real ones. Not the kind you pick from a garden, soft and fragrant and alive. This scent is too clean. Too sharp. It smells like chemicals and perfume and something pretending to be beautiful.

My stomach turns.

And when my eyes finally adjust—he’s there.

Standing calmly in the doorway, in his pale suit and gloves, is President Snow.

My blood goes cold.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just steps inside, slow and measured, his eyes drifting over the room like he belongs here. Like this is his home and I’m the one intruding.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Rage flares somewhere deep in my chest—but it’s buried under something colder, sharper.

Fear.

He’s the one who took Peeta. The one who pulled him into the Games, into the Capitol, into everything. The one who smiled while my family unraveled on live television.

He finally looks at me and smiles faintly “I’ve been waiting quite a while for you to wake up,” he says calmly, voice smooth as syrup.

“It’s rather rude, don’t you think? Keeping someone waiting.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is thick. My mouth’s dry. And all I can think is—I couldn’t wake up. You drugged me.

He walks closer, toward the guitar case resting beside the bed. He runs a hand across the top like it belongs to him now too.

“Is this yours?” he asks, looking back at me.

My stomach flips. I don’t know why I lie, but I do. “No—Peeta wanted to learn.”

He nods, like that’s interesting enough to acknowledge. “I always thought music was such a useless thing,” he says quietly.

Then he turns and picks something up off my chest.

The tiger.

The second his hand touches it, something inside me snaps tight. I try to reach for it—instinctive, desperate—but my right hand yanks against the strap that’s still looped tightly around my wrist, anchoring me to the bed rail. It doesn’t budge. The fabric bites into my skin.

He notices. Of course he does.

His gaze flicks to the restrained arm, then back to me. A smirk curls slowly across his mouth.

“I’m only looking,” he says smoothly, like this is all very normal, like he hasn’t just taken the one thing I could still hold on to.

Then he turns the tiger over in his hands, inspecting it like it’s something mildly interesting but ultimately beneath him. The little stuffed tiger dangles for a second before he cradles it in his palm. The crooked ear, the stitched eyes, the too-soft expression that makes it look like it just woke up from a nap—it all feels too exposed in his hands, like something sacred being examined by a stranger.

“This is cute,” he says, almost conversationally. “It’s good to have comforting things when you’re healing.”

He glances back at me.

“Speaking of… How’s your hand? I heard about the accident.”

I try to smile. It feels wrong on my face.

“It feels a lot better,” I say, soft. “Thanks for… for letting me come here.”

His smile curves faintly.

“Oh,” he says, tilting his head just a little. “I didn’t know you were coming here.”

My stomach drops.

He’s still holding the tiger. Still smiling faintly. But the room feels colder now, like the lights aren’t what’s making me sweat.

“I had no idea you were coming here,” he repeats, voice mild. “Someone came to me with a request. Said a Mellark was coming to the Capitol for treatment.”

He brushes a bit of lint off the tiger’s head with one finger.

“I forgot to ask for a first name.”

His eyes flick back to mine. Cold. Knowing.

“Imagine my surprise when I found out it was you.”

I swallow hard. It burns all the way down.

He takes a slow step closer to the bed, placing the tiger back down on my chest with a kind of mock care. Like he’s tucking in a child. Like he wants me to feel safe right before he rips it away.

“I don’t like when people make a fool out of me,” he says.

My chest tightens beneath the strap. I can’t move. Can’t breathe right.

“If people find out that a little girl from District Twelve, of all places, got to come to the Capitol for treatment…”

He lets it hang there, heavy and obvious.

“Well, then everyone will be trying to book a ticket. Broken bones, twisted ankles, stubbed toes… And where will that leave me?”

I don’t know what he wants me to say. I don’t think there is a right answer.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

It’s all I can manage. The words scrape up my throat, small and pathetic.

He doesn’t acknowledge them. Doesn’t even blink. “The Capitol used time and resources to get you well,” he says, drifting toward the window now, like this is just a casual conversation. “Doctors, equipment, medication. Space in our very limited hospital system. You understand how valuable those things are, don’t you?”

I nod stiffly, my mouth too dry to speak again.

He turns back to face me, hands folded neatly in front of him. “That kind of generosity is… difficult to repay.”

My pulse spikes. I try to think of something—anything—to ease the tension crawling down my spine. My mouth opens before my brain catches up.

“I mean… you could rebreak it,” I say, forcing a weak laugh. “That’d be fair, right?”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering it. Then smiles.

“I was planning on cutting it off,” he says calmly. “Then we wouldn’t run into this problem again.”

My face falls.

He watches the fear flicker across me and gives a low, satisfied hum.

“Peeta lost a leg, after all. He managed.”

My face must’ve dropped, because Snow’s smile widens—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m only kidding,” he says lightly.

But the tone of his voice tells me he’s not.

He walks back toward the bed and stops at the foot of it, resting one hand lightly on the frame. “You’ll need to do something else. Something that reminds the people watching that you didn’t get away with anything.”

I don’t move. My throat’s too tight to answer.

His gaze sharpens, like a needle sliding beneath skin. “Who helped you arrange this, Briella?”

The sound of my name makes my whole body go still. No one calls me that. Not unless I’m in trouble. Even Peeta, when he’s upset, still says it softly—like he’s trying not to make it worse. But this? This is different. Cold. Heavy. Like the name doesn’t belong to me anymore. Like he owns it now.

“I… I didn’t…” I stammer, barely able to get the words past my tongue. “I just—”

He sees it. Of course he does.

The stumble. The fear.

“I already know who it was,” he says, his voice still smooth, still falsely pleasant. “I was just trying to see if you’d be honest.”

My breath catches.

“You’re just a little girl,” he goes on, stepping closer. “I know you can’t do these things on your own. Pulling strings. Getting on trains. Waking up in a Capitol hospital bed. That takes help.”

My chest tightens under the weight of the strap. My pulse pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. He tilts his head, looking at me like he’s studying something small and breakable. “How old are you?”

“Eleven,” I whisper.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See? Just a child.”

He takes a slow step toward the foot of the bed, the smile still lingering like a shadow. “When’s your birthday?”

I blink. “April.”

Another nod. Thoughtful this time, like that detail has been filed away somewhere behind his eyes. “So you’ll be twelve by next summer,” he says, voice almost gentle.

I nod, barely.

His eyes gleam. “Just in time for your brother’s first year as a mentor.”

My stomach flips.

The air goes tight around me, like the strap across my chest has cinched even tighter. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I just stare at him, trying not to show anything. Not fear. Not panic. Not the way my heart’s trying to claw up into my throat.

He smiles wider, and somehow it makes everything colder.

“Perfect timing, don’t you think?”

The words slam against the inside of my skull. Over and over. Perfect timing.

I feel like I’m shrinking. Like every part of me is pulling inward, trying to disappear before he can say anything else. Before he can twist something else into a blade. I don’t even know if he means it. If it’s just a threat. If he can actually do it. Rig the reaping. Pull my name on purpose, just so Peeta has to stand on that stage and send me to die.

He can’t. The reapings are random, that’s the whole point.

But he’s the president.

He can do anything. If he wants my name to be in that bowl more times than it should be, he’ll find a way. If he wants it to be the only name in there—he’ll do that too. And no one in District 12 would ever know. It would just look like bad luck. Like fate.

A strange sound builds in my throat, but I don’t let it out. I just clench my jaw and hold still as he moves closer.

He walks around to my left side and stops. I feel his eyes on the cast before his hand touches it. Just the tips of his fingers, gliding across the white plaster like he’s admiring it. My skin crawls under the layers of padding.

“Make sure you take care of this,” he murmurs, turning the cast slightly in his palm, as if he’s inspecting a piece of delicate artwork. “Wouldn’t want it ruining the fun.”

The way he says it makes my stomach pitch. Then, just as casually, he sets my arm back down.

His hand lingers for a second longer than it needs to. Then he straightens, smooths the sleeves of his coat, and walks to the door.

He pauses there, one hand on the knob, and glances back over his shoulder.

“I trust you’ll keep this conversation private,” he says lightly, but his eyes are sharp again. Hungry. “I’d hate for anyone to think you received… special attention.”

I can’t nod. I can’t speak. I just stare.

And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. I don’t move.

I can’t move.

The strap is still tight across my chest. My right hand still pinned down at the wrist. My legs can shift a little under the blanket, but that’s it. I couldn’t sit up even if I wanted to. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t run.

I can still feel his hand on my cast.

Just in time for your brother’s first year as a mentor.

The words echo and echo until they don’t even sound like words anymore. Just a weight. Just a sentence I’m already serving.

I thought the surgery was the hard part. I thought the pain and the hospital bed and the panic were what I had to get through. But that wasn’t the cost. That was the down payment.

This is the cost.

He didn’t say it directly—but he didn’t have to. The Capitol fixed my hand. Used their doctors, their machines, their time. And now I owe them. I’m a debt they intend to collect.

If I had known… If I had known it would lead to this, I never would’ve come. I never would’ve let them touch me. They should take the screws out. Rebreak it. Break the other one too, while they’re at it. It would be easier than this—than waiting to be led to a stage with my name in a glass bowl and a camera in my face, with my brother by my side for the wrong reason.

They’ll love it.

The Capitol will devour it—his little sister, reaped in her very first eligible year, just in time for his very first year as a mentor. The symmetry will be too perfect to resist. The heartbreak. The tragedy. The story will write itself.

They’ll spin it into something beautiful and devastating. They’ll run the footage in slow motion, set it to strings. They’ll call it fate.

And Peeta…

It’ll break him.

He’ll be up there on the stage, doing everything he can to hold it together. Smiling too wide, hands clenched behind his back. He’ll try so hard to be the version of himself they expect. And then they’ll pull my name. Briella Mellark.

And he’ll freeze.

Or flinch.

Or fall apart.

And it won’t matter how fast he recovers, or how quickly he masks it. Because they’ll catch it. They’ll use it. That single second will be clipped and replayed and turned into Capitol gold.

They’ll love watching his face break.

They’ll film him during the train ride, the interviews, the training center—watching me. Coaching me. Failing me. And then they’ll pan to the arena. To me, standing there with a weapon I don’t know how to hold. To me, running. Hiding. Bleeding.

They’ll show my fear.

They’ll show his face as he watches.

They’ll call it art.

And I know what it’ll do to him. He already blames himself when I scrape my knees, when I flinch too fast, when I don’t smile back. He carries everything like it’s his fault. Like he should’ve stopped it before it started. But this?

This will bury him.

Because I’ll be up there with twenty-three other kids, and only one comes out. And even if I make it farther than they think, even if I last a few days, even if I fight—

I’m not Katniss.

I’m not him.

I can’t win.

Twelve-year-olds don’t win. There’s never been a twelve-year-old victor. Even if the Capitol flooded me with pity sponsors, just for the novelty, just because of Peeta—I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I wouldn’t even know how to use them. I’m not smart. I’m not strong. I’m not fast.

I’d die. Maybe not on the first day, maybe not right away, but it would happen. And the whole time, Peeta would be watching. Trying to save me. Trying to give advice. Trying to act like he wasn’t about to lose everything.

And they’d film it. Every second. Every failure.

They’ll make me a warning.

They’ll make him a spectacle.

My throat closes. I feel the tears start before I even realize I’m crying. Hot and fast, sliding down my cheeks. I reach up to wipe them away, but I can’t. My right arm’s still strapped down. I shift, trying to pull it free. It doesn’t budge. I press my good hand to the bed, trying to sit up—but the strap cuts across my chest, holding me there. Holding me in place.

A surge of frustration rises up. Small at first. About the strap. About the dried tears on my face I can’t reach. But it doesn’t stop there. It keeps growing, rising up in my throat, curling into my stomach like smoke that won’t stop thickening.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that I’m tied down. It’s not fair that he was ever allowed to walk into this room. That he could say the things he said and smile while doing it. That he could make me feel so small again.

But that’s not all.

It’s not fair because things had finally gotten good.

I just got away from my mother. I just moved into Peeta’s house. I’m supposed to be able to wake up in a warm bed with no fear. I’m supposed to come downstairs and smell bread and cinnamon and safety. I’m supposed to sit on the couch with Peeta and Prim—maybe Rye if he ever shows up on time—and make fun of terrible Capitol shows. I’m supposed to sleep through the night. I’m supposed to feel okay.

I haven’t even had one full day of that yet.

Now I’m right back where I always end up—afraid. Trapped. Powerless. Because the president just told me I might have to die next year to make up for his bruised ego.

The tears don’t stop. But suddenly they’re not just for me.

It’s not fair to Peeta either.

He won. He survived the Hunger Games. That’s supposed to be the end of it. That’s the whole point, right? You win, and the nightmare stop. You get the money, the house, the safety. That’s what they show on TV—the victors smiling in their big houses, eating big meals, living big, easy lives like the worst is behind them.

That’s the lie they sell you.

Peeta’s supposed to be safe now. He’s supposed to finally rest. To wake up without fear. To breathe without guilt. He’s not supposed to be scared anymore.

But now it’s happening all over again. And this time it’s me.

The door clicks open, and I freeze like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. The nurse walks in—the nurse, the same one from earlier, the one who started all of this—and she doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance.

She moves around the room with practiced ease, drawing the curtains open just enough to let a spill of cold Capitol sunlight in. She walks over to the monitor, taps a few buttons to silence it. She reaches across me and undoes the strap across my chest. Then the one on my arm. I don’t move. My muscles still remember the feeling of being held down.

She moves to my IV next. Her hands are quick and practiced, like she’s done this a hundred times—because she has. The needle slips out, and she presses a cotton ball over the spot. A moment later, a small beige bandage seals it in place.

She picks up the tiger from where it’s been resting on my chest, soft and warm and safe. For a heartbeat I panic—don’t take it away—but she doesn’t. She gently tucks it into the crook of my right arm. The one that still feels stiff and strange, but no longer strapped down.

Then her hand reaches forward, careful and deliberate. She brushes a strand of hair back from my face. Her fingers are cool. She picks up a cloth and wipes away the tears still clinging to my cheeks. Not gently. Not comforting. She’s not wiping away sadness. She’s wiping away evidence.

And then—finally—she meets my eyes.

For a long second, we just look at each other. Her expression doesn’t change. No smile. No sympathy. Just… searching. Like she’s making sure I understand. You know this didn’t happen. You know not to tell anyone.

I nod. Once. Small. Shaky.

She nods back, just as small. And then she turns away. The nurse leaves, and I watch the door for a second, holding my breath like I’m bracing for it to swing open again. Like maybe he’ll come back. Like maybe I imagined the whole thing.

But nothing happens. No footsteps. No voices. Just the quiet hiss of air through the vents. After a few seconds, I let out a shaky breath.

I glance down at the tiger tucked in the crook of my arm. I pick him up carefully and place him back on my chest, like maybe that’ll help steady my breathing. His little felt paws flop against my blanket. His ear is still crooked. His expression is still soft and smug, like he has no idea what just happened.

A weak, breathy laugh slips out of me—barely a sound. At least he didn’t ruin this too.

I press it closer to my chest. He ruined everything else—my morning, my chest, my head. Twisted the world in a way I can’t untwist. Made safety feel like a trick, made waking up feel like a trap. But not this.

Not the tiger.

I clutch it tighter, the soft fur pressed against my palm like proof that something’s still mine. Something still good. Something he couldn’t take.

The door opens again.

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat, muscles going tense like I’m bracing for another voice, another face I can’t handle.

But it’s Peeta.

He steps inside, completely oblivious, smiling when he sees me holding the tiger. “Glad you two are getting along,” he says softly.

I try to smile back, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

His expression shifts immediately. He steps closer to the bed. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. I want to tell him. I want him to help me figure this out, like he always does—turn it around, break it into something manageable, something we can survive together. But I can’t. Not with Snow’s threat still clinging to my ribs like another set of hands holding me still. Not when I know what this would do to him. I can’t give him something else to carry.

So instead, I sit up a little and open my arms.

The same way I used to when I was little and needed a hug—when he’d stay late after school for wrestling practice and I wouldn’t see him until it was already dark outside. When I’d have a bad day at school and come outside to find him waiting on the front steps. When our mother would yell at me and I was too young to understand why yet. I never had to say the words. Peeta always knew.

He knows now, too.

He steps forward and leans in carefully, his arms wrapping around me with the same warmth they always have. He’s gentle, avoiding the cast, not pressing too close. The cast stays stiff and awkward in my lap, but my right arm curls around him the best it can, the tiger still clutched against his shoulder.

I press my face into his shoulder and close my eyes. “I missed you,” I whisper.

He huffs out a soft laugh. “I thought your tiger was keeping you company.”

“He’s not very talkative,” I mumble into his shirt.

Peeta squeezes me a little tighter. “Yeah, well. Lucky for you, I never shut up.”

He pulls back, just enough to search my face. His eyes flick across every inch, reading me like he always does. “Are you okay?”

I nod quickly, too quickly. “I just want to go home.” It’s not a lie. It’s the truest thing I’ve said all morning.

Peeta’s smile is soft, a little tired. “Me too.”

Then he glances down at the thin hospital blanket, the edges of the gown peeking out. “You wanna get dressed?”

I follow his gaze, looking down at the stiff, pale fabric clinging awkwardly to my shoulder. I nod again, quieter this time. “Yeah.”

He helps me peel the blanket off my legs, slow and careful like always, then shifts to my good side and offers a hand. I take it, and with a bit of effort, I scoot toward the edge of the bed. My legs swing down and I blink in surprise.

Fuzzy socks. Soft and cream-colored, with little grips on the bottom. I hadn’t even realized they were on my feet. I must’ve been wearing them this whole time.

I glance up—and there’s Peeta, already crouched by the duffle bag, unzipping it with practiced ease. He pulls out a folded bundle of soft grey fabric, one of the pyjama sets he bought me the other night. Before all of this. Before my hand. Before the hospital and the IV and—

He sets them down gently on the bed beside me. The fabric looks warm, familiar. Safe.

Then he moves closer again, glancing at my shoulder. “Let’s get you out of this first,” he says softly, his hands already working at the stiff ties of the hospital gown. “Just tell me if anything hurts.”

He eases the gown off slowly, mindful of every movement, especially when he reaches my cast. The air is cool against my skin, but his hands are steady, and I don’t feel scared. Not with him here.

He helps me slip my uninjured arm into the sleeve of the pajama top, then carefully threads the casted one through the other side. The fabric is soft and warm—thick enough to feel like something solid I can hide inside. And it smells like home. Like flour and cinnamon and something faintly like Peeta’s soap. Once it’s on, he starts buttoning it up for me, working from the bottom to the top. The gentle click of each button slipping into place settles something jagged inside me.

“Almost done,” he says quietly, already reaching for the matching pants. He crouches again, helping guide them over my fuzzy socks and up my legs, tugging them gently into place. I shift a little to help, and then it’s done—I’m dressed, warm, no longer a patient in a thin, stiff gown. Just me again. Dented and tired. But me.

He tucks a strand of hair gently behind my ear, his fingers brushing my temple in that careful way he always does when he thinks I need grounding. Then he smiles—small and crooked, like he’s trying not to make too big a deal of it.

“I got you another present,” he says.

I groan softly, but there’s no real bite to it. “Peeta—”

He raises a finger like he’s warning me not to argue, then turns. “Last one, I swear.”

I watch him, arms curled loosely around the tiger, the soft cotton of my pajamas still warm from his hands. And despite everything—despite the morning, the fear, the dread still curling in my chest—part of me still wants to know what he picked this time.

Peeta picks up a small shoe box from the floor—one I hadn’t even noticed was there. It must’ve been tucked behind the duffle bag. He carries it over with that same smug glint in his eye and sets it down on the bed like it’s some big reveal.

I tilt my head, suspicious. “When did you buy that?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Same time as all the other stuff. I just knew you’d want to put them on right away, so I waited.”

He lifts the lid and pulls them out. They’re boots—sort of. But not like any boots I’ve seen before. They’re soft-looking and thick, like they were made from a blanket instead of leather. A warm golden tan color with little seams running up the sides, and the inside is stuffed with some kind of fuzzy cream-colored lining that spills over the top like a cloud. They look absurd. And amazing.

He crouches down and sets them gently on the floor in front of me. “I figured you’d like something cozy.”

I blink. “They’re like… slippers.”

“Slippers you can wear outside,” he says, grinning.

Peeta gently lifts one of my feet and slides the first boot on, careful not to bump my cast or twist my ankle too much. My toes sink into the lining, and it’s even softer than I imagined—warm, thick, like it was made to erase hospital floors and IV bruises and sleepless nights.

He moves to the other foot, adjusting my fuzzy sock so it doesn’t bunch up before easing the second boot on. Then he stands up a little and looks up at me with a small smile.

“There,” he says. “Now you’re indestructible.”

I glance down at the boots and tap my feet together lightly. They’re big and soft and ridiculous-looking—like slippers pretending to be real shoes. I kind of love them. When I look up, Peeta’s already smirking, clearly proud of himself.

I narrow my eyes. “What, no matching pair for yourself?”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Didn’t want to make you look bad.”

“Too late,” I mutter, but I can’t quite keep the smile from tugging at my mouth.

Peeta drops into the chair again with a soft sigh, and I stay where I am on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling just above the floor. The tiger is still resting in my lap, one of its soft paws tucked under my cast. We sit like that for a while—quiet, but not tense. Just waiting.

Then the door swings open again.

Dr. Marlow walks in, balancing a few things in his arms: a navy blue sling, a slim folder, and a clipboard stacked with papers. He pauses when he sees me dressed and upright, one brow lifting with an amused smile.

“Well, look at you,” he says. “All dressed like you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

Peeta grins. “She’s getting ready to bolt out of this place.”

“Then let’s get you ready,” the doctor says, stepping closer. He holds up the folder in his hand. “I got those scans for your friend—the aspiring doctor, right?” He sets it carefully down on the table beside me.

Then he turns to Peeta and lifts the clipboard. “And some boring stuff for you.”

Peeta huffs out a small laugh and takes the clipboard from Dr. Marlow. “My favourite kind,” he says, flipping it around and grabbing the pen clipped to the top.

Dr. Marlow turns back to me, holding the sling now. “Alright,” he says, his voice light but kind. “Let’s get this on.”

He crouches a little and gently lifts my arm, carefully easing the sling around the cast and over my shoulder. His movements are practiced, but not rushed. Once it’s settled, he adjusts the strap across my back and checks the positioning.

“There we go,” he says. “The cast’s pretty heavy, so this’ll help ease some of the tension on your arm while you’re moving around. But—” he lifts a finger “—you shouldn’t wear it all the time. We don’t want your elbow or shoulder locking up, so take it off a couple times a day, move everything gently.”

I nod. The sling doesn’t feel great, but it’s better than nothing. Like scaffolding holding up something fragile.

Dr. Marlow takes a step back, giving the sling one final glance before straightening up.

“Alright,” he says. “Take it easy for a while, nothing stressful. Take a few weeks off school—doctor’s orders.” Then he grins and gestures toward Peeta with his chin. “Make your brother do everything for you.”

Peeta smirks but doesn’t look up from his papers.

“Oh—and you’re not allowed to lift anything heavier than that stuffed tiger,” he adds, pointing at the orange and black lump in my lap. “Got it?”

“Got it,” I say quietly.

Dr. Marlow smiles. “Then my work here is done. Once your brother finishes signing that stuff,” he nods toward the clipboard in Peeta’s hand, “you’re free to go.”

This time, I don’t have to force the smile. It comes on its own, small but real.

The doctor turns toward the door, but before he opens it, he glances back over his shoulder. His voice is warm, still teasing, but sincere underneath. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I hope I never have to see you again.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Likewise.”

Peeta finishes signing the forms and sets the clipboard down on the counter with a quiet clack. Then he looks up at me and smiles, soft and sure. “Let’s get out of here.”

He stands and moves around the room, gathering all my things like it’s second nature. The duffle bag gets slung over one shoulder. He grabs the paper bag with the new clothes, then lifts the guitar case like it weighs nothing. He manages to balance it all in one hand—like he’s done this before, like he doesn’t trust me to carry any of it. Which, to be fair, I’m not allowed to.

Then he walks over to the bed, and gently takes the tiger from my right hand. For a second, I almost want to protest, but he just sets it carefully in the crook of my left arm, resting it just above the sling. One of its little paws flops over the strap like it belongs there. Then he reaches for my hand—the one that still works—and curls his fingers around mine.

“I’ve known you longer,” he says with a smirk. “I get to hold your hand.”

“Jealous of a stuffed tiger?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. “Deeply.”

I push myself off the bed, but the second I’m upright, the world sways. My knees buckle slightly and the weight of the cast tugs at my shoulder. It’s too much. I haven’t stood up in over a day—my legs feel shaky and weak, like they might give out completely. I freeze, every instinct screaming at me to sit back down.

But then Peeta squeezes my hand.

I look up at him, and he’s already watching me. Steady. Calm. “I’ve got you,” he says softly.

And just like that, I don’t sit back down. I hold tighter to his hand, pull in a breath, and stay on my feet.

He’s got me.

Chapter Text

The train rocks gently beneath us, steady and slow, but my body won’t follow the rhythm. I’m curled on my good side, the blanket pulled up to my chin, the tiger wedged under my sling and pressed against my chest. I’ve been lying here for a while—long enough that the hot cocoa on the nightstand has probably gone cold. But I can’t sleep. I’m too tired to be awake, too restless to drift off.

The sling is digging into my neck again, stiff and awkward, and no matter how I shift, I can’t get comfortable.

Peeta’s voice drifts over from where he’s sitting nearby. “You okay?”

I nod, not even turning my head.

A beat passes.

“You sure?”

I exhale. “The sling’s just… annoying.”

He stands up without a word, and a second later he’s kneeling beside the bed. His hands are careful as they find the strap at my shoulder. “Let’s take it off for now, yeah? You’re not moving around.”

I sit up just enough to help him, letting him work the strap free. His hands brush lightly against my collarbone and I flinch—not from pain, just from remembering. The second it’s off, I exhale again, deeper this time. The weight’s still there—the cast is heavy on its own—but at least now it’s not pulling weirdly on my neck.

He tucks the sling off to the side and eases me back down onto the pillow. “Better?”

I nod again.

But when I try to settle, the tension creeps right back in. My arm won’t fall into a natural position. The blanket feels too warm. The pillow feels too cold. The train hums beneath me like a distant warning.

I shift again.

Peeta’s voice comes even softer now. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Ellie.”

I close my eyes. I hate lying to him. But I can still hear Snow’s voice in my head, curling around my name. I trust you’ll keep this conversation private. His hand on my cast. I’d hate for anyone to think you received special attention.

Peeta’s waiting. He always waits. And the longer I stay quiet, the more I feel it twisting up inside me.

So I say the closest thing to the truth I can manage. “The nurse was kind of mean.”

Peeta blinks. “Mean?”

I shrug, my voice small. “She just… wasn’t very nice. Didn’t explain stuff. I didn’t like her.”

Peeta’s quiet for a second. His eyes don’t leave mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

I nod.

“She should’ve been kind,” he adds, a little firmer now. “You’re just a kid. You were scared. That’s the least she could’ve done.”

I don’t answer. But the weight in my chest loosens just slightly.

Then Peeta shifts, his voice lightening just a little. “She couldn’t have been worse than the guy in Twelve.”

I blink at him. “She was.”

He winces playfully. “That bad?”

I lift a shoulder. “He was nice to me,” I say, smirking a little.

Peeta leans forward, squinting like he’s solving a mystery. “It’s probably because you’re so cute.”

Before I can react, he reaches out and pinches my nose.

“Peeta!” I swat at his hand, and he dodges, grinning.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. It’s hard to be objective when your face is doing all the work.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile tugs at the edge of my mouth before I can stop it. My hand settles back on the tiger’s ear. Peeta tucks the blanket a little closer to my side.

“You good now?” he asks softly.

I nod. And this time, it’s a little truer than before.

Peeta leans back in the chair beside the bed, stretching his legs out like he’s settling in for the night. He doesn’t ask if I want him to leave. He just stays. Like always.

I shift a little, adjusting the blanket over my legs and tucking the tiger under my cast again. The pyjamas are warm, the sheets are soft, and the motion of the train hums quietly beneath us like a lullaby I didn’t know I needed. My eyes flutter shut for a second. Open. Then shut again, longer this time.

“You can sleep,” Peeta says quietly, almost like he’s reading my thoughts. “I’ll be here.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.

The last thing I feel is his hand gently brushing my hair back from my forehead, slow and steady, like he’s trying to anchor me there—here—safe. And then I let the train carry me under.

Darkness presses in like a blanket, too heavy to move beneath. The soft hum of the train is gone. In its place: silence.

I blink, but it’s already bright. Too bright. My body won’t respond. I try to sit up, to turn my head—but I’m strapped down again. Tight across the chest. Wrist bound to the rail.

The IV is back.

A clear tube runs from the pole beside me, down, down, toward my arm. I can see the fluid inside, sliding slowly, inch by inch toward the needle in my vein.

I try to scream.

Nothing comes out.

The fluid keeps moving.

Closer.

Closer.

It reaches my arm. And the world tilts.

Everything drops away beneath me, and suddenly I’m standing on a platform. The sky is wide and pale. The air smells like metal and pine. I don’t know how I got here, but I recognize this place—I’ve seen it on TV every year since I was old enough to understand what it meant.

The Cornucopia looms in the distance, gold and jagged like a broken crown. Twenty-three other platforms are spaced out in a ring around it. But they’re all empty.

I’m the only one here.

Alone.

A voice booms over invisible speakers. “Sixty.”

I whip my head toward the sound.

“Fifty-nine.”

My heart leaps into my throat.

“Fifty-eight.”

The countdown keeps going, relentless.

I look down at my feet. I can’t move. I don’t know where to run. I don’t know what’s waiting.

“Fifty-seven.”

My pulse slams against my ribs.

“Fifty-six.”

I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not alone.

“Fifty-five.”

Please, please let it stop—

I jerk awake, heart hammering against my ribs, breath ragged and shallow.

Peeta is already there, sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes are calm but alert, watching me with that steady, unshakable presence that always grounds me.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from my sweaty forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

I swallow hard, trying to push the remnants of the dream away, but the cold bite of the arena still lingers beneath my skin.

He gently takes my hand, warm and steady. “It was just a nightmare,” he says quietly. “You’re safe now.”

I close my eyes again, leaning into the comfort of his voice, his touch. For a moment, the world stops spinning, and the arena—the straps, the IV, the cold—fade into nothing but shadows behind my eyelids.

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around Peeta, pulling him close. His steady warmth seeps into me, chasing away the shadows that still cling to my skin.

He doesn’t hesitate—he wraps his arms around me, holding me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world, and somehow that makes me feel a little stronger.

I rest my head against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of flour and soap, trying to believe that I’m really here—safe—with him.

I pull back, my arm slipping from around him, and my eyes catch something in his hand—a black marker. Curious, I glance down at my cast and my breath softens.

There, drawn carefully across the white plaster, are little doodles: Peeta’s name in neat letters, a small tiger with a crooked smile, and a few simple flowers curling along the edges.

He catches me looking and offers a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I got bored.”

For a second, I just stare.

Then I look back up at him and smile—small, but real. He doesn’t know what he’s done. Doesn’t realize how badly I needed something to overwrite the memory of it—of the Capitol, the surgery, the straps, Snow’s cold fingers, of everything that cast had come to mean.

But now, it’s mine again. Because of him.

Without thinking, I hold out my arm. “Do more.”

He blinks, surprised. “You sure?”

I nod, already settling back into the pillow, my voice thick with sleep again. “Mhm.”

He smiles and brings the marker to my arm again, the sound of the pen scratching softly a small comfort in the quiet train room.

I just watch him for a while. His brow furrowed a little in concentration. His fingers steady. His presence calm, warm, familiar.

Eventually, my eyes drift shut. And just before sleep pulls me under, I realize something. This is the first time he’s drawn anything for me since he got home.

When I wake, the room is filled with soft golden light streaming through the wide train windows. For a second, I don’t move—I just lie there, warm beneath the blankets, the sheets smooth against my skin. No nightmares. No cold sweat. No pounding heart. Just quiet.

I stretch a little and realize, with surprise, that my body isn’t stiff. My shoulder aches faintly, sure, but it’s nothing like yesterday. Everything feels… better. Like sleep actually did what it was supposed to do for once.

I sit up slowly and rub my eye with my good hand. The blankets fall into my lap, soft and wrinkled from the night.

I glance to the other side of the bed—smooth, tucked in. Either Peeta never got in, or he woke up earlier and made his half. Both seem possible.

I straighten a little, scanning the room. “Peeta?”

There’s no response—but a second later, I hear the sound of water running. Somewhere behind the bathroom door. I exhale, the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding easing a little. I lean back against the headboard and let my eyes wander. They drift downward—toward my arm.

And I freeze. The cast is… different.

Not just the little doodles from last night. They’re still there—his name, the tiger, a flower or two. But now, they’ve been woven into something else. Something bigger. Something beautiful.

Vines curl around the entire cast, starting near my elbow and creeping downward, winding through the space. Tiny leaves sprout along them, delicate and detailed. Flowers bloom in the open spaces—wild and soft and perfectly shaded, with petals curling in every direction. A few of the old doodles peek out from behind the vines, as if they’re growing out of them, part of something larger.

The whole thing looks alive.

I turn my arm slightly to see more, the way the lines bend with the curve of the cast. It wraps almost all the way around—just enough to feel like armor. Or art. Or both.

I’m still turning my arm gently in the light, tracing the paths of the vines, when I hear the bathroom door open. I glance up, ready to say something, maybe to ask about one of the flowers, but the words catch in my throat.

Peeta steps out, steam curling behind him, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s already got pants on, but his shirt is half-done, sleeves still wrinkled, and he’s fumbling with the buttons like it’s the hardest thing in the world.

He was never good at buttoning his own shirts.

He could do mine just fine—careful, gentle, always checking if something tugged too hard—but his own? Always uneven. Always off by one. I used to stand on my tiptoes and help him, half-exasperated, half-delighted to be needed. I thought he was just pretending. Thought it was one of those annoying things he faked so I’d do it for him. But I guess not.

I follow his fingers as he finally lines up the last one, and that’s when I see it. A string. Thin and dark. Hanging from his neck. And on the end of it—a guitar pick.

My chest stills. I reach up, hand pressing lightly against the spot where it should be.

Empty.

My eyes flick back to him, sharper now. “Is that my necklace?”

He looks down, like he forgot he was even wearing it. Then he meets my eyes, completely unbothered. “Yeah. It is.”

“You stole my necklace?”

He grins, unrepentant. “The nurses gave it to me. Said it was in a bag with the rest of your stuff. I didn’t want it to get lost.”

“So you put it on?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “It was either that or trust the Capitol with it.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Give it back.”

He tilts his head, mock-offended. “Already? I was starting to like it.”

“You look ridiculous.”

“I look sentimental,” he says, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “It’s different.”

“Peeta.”

He grins, walking closer. “You sure you don’t want to share custody?”

I hold out my hand.

He sighs, overly dramatic, like this is some great loss. “Fine.” He pulls the string over his head and holds it out—but before I can take it, he pauses. “Wait. You’ve only got one working hand.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m aware.”

“Okay, okay.” He crouches down beside the bed and lifts the string again, looping it gently over my head. His fingers are careful, warm as they brush my cheek and tuck the pick where it belongs, resting lightly against the center of my chest.

I reach up and touch the wooden pick, feeling the familiar grooves worn into the surface. The cord sits soft and light against my collarbone. I glance up at him and smile. “Back where it belongs.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “I made it, so technically it’s mine.”

I scoff. “That’s not how gifts work, Peeta.”

He smirks. “Then why’d you give it to me before the Games?”

I pause, then shrug a little. “Because I wanted you to have something that reminded you of me.”

He leans against the edge of the bed, arms folded. “That’s the same reason I gave it back to you when I came home. I wanted you to have something that reminded you of me. When I moved out. When we were apart.”

He gives me a smug look and adds. “Now that we’re living together again, you don’t need it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So why do you need it?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Because I made it.”

I snort. “Yeah. For me. Because you felt bad about my broken guitar.”

He points at me like he’s been waiting for that. “Right. And now you have a brand new guitar.”

“And?”

“And—I also bought new strings, so we can fix the old one.”

He holds up two fingers. “You have two guitars. I think I deserve one necklace.”

I grin, picking up the tiger and cradling it in my lap like a shield. “Well, you’re gonna have to go through him first.”

Peeta lets out a soft laugh. “Dangerous territory.”

The tiger’s soft arm flops against my hand as I lean back against the pillows, the necklace still warm against my skin. I keep smiling, even when he turns away to finish packing—because even though nothing’s fixed, this part? This part is still ours.

The train begins to slow. It’s not abrupt. Just a subtle shift, the hum beneath the floorboards growing deeper, heavier. The lights overhead flicker slightly as the brakes catch, and I can feel it—the moment everything starts tilting back toward home.

Peeta glances out the window, then down at me. “Okay, boots first.”

He crouches down, tugging one boot over my sock with practiced care. Then the other. The lining is soft and thick and familiar now, shaped to my feet after a full day of wear. He gently tugs the sling out of the duffel bag next and helps guide my casted arm into it.

I let him. I don’t say anything.

He stands and starts moving around the room again—zipping the duffle bag, folding the blanket from the bed, packing up all the little things we scattered around this space that started to feel almost safe.

I glance down at the tiger in my lap.

His little ear is still crooked. His soft face still pressed into my palm like nothing’s wrong. But the familiar tightness is already curling back up through my ribs, heavier with every mile we close in on the district. I hold him tighter. It doesn’t help much.

Peeta notices. Of course he does.

He drops the strap of the bag and crosses the room in a few quiet steps, sitting down beside me again. His shoulder brushes mine. He doesn’t speak right away.

Then, softly, “You’ve been acting weird since the hospital.”

I tense without meaning to.

Peeta doesn’t push. He just leans forward, elbows on his knees, speaking low like he’s just talking out loud.

“I get it,” he says. “The Capitol’s a scary place. And you were hurt, and alone, and they’re… not exactly known for their bedside manner.” He glances over, just long enough for our eyes to meet. “But you’re not there anymore. We’re home.”

I don’t answer. My fingers curl tighter in the tiger’s fur.

He nudges my knee gently with his. “I’m gonna make you cinnamon buns,” he says like it’s a promise. “You’re gonna sit on my couch, and we can watch whatever you want on TV. I’ll make a big dinner. We can even invite Prim if you want.”

I blink, trying to hold still.

“And then,” he adds, quieter now, “you’re gonna go to sleep in a real bed. Not on a train. Not in a hospital. A real bed. With your own pillow. Your own blankets. No nurses, no noise. Just sleep.”

My throat tightens. I nod, just barely. I don’t trust my voice.

He reaches over, brushing my hair back from my forehead like he did yesterday in the hospital. “You’re safe now, Ellie.”

I want to believe him. I want it more than anything. So I nod again, and clutch the tiger a little closer.

The train groans to a stop, brakes sighing against the tracks. The world outside the window is pale and quiet—early morning light stretching across the platform like it’s still deciding whether to wake up. Fog clings to the edges of the station, softening everything.

Peeta stands, shouldering the duffel bag and reaching for the guitar case. I hold the tiger a little tighter.

“You ready?” he asks.

Not really. But I nod.

He helps me stand, steadying me with a hand at my back as we make our way down the narrow hall toward the doors. The doors slide open with a hiss, and the air outside bites at my cheeks—cold, clean, and familiar in a way I didn’t realize I missed.

Then I see him.

Rye.

Standing at the edge of the platform, hands in his coat pockets, hair tousled like he didn’t even try to fix it this morning. He looks tired, but steady. His eyes land on me fast, scanning my face, the sling, the tiger in my arms—and something softens in them.

I don’t think. I just walk straight to him and wrap my good arm around his middle.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just bends slightly, wraps both arms around me, slow and careful. Gentle. Like he knows I’m not all the way solid yet.

I breathe him in—firewood and bread and something that smells like home.

When I pull away, he reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, eyes still searching my face. “Peeta said you didn’t give them any trouble.”

I smirk. “He’s a liar.”

Rye leans down and smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Peeta comes up behind me, holding out the guitar case. “You wanna help?”

Rye smirks without looking away from me. “Nope. I’ve got something more important.”

Then he hooks an arm gently around my shoulders—careful of the sling, careful of me—and turns us toward the road.

I let him guide me, one steady step at a time, the tiger pressed to my chest, his arm anchoring me on one side, Peeta on the other. The mist is lifting. The street is quiet. And we’re going home.

We reach the house just as the sun starts to push over the trees, the light turning soft gold against the shutters. Peeta unlocks the door, nudging it open with his shoulder. The warm smell of flour and wood and faint smoke drifts out—like the house has been holding its breath since we left.

He drops the duffel and guitar case by the door with a soft thump. Rye steps in behind us, brushing dust from his sleeves.

Peeta turns toward him. “When are you heading back to the bakery?”

Rye’s already walking toward the kitchen. “I took the morning off.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

Rye tosses a look over his shoulder, but keeps moving. “I’ll explain later.”

Peeta nods once, like that settles it. Like they’ve already said half of it without speaking. I glance between them, my brows pulling slightly. There’s something in the way they’re talking—something quiet but familiar. It prickles in the back of my head. I want to ask. I want to say what do you mean? Explain what? But I don’t. My hand tightens around the tiger’s paw, and I just step further into the house. Whatever it is… they’ll tell me if I need to know.

Probably.

Rye pokes his head back around the kitchen doorway. “What’s with the guitar case?”

“Peeta thinks it’s okay to spoil me,” I say flatly, hugging the tiger a little closer.

Peeta lifts a hand in defense. “It’s for her hand. For recovery.”

Rye steps into the room, raising an eyebrow as he walks over to it. “Didn’t realize we were picking up souvenirs.”

Peeta smirks, not even bothering to hide it. “I got you something too.”

Rye perks up immediately. “Wait—seriously? Is it that thing I asked for?”

Peeta nods once. “It’s in the bag.”

Rye grins and leans in like he’s about to unzip it, but I cut in. “What thing?”

They both turn to me at the same time.

“Nothing,” they say in unison.

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean nothing?”

Peeta shrugs with maddening innocence. “Just something for older kids.”

“You’re not an older kid,” I shoot back at Rye.

He grins. “I am compared to you.”

I feel my face heat. “That’s not fair. What is it? Just tell me!”

“You’re too young,” Peeta says, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“I’m very mature!” I snap.

“And you just stomped your foot,” Rye says, pointing smugly. “Kind of proving our point.”

My mouth falls open. I look between them, scandalized, but they’re already laughing.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, stalking off toward the couch with my tiger still tucked under my arm.

Behind me, I hear Peeta say, “She’s going to be mad at us for like an hour.”

“Better than a whole day,” Rye replies.

I plop onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, turning my back to them—but my eyes flick down to the guitar case again. I try not to smile.

They’re the worst. But maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s good to have something feel normal again—even if that something is them being annoying.

From the kitchen, I hear the soft clatter of pans and the low hum of the stove warming up. Peeta’s already moving around like he never left—opening drawers, checking the cabinets, muttering under his breath when he realizes things aren’t where he left them.

I glance over just in time to see Rye saunter into the living room with a grin that immediately puts me on edge.

He drops onto the arm of the chair across from me, arms folded, eyebrows raised. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

I blink. “What?”

“The thing Peeta got me.”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are.”

I hug the tiger a little tighter. “Why won’t you just tell me what it is?”

Rye leans forward like he’s about to whisper a great secret, then stops just short and smirks. “Because it’s fun watching you squirm.”

“You’re evil.”

“Peeta’s the nice one,” he agrees cheerfully. “I’m just here for emotional damage.”

I hug the tiger tighter against my chest. “Whatever it is,” I mutter, “I hope it breaks.”

Rye smirks without missing a beat. “They better not. That defeats the whole purpose.”

I squint at him, confused. “What does that mean?”

He just grins. 

I raise an eyebrow, still not getting “Seriously, what is it?”

He shrugs casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Nothing.”

I groan and flop back against the cushions. “I’m gonna break you if someone doesn’t tell me soon.”

From the kitchen, Peeta calls out, “No fighting before cinnamon buns!”

“Tell that to him!” I shout.

Rye just chuckles and strolls into the kitchen like he’s already won. I follow him into the kitchen, trailing behind him like a shadow. Peeta’s already at the counter, sleeves rolled up, flipping eggs in a skillet. Bacon sizzles nearby, the smell curling into the air like something out of a dream.

I tilt my head. “Where are the cinnamon buns?”

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You’re a baker. You know how long they take to rise.”

I groan and slide onto one of the stools at the counter, flopping my good arm down like I’ve just been personally wronged. “You promised me cinnamon buns.”

“They’re coming,” he says, grinning. “Eventually. Just like I promised.”

A second later, the smell of the food really hits me. Not Capitol food. Not bland hospital trays. Real food. Butter. Eggs. Smoke and salt and something sweet in the background. My stomach clenches with how badly I want it—how long it’s been since something felt normal.

Peeta sets a plate in front of me without a word. Fluffy eggs. Crispy bacon. A slice of bread, thick-cut and toasted golden.

I look up, and he’s already smirking. “Knew you were hungry.”

I don’t argue. I just pick up the fork and start eating.

Chapter Text

Peeta’s chest rises and falls beneath me, steady as ever. One of his hands is tucked under his head, the other resting lightly against my back, thumb moving in slow circles. The TV is playing something soft and fuzzy in the background—one of those old Capitol reruns with too much color and not enough plot—but neither of us is really watching.

I shift a little to get more comfortable, my cheek pressed just below his collarbone, the tiger squished between us like a poorly trained therapy pet. Peeta doesn’t complain.

It’s the quietest the house has been all day.

Rye left after breakfast to go back to the bakery. I was sad to see him go, but he leaned down and promised he’d be back in time for dinner, ruffling my hair in that way that always makes me swat his hand away.

After he left, Peeta and I spent most of the morning in my room. He started putting away all my new stuff—Capitol clothes that actually fit, my new guitar. He even helped me fold and store the old things too. The drawings he made me, the dumb little notes Rye used to leave in my lunch bag. When we stuck the drawings up over my desk, his hand hovered a little too long. I noticed. I didn’t say anything.

Then we tried to fix my old guitar. The replacement strings didn’t come with instructions, so Peeta decided to wing it. That almost ended with one of us needing a second hospital trip, but somehow he managed. Just the new strings alone made it sound better. Cleaner. Less like something broken. Still, my fingers were itching to try the new one.

Peeta noticed—of course he did. He didn’t say anything, just grabbed it and plopped it on my lap like it belonged there. Then he sat on my left side and told me to show him where to put his fingers. I strummed while he pressed his fingers into the frets. It sounded weird, all lopsided and slow, but we stayed like that for a long time.

Later, Prim came over.

She was excited to see me, sure, but not nearly as excited as she was when I pulled out those medical files. She didn’t even acknowledge me for almost two hours—just sat on the floor with the papers spread out in front of her like she was decoding a secret message. She only looked up long enough to tell me she was putting the X-rays on her wall. Then Peeta told her she had to help with my physical therapy. And that was it. She already started planning exercises.

Can’t wait.

Around dinner time, Rye came back. Prim had to leave, though she looked like she was considering hiding under the table to avoid it.

Dinner was… fine. Peeta offered to help me cut up my food, and I obviously told him I’m not a baby. Then I attempted to cut a piece of chicken with one hand and promptly gave up. I wouldn’t admit it though. Just stabbed the whole piece with my fork and ate it like that.

Afterward, Rye made a point of announcing—loudly—that he was leaving to go try out the gift Peeta got him. I glared at him for bringing it up. I still don’t know what it is. Peeta groaned and muttered something I didn’t catch, but it sounded like regret.

And then… we ended up here.

Curled on the couch. Wrapped in the blanket. TV glowing. Peeta warm beneath me like he’s carved out his own gravity. Like if I let go, I’d still fall toward him anyway.

We haven’t moved since.

Peeta shifts just slightly beneath me, his hand pausing where it’s been tracing slow shapes on my arm. “You feeling any better?” he asks quietly.

His voice is soft—like he doesn’t want to push, like he’s just offering the question in case I want to take it.

I think about it for a second. Not just my arm, or the soreness, or how much sleep I got. I think about the train. The hospital. The quiet way Rye hugged me. The guitar in my lap, Peeta’s fingers wrapped around mine, holding the chords steady while I strummed.

I think about Prim reading my medical file like it was a birthday present. About Peeta flipping bacon in the kitchen like we’ve always lived here. About the tiger, still pressed between us.

“Yeah,” I say eventually. My voice is quieter than his. “I think so.”

Peeta doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his arm so it’s wrapped a little tighter around me. I curl closer into his chest without thinking. The TV flickers softly across the room, but I don’t even know what’s on.

He exhales a slow breath into my hair, like he’s been holding it. “Good.”

I tilt my head a little against his chest. “You’re the one who looks like you need checking on.”

Peeta hums. “What do you mean?”

I tap his side with my finger. “You’ve yawned like five times in the last ten minutes.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at me, squinting. “Have not.”

I smirk. “Have too. I thought you were gonna fall asleep and drop me on the floor.”

“That’s slander,” he mutters, dropping his head back again. “You’re not that heavy.”

“I’m injured,” I say dramatically, “you’re supposed to be on high alert.”

“You’re on top of me,” he points out, “I think I’m alert enough.”

I snort. “You’re lucky I only have one working arm. If I had two, I’d push you off this couch.”

He grins, eyes still closed. “See? You are feeling better.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. We’re both quiet for a minute, just listening to the low hum of the TV and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then I say, “Prim was really excited about those medical files.”

Peeta huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I thought she was gonna pass out when she found that section on bone reconstruction.”

“She didn’t even say hi to me at first,” I mutter, but there’s no real bite in it. “She just grabbed the folder and sat down like it was her birthday.”

Peeta shifts a little under me, adjusting the blanket. “She’ll probably memorize the whole thing by the end of the week.”

I smile into his shirt. “I’m glad someone got something good out of the trip.”

He nudges my knee lightly. “You got your hand back.”

I nod a little, but don’t say anything.

“And a new guitar,” he adds.

I shrug. “That’s not what I meant.”

His hand pauses where it’s been tracing slow, lazy circles along my back. “What did you mean?”

I take a breath, press my face a little deeper into his chest. “Just something untouched,” I say finally. “Something happy. That doesn’t remind me of all the other stuff.”

A beat passes, quiet and warm.

“I was thinking… when we go see the doctor in Twelve, maybe we could bring Prim. She’d love it.”

He hums softly, the sound settling into my ribs. “She really would.”

He’s quiet for another second, then asks gently, “What about you?”

I lift my head just a little, enough to glance at him. “What about me?”

“What would make you happy?”

I blink, surprised by the question. But the answer slips out before I can second-guess it.

“This,” I say softly. “Me and you. Hanging out.”

His smile starts small, but it spreads across his face like sunrise. He reaches up and brushes a bit of hair behind my ear, then rests his hand lightly against the side of my head.

“Well,” he says, voice low, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I let my head fall back onto his chest, and this time when I close my eyes, it feels like something real. Something steady. Something almost like peace.

Peeta shifts beneath me a little and glances down. “You tired?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, already halfway there.

“You wanna go upstairs?”

I shake my head against his chest. “Mmm-mm.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll stay up a little longer,” I say, blinking slowly. “I really wanna see how this episode ends.”

Peeta lets out a quiet laugh. “You don’t even know what show this is.”

I hum noncommittally, too comfortable to argue. “Still wanna see the end.”

His chest rumbles with another quiet laugh, and then he wraps one arm a little tighter around me, like he’s already resigned to being a pillow for the night. The sound of the TV fades into the background—just voices and music and light. My fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his shirt, warm and familiar beneath my cheek.

Each blink lasts longer than the last.

I can feel his hand moving gently across my back again, slow and steady, the rhythm of it syncing with my breath. My body sinks deeper into the cushions, deeper into him, the weight of the day finally starting to lift. The screen flickers. The room is warm. And before I can see how the episode ends, I’m asleep.

I wake up with my face pressed against something warm and solid. For a second, I can’t move—my body feels heavy, like I’ve sunk into the couch. My cast is awkward beneath me, and something strong is wrapped tight around my back.

My heart jumps. I try to push up, but I can’t. I’m stuck.

Strapped down. Pinned. No—

But then my eyes adjust, and I blink slowly into soft cotton and the rise and fall of a familiar chest beneath my cheek.

Peeta.

His arms are around me. Not a nurse. Not Snow. Peeta.

I exhale, slow and shaky, the tension unraveling from my chest. My body melts back into his without thinking, like I’m returning somewhere I was always meant to be.

His grip doesn’t loosen. And then I realize—he’s still asleep.

I tilt my head just enough to see him—his eyes are closed, lashes soft against his cheek, his mouth relaxed. One hand is still curled protectively around me, the other resting just above the cast.

It hits me then—how tired he must be. The last few days blur together in my head: the Capitol, the hospital, the train. I can’t remember the last time I saw him actually get into a bed. Maybe when I asked him to lie next to me at the hospital, but even then… it didn’t look like he really slept. Not deeply. Not like this.

He must’ve been awake every second I wasn’t. Watching. Worrying. Holding me together when I couldn’t do it myself. But now he’s still. Peaceful. And this time, I don’t try to move. I just lie there in his arms, feeling the weight of them around me, and let him sleep.

The morning show flickers faintly on the muted TV across the room, casting a soft glow against the walls. At some point, I managed to reach the remote where it was tucked beside his leg, and now it rests between us, just under my fingertips. I keep the volume low, letting the sound drift like background noise.

Peeta doesn’t stir. Not yet.

So I stay where I am. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in him.

But after a while—maybe an hour or two—I feel it. The smallest shift beneath me. A breath drawn in deeper than the others. A faint twitch of the arm looped around my back.

Then he groans softly, his voice rough and groggy. “Sorry… I must’ve fallen asleep.”

His grip loosens a little, just enough to let me move. I shift slightly in response, curling more into the crook of his arm. My cast settles against his chest, my tiger clutched lightly in my good hand.

It takes another second before he opens his eyes, blinking blearily down at me like he’s still trying to figure out where we are.

Then he squints. “Wait… you’re awake?”

I nod, glancing up at him.

His brow furrows. “How long have you been up?”

I shrug. “A while.”

He gives me a look. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

I smirk. “Because you’re a lot less annoying when you’re asleep.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. “Stealing my lines now?”

“Borrowing,” I say innocently.

He rubs a hand down his face, still waking up, and mutters, “Seriously, though. You should’ve woken me.”

“Why? Nothing was going on.”

“I was supposed to be looking after you.”

“You were. You just happened to fall asleep while doing it.”

He sighs, like he wants to argue but doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he shifts under me again, getting more comfortable as I lean into his side.

“I’m not even sorry,” I say, settling back in with a quiet exhale. “You needed it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at me out of the corner of his eye and pulls the blanket a little higher over my shoulder. Then, softly—

“Thanks for letting me rest.”

I don’t say anything back. Just nestle in a little closer, resting my cheek against the curve of his shoulder.

The Capitol news anchors are still droning quietly in the background, talking about fashion trends and harvest projections like nothing happened. Like the world hasn’t changed.

Peeta shifts under me again after a few minutes, more purposefully this time. I feel the faint twinge of discomfort ripple through his body, the stiff stretch of muscles that didn’t mean to fall asleep on a couch all night.

He exhales and mutters, “As much as I love being your personal mattress…”

I don’t move.

“…my back’s officially staging a rebellion.”

Still, I don’t move.

He groans under his breath and twists his neck a little, cracking it with a faint pop. “Ellie.”

Nothing.

“I know you’re not sleeping.”

Silence.

“If you were, you’d be snoring like a bear cub.”

My head snaps up instantly. “I do not snore.”

He grins, victorious. “See? Knew you were awake.”

“I don’t snore,” I repeat, glaring at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ’Cause there was this one time on the train—”

“Peeta!”

He laughs, and I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Even though I try not to.

Eventually, he sits up with a groan, gently nudging me off his chest as he stretches his arms overhead. I shift with him, curling against the arm of the couch with my cast resting in my lap, tiger still clutched loosely in my right hand.

He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, blinking at the TV. “Is this… still the Capitol Morning Hour?”

I shrug. “It was either this or the corn report.”

“Thrilling,” he says dryly.

He stands up slowly, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “Okay, I need to move or I’ll be stuck like this forever.”

I watch him cross the room and stretch his arms behind his back again with an exaggerated groan. He catches me watching and smirks.

“Laugh it up,” he says. “Just wait until you’re sixteen.”

I grin faintly. “Old man.”

He gasps. “Rude. I take care of you, I feed you, I buy you guitars—this is the thanks I get?”

I lean back against the cushions, feeling lighter somehow. “Yup.”

Peeta shakes his head like he’s deeply wounded, then disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about coffee and cinnamon buns under his breath.

And for a few quiet seconds, I just sit there, the morning sunlight slipping in through the curtains, the warmth of the couch still lingering on my skin, and the weight in my chest—just a little lighter than before.

The rest of the day passes kind of like yesterday. Slow. Soft. Easy.

Me and Peeta hang out for most of it—half-watching TV, messing around with the guitars, arguing about which chords sound better on the old one until Peeta finally admits I might know what I’m talking about. We don’t do anything important. Nothing big. But that’s kind of the point.

Rye comes by after the bakery closes, flour still dusted on the side of his sleeve like he didn’t bother changing. He ruffles my hair like he always does, like nothing’s changed, and throws himself into the armchair with a dramatic groan about his feet. Then Prim shows up not long after, a notebook already half-filled with my name, my x-rays, my recovery timeline. She doesn’t even say hi before launching into her plan to “optimize healing through mobility.” Peeta gives me a helpless look, and I just sigh.

We eat something. Rye helps cook—sort of. Prim sets the table. Peeta hands me my plate with everything already cut up, like he knew I’d argue and decided not to give me the chance. It’s loud, and a little chaotic, and someone knocks over a glass, and I laugh harder than I have in days.

And then it’s just me and Peeta again. Everyone’s gone. The dishes are done. The lights are low. The couch is still warm from where we’ve been trading seats all day.

We flop onto it without thinking—me first, Peeta right after, like this is how it’s supposed to go. His arm loops behind my shoulders, and I tuck myself against his side without a word. The tiger’s wedged between us, my cast resting against his stomach. The TV glows softly in the dark.

It’s nothing special. Just another night. Another couch. Another show we’re not really watching. But my chest doesn’t feel heavy anymore. I let my head tip against him and close my eyes for a second. This—this quiet, boring, nothing sort of night—is everything I didn’t know I needed.

And I don’t say it out loud, but I think he knows. Because he leans down just a little and presses a kiss to the top of my head, soft and warm and steady. And I smile.

Every day goes something like that. Easy. Light.

Peeta doesn’t want me going back to school until the bruises on my face and ribs start to fade. He says it’s for my own comfort. That he doesn’t want people staring or asking questions. I don’t argue. I like being home.

There’s always something to do—something small, something soft. I help Peeta in the kitchen with one hand while he pretends not to be annoyed that I keep rearranging his spice drawer. We watch movies. We nap. Sometimes we sit on the porch and just stare out at the trees like we’re trying to out-stubborn them into blooming.

And I’m never alone. Not once. Peeta always makes sure of that. He doesn’t leave the house until Rye or Prim show up—like he’s quietly passing the torch, making sure someone’s always in the room to catch me if I fall. I think he knows how quiet gets dangerous in my head. I think he knows I haven’t figured out how to be alone in this body yet, with the cast and the ache and everything else.

It’s nice, mostly. The constant company. The care. The safety.

But then one day—we’re goofing off in the living room, something dumb, something loud. I make a joke. He rolls his eyes. And then—without thinking—he reaches over and jabs that spot under my ribs. That stupid trick he always used to do to make me yelp and jump.

Only this time—I don’t yelp.

I flinch. Hard.

Because it hurts.

Not like a little poke. Like someone just drove a hammer into my side. The doctors told us it was broken. That it just needed time to heal. And it has been feeling better—easier to breathe, easier to move—but it’s still not ready for surprises. I double over, the breath knocked out of me, my hand flying to my ribs before I can stop it.

Peeta freezes.

“Oh—oh my god, I forgot—Ellie, I’m so sorry—”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, biting back the sting behind my eyes. “It’s fine.”

But he’s already kneeling down next to me, eyes wide with panic, hands fluttering like he wants to touch me but doesn’t dare. “I didn’t mean to—it was automatic—I just—”

“Peeta,” I say, sharper now. “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

And it’s not. I mean yeah, it hurts, but it’ll pass. It already is.

But he doesn’t drop it. For the rest of the day, he’s in overdrive. Won’t let me stand up without a hand on my elbow. Cuts all my food and blows on it like I’m five. Offers the softest blanket in the house every ten minutes. Hovers so much that Rye eventually goes, “Dude. She’s not made of glass.”

I say it too.

More than once.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can breathe, you know.”

Nothing changes for a few days. And then comes the final straw.

I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water, my cast tucked carefully against my chest. Peeta walks in, sees me standing, and actually—physically—takes the cup from my hand.

“Let me,” he says. “Just sit.”

“Peeta. I poured it already.”

“I know, I just—I don’t want you to spill it. You’ve only got one hand—”

I blink at him. The water’s already in the glass. It’s not heavy. Not dangerous. But suddenly it feels like a test I’m not allowed to pass. And something in me snaps.

I set the glass down a little too hard. “I’ve had one hand for two weeks,” I say, voice low and tight. “Do you really think I haven’t figured out how to pour a glass of water by now?”

He goes still.

“I’m not going to break,” I add. “I’m not some little bird you rescued from the Capitol. I’m me. The same girl who used to tackle you in the bakery. The same girl who you used to practice wrestling moves on before I could reach the counters.”

Peeta opens his mouth. Closes it. Then tries again. “I know that, I do. I just—I hurt you.”

“It was an accident,” I say, exasperated. “You made one mistake and now you’re acting like I should be in bubble wrap.”

He rubs the back of his neck, guilt still dragging down his face. “I just don’t want to mess up again.”

“You will,” I say. “And that’s okay. Just—stop acting like I’m gonna fall apart if you breathe wrong.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at me. Really looks. And I think—for the first time—he sees it. That I don’t want to be treated like I’m made of paper. That I can’t be. Not if I’m going to survive the rest of this. Not if I want to start feeling like myself again.

That day, I convince Peeta to go for a walk.

Well—“convince” is a strong word. I sort of tricked him.

I told him I really wanted that garlic chicken he makes, the one with lemon and parsley that makes the whole house smell like a meal. He said we didn’t have garlic. I said that was weird, because I was sure we did. I even offered to help him look for it, and when we “couldn’t find any,” I gave him the big sad eyes and said, “Please? I’ve had a hard week. I really, really wanted that chicken.”

He hesitated. Told me he could just make something else.

I shook my head. “Not the same.”

Eventually, he sighed and grabbed his coat. Muttered something about me being a menace and not knowing how lucky I am. I just smiled and hugged the tiger a little tighter.

He told me not to answer the door. Not to go outside. Not to start any fires, not to fight any bears, not to overthrow the Capitol while he was gone. I promised. Crossed my heart and everything.

The minute the door shut behind him, I regretted it.

It was like the house changed the second he left. Like all the warmth got pulled out with him and now the shadows had room to breathe. The silence wasn’t peaceful anymore—it was heavy. The kind that presses down on your ears until you can’t hear anything but your own thoughts.

Every knot of dread that’s been smothered by the softness of this house starts crawling back up my spine.

But I can’t call him and tell him to come back. I just spent a whole week insisting I’m not made of glass. I told him to stop hovering. That I could handle myself.

So now I have to.

School won’t be over for hours. The bakery won’t close anytime soon. It’s just me.

I try to find something to do. I pick up my guitar but remember almost immediately that one-hand chords are very limited. I turn on the TV, but every show makes my skin itch. The same Capitol fluff Peeta and I laughed at yesterday suddenly feels louder. Darker. Like they’re watching me instead.

When I watch it with him, all I see is how fake it is. How over-the-top and ridiculous. When I watch it alone… it feels different. I shut it off. The silence that follows is worse.

Eventually, I just sit down by the front window, the tiger in my lap, and stare out. Waiting.

And that’s when I see him.

Haymitch Abernathy. Sitting on his porch like he’s got nothing better to do. He’s hunched over a little, elbows resting on his knees, a beat-up paperback dangling from one hand. He’s flipping through pages slowly, one thumb smoothing the edge before turning each one, like it matters to him what happens next.

I’ve never really seen him like this. Not drunk. Not yelling. Not passed out in his yard. Just… reading.

I watch him for another minute, then push open the front door and step outside. The air is cool, the porch creaking under my feet as I make my way down. I hesitate at the bottom step, then walk across the short patch of space between our houses and stop in front of him.

He doesn’t look up.

I wait.

Still nothing.

Finally, I shift my weight a little and clear my throat.

That gets his attention.

His eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed. He stares at me for a second, then raises an eyebrow like I’m something he didn’t order. “What do you want, kid?”

I cross my arms loosely, hugging the tiger against my ribs. “I’m bored.”

He blinks once. “I can’t help you with that.”

Then he looks back down at his book like I didn’t say anything.

I rock back on my heels. “What’re you reading?”

He flips a page. “It’s called How to Get Your Neighbour’s Annoying Little Sister to Leave You Alone.”

I blink.

Then he glances up, deadpan. “It’s not very good.”

I huff, trying not to smile, and sit down on the step beside him—leaving a few inches of space.

We sit like that for a while. Not talking. The occasional flutter of a page the only sound between us.

Eventually, he speaks again without looking up, “How’s the hand?”

I shift the cast in the sling. “It’s fine. I miss having two of them.”

He nods once like he understands exactly what that means. And I think he does.

Then, a beat later, “How was the Capitol?”

I don’t lie. “I hated it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So do I.”

I glance at him. “What’s the book actually called?”

“Animal Farm.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like… pigs and stuff?”

For a second—just a second—I swear he almost smiles.

“It’s a really old book,” he says. “Before Panem.”

“What’s it about?”

He flicks his eyes toward me. “Pigs and stuff.”

I roll my eyes. “Can I read it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll ask too many questions.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.”

I huff, leaning back on my palm. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

His fingers pause on the corner of the next page.

“…An acquaintance,” he says eventually. “In the Capitol.”

The word sits strange in the air—like it has sharp edges. But I don’t ask. I just glance at the book again, at the worn corners and yellowed pages, and wonder what kind of story is hidden in there. What kind of person would send that to him. And why he’s still reading it.

He flips another page, then glances at me sidelong. “Shouldn’t you be bothering Peeta right now?”

I shrug. “He was hovering, so I told him to leave.”

He looks surprised. “He left you alone?”

“I tricked him,” I say quickly. “Told him I really wanted that garlic chicken he makes, and then I threw out all his garlic so he had to go to the market.”

There’s a pause. Then, for the first time, Haymitch actually smiles. A real one. Small. Crooked. But real.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters.

I shrug like it’s not a big deal. But inside, something twists a little. The good kind.

He looks at me for a long second, then asks, “So why’d you come over here if you worked so hard for alone time?”

I glance down at my shoes. “I don’t know.”

But I do. Sort of.

I just don’t want to say it out loud. That the house felt too quiet the second Peeta shut the door. That the silence curled in on me like a trap. That for all my talk, maybe I’m not as fine on my own as I thought I was.

So I just say again, quieter this time, “I don’t know.”

Haymitch hums. Doesn’t push. Just goes back to his book. And somehow, that makes it easier to stay.

I tug at the edge of my sleeve with my good hand. “You really won’t let me read your book?”

He turns a page. “No.”

“Why not?”

He finally glances at me, squinting. “It’s not exactly eleven-year-old material.”

I shrug. “So?”

“So it’s bleak. And heavy. And political.”

“Like the Hunger Games?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer that. Just shakes his head once and goes back to the page.

Still, I can tell he’s thinking about it. We sit in silence for a little while longer. I watch a bird hop across the yard. He turns a page, then another.

I let my eyes drift to the book again. “Can you at least tell me what it’s about.”

Haymitch doesn’t look up. “Didn’t we already do the pigs and stuff part?”

“I thought you were kidding.”

He exhales through his nose, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort. “It’s about a bunch of animals that decide to run their own farm. Kick the humans out. Make everything equal.”

I tilt my head. “Does it work?”

He snorts. “For about five minutes.”

I blink at him. “Then what?”

“Then they turn on each other,” he says, turning another page. “Some get greedy. Some get scared. Some get hurt.”

I lean my chin on my good hand, watching him. “That’s… dark.”

He hums. “That’s life.”

A pause.

“Can I read it?” I ask again.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps reading. Then, “Don’t you have any of your own books?”

I grimace. “They’re boring. The biggest problems they have is choosing a skirt.”

That gets him. His mouth twitches again, almost like he’s fighting a laugh.

I tilt my head again, softer this time. “You’re not as scary as people say you are.”

Without looking up, he mumbles, “Don’t let it get around.”

I grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

We fall quiet again. Just the breeze moving through the trees and the rustle of pages turning. But I can feel him softening. Not in anything he says, just in the way he doesn’t immediately shut me down again.

Still, I press—because that’s what I do.

“So… can I read it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a bedtime story.”

“Good, I hate bedtime stories.”

He huffs. “You’re persistent.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

I shift on the step, resting my chin on my palm. “Come on. I’ll take care of it. I won’t fold the pages or spill anything on it or—”

“You’re not reading it,” he says flatly, but there’s no real bite.

A few seconds later, he adds under his breath, “It’s not light reading.”

“I don’t want light,” I mumble. “I want real.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

I meet his gaze. And something about whatever he sees there makes him stop pretending not to care.

We don’t speak for a while after that. I watch a beetle crawl along the wood. He finishes another chapter. The sun climbs a little higher. I start to think maybe that’s it. That he really won’t give in.

So I stand up and brush off the front of my pyjama pants. “I should get back. Peeta said he didn’t want me leaving the house.”

He makes a vague noise—could be agreement, could be goodbye—but he still doesn’t look up.

I take one step down. Then another.

“Hey, carrot top.”

I stop. Turn around.

Haymitch is looking right at me now, holding out the book.

I blink. “I thought you said it wasn’t eleven-year-old material.”

“You’re not like many eleven-year-olds I know.”

I squint. “You know a lot of eleven-year-olds?”

He exhales, clearly already regretting this. “Don’t push it.”

I take a step back toward him. But just as I reach for the book, he pulls it back a little.

“No folding the corners.”

I grin. “Okay.”

“No spilling anything on it.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t write anything on the pages. Not even underlining.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, nodding solemnly.

“And don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.”

“I won’t.”

“Not even Peeta.”

I blink. “Okay.”

He narrows his eyes. “Swear it.”

I nod. “I swear.”

“No,” he says, pointing at the tiger still tucked under my arm, “swear it on that.”

I glance down.

At the fraying ear. The soft, worn fur. The way my fingers curl around it without thinking. He doesn’t have a name. He’s just a stuffed animal. But he’s also been with me since the hospital. Since the Capitol. Since all the worst parts. He was there in the recovery room, and on the train, and in Peeta’s arms, and now mine. And somehow, Haymitch knows that. That this little thing matters.

I look up at him again, something catching in my throat. “I swear,” I say quietly.

Only then does he hand over the book.

I take it gently, like it’s something fragile. “Thanks.”

He grunts, already pretending to ignore me again, but his mouth twitches like maybe he’s trying not to smile.

I turn to leave, the book tucked under my arm. At the bottom of the steps, I glance down at it. The cover’s frayed at the edges, the spine a little loose. It’s clearly old—older than anything I’ve ever held. The kind of thing someone doesn’t just hand out. He must really trust me.

I hold it a little tighter, careful with my grip. Then I glance once more at the porch—at Haymitch, doing his best to act like I’m not still standing there.

I smile to myself and head home.

Chapter Text

The room is quiet, except for the sound of pages turning. I’ve barely made it through the first few chapters, but I already feel like I’m reading something I’m not supposed to. The animals talk like people. They dream about fairness, about having control of their own lives, and for a second it feels… almost hopeful. But that’s not how stories go. Not in books Haymitch gives you in secret. Not in the Capitol.

I pause at a line, one where the pigs start taking charge, and I can’t tell yet if they’re the heroes or if they’re just better at pretending. It’s all spinning around in my head a little, and I know I understand the words—I just don’t understand what they’re supposed to teach me. Why Haymitch wanted me to read this. What I’m supposed to see in it.

The stupid pink Capitol book sits next to me like it knows I’m cheating on it. It’s one of those fluffy romance stories they expect girls to like—ball gowns, perfect smiles, falling in love with two boys at the same time. I hate it. But I keep it nearby anyway, just in case.

I hear the front door open downstairs. My stomach flips.

“Ellie, I’m home!”

I flinch. Not in a bad way—just suddenly aware of how quickly I need to move. I dog-ear the page and slip Animal Farm under my pillow like a secret, then grab the stupid pink Capitol book and set it on my lap like I’ve been deeply invested in love triangles all morning.

“Upstairs,” I call, as calm as I can manage.

The stairs creak. One step at a time, soft and slow. Then Peeta appears in the doorway, arms full of something in a paper sack and a grin on his face.

He lifts the bag like it’s something sacred. “You’re never going to guess how much garlic I bought.”

I glance at the bag. It’s practically bursting. I can’t help it—I smile. “You didn’t have to buy that much.”

“I did,” he says, stepping inside. “You did your sad eyes and I blacked out. I couldn’t risk running out again.”

“That wasn’t even on purpose.”

He shrugs. “Exactly. That’s what made it so dangerous.”

He crosses the room and drops the sack gently on my nightstand, then flops down on my bed like it’s his. He’s careful not to jostle me. Still learning to be careful, I think.

He picks up the tiger from my lap—its tail flops to the side as he turns it over in his hands. He doesn’t say anything, just traces the seam along its belly like he’s thinking. I don’t say anything either. I like when he does this—like he’s taking care of it the way he tries to take care of everything.

Then he looks at me. His voice is softer now. “I know I’ve been hovering a lot.”

I blink. “It’s okay.”

“I just—” He stops, exhales through his nose. “I know you’re strong. I know you don’t need help with everything. It’s just… I hurt you. And I know it was an accident, and I know you didn’t even care, but it still made me feel terrible. And I guess I’ve been trying to… overcompensate.”

My throat feels tight, but in a good way. Like it’s full of something warm. I smile. “It’s okay, Peeta. I like when you’re around.” I nudge his knee with mine. “Maybe just don’t grab cups out of my hand.”

He huffs a laugh, relief breaking across his face. “Deal.”

He lingers a second longer, like he wants to say something else but can’t find the right shape for it.

Then he asks, “Do you still want space? ’Cause I could use some help peeling all that garlic.”

I sit up a little straighter, trying to keep my face neutral. A part of me does want to help—wants to be with him, hear him hum while he cooks, feel the quiet ease of working side by side like we’ve started to—but I can’t help myself. He’s been hovering all week. Careful. Gentle. Overcorrecting. And I know it’s coming from a good place, but still… it’s made me feel a little small. Like I’m breakable. So now, with him sitting on my bed, asking if I still want space—asking instead of just assuming—I feel something stubborn stir in me.

I want to see what he’ll do if I say no. Just for a second.

So I lean back on my pillow and let my eyes wander toward the ceiling like I’m giving it serious thought. “Mm… I think I’m good for now.”

He tries not to show it, but I see it—the small dip in his shoulders, the faint twitch in his jaw like he’s trying not to be disappointed. He nods, like it’s fine, like it doesn’t sting. “Okay. Just figured I’d ask.”

He turns to go.

And okay, maybe that was enough.

“Peeta,” I say, right before he disappears down the hall.

He turns, hopeful already, and now I’m the one who has to keep my smile from taking over my whole face.

“I want to help,” I say.

His grin comes back slow, like he doesn’t want to scare it off.

“Yeah?”

I nod, toss the Capitol book aside like it personally offended me. “Let’s go save the kitchen from the garlic apocalypse.”

The garlic takes forever. There’s so much of it, I’m not even sure what we’re making anymore—probably everything with garlic ever invented. But I don’t really care. Peeta leans against the counter while I peel the first few cloves, just watching, not jumping in even when it’s obvious I’m struggling a little. It’s harder with only one good hand. I keep fumbling the skins, dropping pieces on the floor.

But he doesn’t move. Not until I finally let out a breath and mutter, “Okay. Fine. Help me.”

His hands are there in an instant, like he’d been holding himself back the whole time. “You got way further than I thought you would,” he says, grinning, as he starts peeling beside me.

“I’m shockingly capable,” I mumble, but I smile a little.

We cook together after that. It’s mostly chopping and throwing things into a pan, arguing over how much salt is too much, and trying to keep the oil from popping onto my wrist. He lets me do most of it, just stepping in when I ask, and for once I don’t feel like he’s hovering. Just… standing beside me. Like we used to. Like we’re both pretending that things are normal, and for a little while, it works.

We eat on the couch, our plates balanced on our knees while some stupid Capitol show plays in the background. I don’t even know what it’s about—probably fashion, or weddings, or rich people laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. The kind of show we’d always roll our eyes at. But tonight we just let it play, let it fill the silence.

When we’re done, Peeta gathers the plates and says he’ll clean up later. Then he heads down to the basement without another word. I think he’s trying to give me space. I think he’s not sure what else to do with himself. Still, something about the basement makes my skin crawl. I’ve never actually been down there—I never had a reason to. I don’t like the idea of being underground, sealed off, like the walls might press in on you if you stay too long. He can have it.

I go back upstairs and crawl into bed with the pink Capitol book beside me, but I don’t even pretend this time. I pull Animal Farm from under my pillow and pick up where I left off.

It’s getting darker, just like I thought it would. The rules are changing, but not for everyone. And the more things change, the more the pigs start to look like the humans they hated. I wonder if that’s what Haymitch wanted me to see. That power always finds a way to stay in charge. That even rebellion can rot if you’re not paying attention.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. I don’t know what anyone’s supposed to do with that.

By the time Prim and Rye come over, I’ve already put the book away again. Prim sits beside me like she always does and tells me about school. Rye leans in the doorway with some stupid joke already planned.

The next few days go like that.

Cooking with Peeta. Eating in front of dumb Capitol shows. Reading when I can. Pretending I don’t notice when Peeta disappears into the basement like he’s waiting for something in the dark. Maybe he is. I don’t ask. I don’t go down there.

Prim keeps coming. So does Rye. Some days are quieter than others. Some feel heavier. But there’s a rhythm now, It’s not perfect. Most of the time, I’m still thinking about Snow—his voice in that sterile Capitol room, the way he looked at me like I was already his. The threat hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s like a thread pulled tight in the back of my mind, always ready to snap.

But the routine helps.

Doing stuff with Peeta and the couch and the quiet way he sets a plate in front of me before I ask for one. The way Prim tucks her feet under herself like this house is hers too. It doesn’t fix anything. But it makes it easier to breathe.

And no matter what happens each day—no matter how much space he decides to give me, how many steps back he takes to make sure I can breathe—there are still a few things Peeta never even questioned stopping.

And I’m glad he didn’t.

He still braids my hair in the mornings without asking, gentle and slow, like it’s something important. He still helps me with the buttons on my pyjamas when I can’t get them one-handed, patient and careful, never making a big deal out of it. I haven’t had a reason to wear real clothes in days, but he never says anything about that either.

And every night, without fail, we end up curled up on the couch. Me lying on his chest, or tucked into the crook of his arm, like we’re trying to fold ourselves into the smallest, safest version of this new life. It’s like a little ritual. The one part of the day that doesn’t change. That doesn’t feel fragile. And maybe I don’t say it out loud, but I think he knows—I’m not ready to lose that. Not yet.

One morning, I finish the book. I didn’t even realize how close I was. I thought I had more pages. More time. But then suddenly I was staring at the last sentence, and the story was just… over. It didn’t wrap up neatly. It didn’t explain anything. It just stopped—cold and quiet, like it had already decided what it wanted to say and didn’t care if I was ready to hear it.

I close it slowly, let it rest in my lap, and stare at nothing for a while. My heart feels weird. Tight. Not in a way I can explain. Just like something’s sitting there that shouldn’t be.

It’s not that I don’t understand the book. I get the obvious stuff. The animals tried to fix their lives, and it worked—until it didn’t. Until the rules kept changing and no one said anything. Until the ones in charge started acting like the ones they overthrew. Until the others were too scared or tired or confused to fight back. I get that.

But I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do with it. It’s not helpful. It doesn’t tell you how to stop it. It just tells you how it falls apart. How it looks like things are getting better, right up until they’re not. Until you realize it was all just a different kind of cage.

And that part—that’s the part that gets me. That part feels like something I already know.

Because for a second—just one stupid second—I thought things were finally going to be okay.

After my hand broke and everything fell apart, Peeta convinced her to let me stay here. Here. With him. And I thought… I thought that was it. That maybe I’d finally get to have something good. A house without yelling. A bed that felt like mine. Someone who didn’t make me flinch. It felt like I was finally allowed to breathe.

And then we went to the Capitol.

And Snow stood above me like he was doing me a favour, and he smiled, and said I wasn’t supposed to be there. That I’d fallen through the cracks. That the Capitol wasted their medicine on me. That someone would have to pay for that.

And it’d be me.

He said it so casually. Like it was already decided. Like none of the good I had now mattered because it wasn’t going to last. Because I don’t deserve it to last.

So yeah—I guess I understand the book.

Not all the politics or the metaphors or whatever Haymitch thought I’d get from it. But I understand what it means to think things are finally turning around, only to find out they never really changed at all. I understand what it’s like to feel safe for a second and then remember you’re not.

I look around the room—my room now. The blanket wrapped around my legs. The tiger sitting on my lap. The quiet. The warmth. All of it feels too good to be mine.

Because no matter how much fun I have here, no matter how much Peeta makes me laugh or how soft the couch is at night when we curl up and pretend things are normal—it won’t last. I know it won’t. I can feel it sitting under my ribs all the time.

Waiting.

I clutch the book tighter in my good hand, the cover warm from where it’s been resting on my legs.

Then I stand up.

The tiger gets tucked under my good arm without even thinking about it. He goes with me when I need to feel a little steadier. I leave the pink Capitol book sitting on the blanket like it’s made of air. And then I’m out the door, down the stairs, across the yard.

I don’t knock when I get to Haymitch’s. I can’t, not with one hand in a sling and the other full. So I kick the bottom of the door with my foot, a sharp thud that echoes through the porch.

Nothing.

I wait a beat, then kick again.

Still nothing.

He’s probably drunk. Or asleep. Or drunk and asleep. Or just ignoring me like he does everyone. Maybe he thinks it’s a Peacekeeper. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

I’m about to turn around when I hear it—the shuffle of movement inside, the grumble of floorboards. The door creaks open a few inches, and Haymitch peers out, looking like someone just dragged him away from a fight he was winning.

He looks annoyed. Until he sees me.

His face softens a little, like he wasn’t expecting me. Like that changes things. He takes in the tiger under my arm, the book in my hand.

I hold it out toward him, not sure what to say.

“Wow, Carrot Top,” he says, brow raised. “You finished that quick.”

“I had time,” I mutter.

He takes the book from me, flipping it in one hand like he’s weighing it. “Thought I wasn’t getting this back ‘til winter.”

I don’t say anything.

I just turn around and flop down onto the porch step with a heavy thud, pulling my knees up and tucking the tiger between them like armor. I don’t look to see if he’s following me. I just sit there and wait, hoping he gets the message.

The porch creaks behind me.

Then the door clicks shut, and a moment later, I hear the slow drag of footsteps as Haymitch lowers himself onto the step beside me with a grunt, like just sitting down takes effort these days. He doesn’t say anything right away. He just leans back on his elbows and lets out a long breath like he’s been holding it in for years.

He sets the book between us.

“So,” he says finally, voice low. “Did you hate it?”

I shake my head.

“Did you get it?”

I shake my head again, slower this time.

He hums a little. “That’s fair. Most people don’t.”

We sit there like that for a minute. The morning air’s a little too warm, like it hasn’t figured out it’s still early. The tiger is tucked in tight between my ribs and my arm. My good hand curls in the hem of my shirt.

Haymitch lets out another sigh and runs a hand through his messy hair. “What stuck with you?”

I don’t plan on answering. Not really. I don’t even realize I am answering until the words are already coming out of my mouth.

“I keep thinking about how the animals thought things were better,” I blurt. “But they weren’t. Not really. They were just different. And by the time they figured it out, it was worse.”

I stop there. I don’t explain why that line hit me like a punch to the stomach. I don’t tell him about the moment I walked into Peeta’s house with a splint on my hand and thought maybe—just maybe—things would be okay. I don’t say anything about Snow. About the couch. About how every quiet moment now feels like something that can be taken.

But I think he sees it anyway.

He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask what made that part sit under my skin like a bruise. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, like he knows the weight of it without needing the details.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the part that gets you.”

I keep staring forward, eyes fixed on the step below mine, where the wood is cracked and splintering at the edge. I don’t know what I want him to say. I just know I don’t want to sit with it by myself.

Haymitch shifts, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees. His voice is rough, but it’s not unkind. “You read it right. You’re not supposed to feel good when it ends.”

I nod, barely.

“It’s not about fixing anything,” he goes on, “just about paying attention. Knowing when something’s starting to rot, even when everyone else swears it smells fine.”

I glance at him, and he meets my eyes just for a second. Then looks away again, like he doesn’t want to hold it too long.

“You pay attention early enough, sometimes you can stop it,” he says. “Sometimes you can’t. But either way, at least you don’t lie to yourself.”

I swallow. My throat feels thick.

We don’t talk for a while after that. I just sit there with him in the quiet. No one expecting anything from me. No Capitol book in my lap. Just the tiger, the porch, and a little piece of air that doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.

Haymitch doesn’t try to cheer me up. He doesn’t joke or make some weird metaphor out of the pigs. He just stays there beside me like he understands what I needed wasn’t a lesson. Just someone to sit with me while I tried to figure it out.

We sit in silence a while longer. The wood under me is warm from the sun, and the tiger is starting to slip in my arm, but I don’t move. Haymitch rubs a hand across his jaw, like he’s thinking too hard or trying not to.

Then he speaks again, quieter this time. Not like he’s talking to me exactly, more like he’s thinking out loud. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

I glance at him. He’s still looking ahead.

“Sometimes the pigs aren’t the only ones lying,” he adds. “Sometimes they’re not the only ones listening, either.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “It means… just ‘cause it feels like it’s getting worse doesn’t mean it always stays that way. Sometimes worse is just what it looks like on the way to better.”

That just makes my stomach twist more.

Because if this is what better looks like coming, I don’t think I want it.

I look away. “I don’t get it.”

He doesn’t press. Just nods like that’s fine. Like I wasn’t supposed to get it yet anyway.

But I can feel something shifting in him. Like he’s waiting for something I don’t know about. Like the book wasn’t just a lesson—it was a test. A way to see how much I could understand before everything tips.

I don’t ask. I just pull my knees in tighter.

Haymitch leans back again and tips his head toward the sky. “You don’t have to get it right now,” he says. “You just have to remember how it made you feel.”

I do.

I feel scared. I feel like nothing is safe. I feel like something is coming, and I don’t know what it is—but he does.

I don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

We’re still sitting there, saying nothing, when the sound of footsteps crunches through the gravel.

Peeta.

I know it’s him before I even look up—his pace, the soft scrape of his boots, the way my chest lifts a little without meaning to. He rounds the corner carrying two paper bags, his hair mussed from the wind, a little sun on his nose. He’s squinting toward the porch.

And then he freezes.

His eyes land on me.

Me, sitting on Haymitch’s porch, clearly not in the house where I’m supposed to be. The tiger’s still tucked under my arm. Haymitch’s copy of Animal Farm is right there on the step between us, the cover exposed.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just raises his brows like he’s waiting for someone to explain why I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

Haymitch sighs and waves a hand like this is the real inconvenience of his morning.

“Don’t look at her like that, Lover Boy,” he says. “I came by to talk to you, knocked on the damn door, and she answered. Told me you weren’t home, then just… came out and sat here with me.”

He shrugs, like it’s the most baffling thing that’s ever happened to him. “Didn’t ask for it. She just did it anyway.”

Peeta lets out a breath, and there’s a soft smile pulling at his mouth now.

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s pretty stubborn.”

I glance down at the tiger in my lap, not really smiling but not panicking anymore either. Haymitch saved it. Peeta won’t ask about the book. He wants to, I can tell—but he won’t. Not here. Not now.

Peeta shifts the bags in his hands. “You ready to go?”

I nod.

Peeta shifts both bags into one arm. I hold the tiger out to him, and without missing a beat, he sets it gently on top of the bags, balancing it like it’s something fragile.

Then he offers me his free hand.

I let him pull me up, steady and careful.

His hand doesn’t drop once I’m standing—it settles lightly against my back as we step down together, like he’s making sure I don’t trip, even though I’ve walked this path a hundred times.

Normally I’d roll my eyes and think he’s hovering again.

But right now, I kind of appreciate it.

“Thanks for the company,” Haymitch grumbles behind us.

I don’t look back, but I say, “Thanks for the step.”

He huffs a laugh.

Peeta carries the bags and the tiger, and I walk beside him, my fingers catching the edge of his shirt like they’ve done a dozen times lately—quiet, small, but something I can hold onto. I don’t know if I feel better yet. But I feel less alone.

Later that afternoon, we’re all in the living room—me on the floor with my back against the couch, my legs crossed, and the tiger in my lap. Peeta sits above me on the couch, fingers working carefully through my hair. Prim’s curled up beside Peeta, her chin resting on her arms as she watches.

It’s quiet in that gentle, late-day way. The windows are open, and there’s a breeze drifting through, catching the edges of the curtains. The TV’s on but muted. None of us are really paying attention to it.

It’s been like this for a while now.

One day, maybe a week ago, Prim had asked without thinking, “How do you do your hair with one hand?”

And I’d said, without thinking, “Peeta does it.”

She blinked at me. “He does?”

I shrugged. “He’s always been good at it.”

Peeta snorted from across the room. “That’s a stretch. I can do the one braid. That doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”

But that had been enough for Prim.

The next day, she brought over a brush and three ribbons and sat cross-legged on the floor with us like it was a lesson. She showed him how to do a French braid, then a fishtail, then pretty much any braid she could think of. He fumbled the first few times, but he watched her carefully, hands slow and gentle. He asked questions. He laughed at himself. And I sat there, quiet, pretending not to care, but something about it made my chest go warm and strange.

Now it’s part of the rhythm.

Sometimes it’s just the one braid. Sometimes it’s one of the complicated ones Prim taught him. He still messes up half the time, but he always keeps trying. Today it’s a twist braid, and I can feel him concentrating, his thumbs brushing against my scalp as he tucks strands away with surprising care.

“Not bad,” Prim says, tilting her head to inspect his work.

“You mean that?” Peeta asks. “Because you said that last time and then took it apart ten seconds later.”

Prim giggles. “That was a disaster. This one’s mostly straight.”

“High praise,” Peeta mutters, but he’s smiling. I can hear it in his voice.

I rest my head back gently against his knee. The tiger shifts in my lap, his paw flopped over one of mine. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to ruin the quiet. But I let my eyes drift closed for just a second.

I always knew things would be easier at Peeta’s. No baking at dawn. No slammed doors or cold silences. No flinching when a voice got too sharp.

But I didn’t realize how much I needed it to be like this—how much I needed the stillness, the gentleness. I didn’t realize how simple life could feel without the weight of always trying to be good enough.

I never imagined having a friend who cared enough to teach Peeta different braids. I never imagined someone like Prim, sitting on the couch above me, gently correcting his fingers while I sat below them, trying not to smile. I never imagined anyone would go out of their way to make things softer for me.

And I definitely didn’t imagine I’d miss it when it’s gone. Because I know it will be. Snow made sure of that. But for now, Peeta’s fingers are warm and steady. Prim is humming under her breath. No one’s asking anything of me. And that’s enough.

I’m starting to drift off a little when the front door creaks open and then closes with a soft thud.

Footsteps. Familiar ones.

Rye.

He doesn’t announce himself, just strolls in like he’s always belonged here—which, I guess, he sort of does now. He rounds the corner into the living room, takes one look at the scene in front of him, and snorts.

“Well,” he says, “this is definitely not what I pictured when I walked in.”

I blink my eyes open, but I don’t move. Peeta’s still behind me, focused, his hands gently finishing the last pass of the braid.

Peeta doesn’t look up. “Careful, Rye. You’re dangerously close to being asked to help.”

“Peeta’s been learning from the best,” Prim chimes in, proudly.

Rye crosses his arms and grins. “Yeah, I can see that. My little sister’s hair’s now a Capitol-level structural feat.”

Peeta rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. He ties off the end of the braid with one of Prim’s ribbons, smooths a hand down the length of it like he’s inspecting his work. Then he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, like he always does. I don’t move. But my fingers tighten ever so slightly around the tiger’s paw.

Peeta sits back and turns to Prim expectantly. “Well?”

She gives a solemn little nod. “Approved.”

Peeta beams. Actually beams, like he just passed a final exam. Then he pushes off the floor with a soft huff and heads toward the kitchen.

“I’m starting dinner,” he says over his shoulder. “Anyone hungry?”

Rye raises a brow and follows him with a smirk. “I’m coming too—before you two force me to paint your nails and share my feelings.”

Prim giggles. “Don’t tempt me.”

Rye gives her a look like you’re joking but I know you’re not, and disappears into the kitchen with Peeta.

I lean back against the couch, one hand coming up to gently touch the braid. It’s a little uneven, a little loose in places—but I don’t care. It’s perfect. Because it’s mine. Because he did it. Because it’s us.

And somehow, I’ve ended up in a house where people laugh and tease and braid my hair and kiss the top of my head like I’m someone worth being gentle with.

It’s strange.

And warm.

And hard to hold onto.

So I just sit there, my tiger in my lap, listening to the laughter in the kitchen—and try not to think about how fast it could all disappear.

Prim shifts slightly above me, resting her chin back on her arms, her voice quieter now, thoughtful. “You’re lucky to have them.”

I glance over my shoulder. Peeta’s chopping something at the counter while Rye stands nearby pretending to supervise, cracking jokes and stealing pieces of garlic when Peeta’s not looking.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”

Prim smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “They make it look easy. Like being around each other is just natural.”

I shift a little, adjusting the tiger in my lap. “It kind of is. At least with them. They’ve always been like that.”

She nods, then goes quiet for a beat. I don’t push.

Then she says, “Katniss used to be like that. Not exactly—she was never as open as Peeta—but… before the Games, it felt easier to be around her.”

Her voice lowers, the words coming slower now.

“She’s been different since she got back. She doesn’t sleep much. She barely eats unless I remind her. And she doesn’t talk about what happened—at all. If I ask, she says she’s fine, or she just changes the subject.”

I look up at her, and she gives a small, sad shrug.

“It’s like she’s pushing me away to protect me. And I know she thinks she’s doing the right thing, but… I miss her. And she’s right there. I sleep in the bed next to her every night, but it still feels like she’s gone.”

I don’t say anything right away, because suddenly, I get it. All of it. Why Prim’s always over here after school. Why she lingers longer now. Why she curls up on this couch like it’s a place she can finally exhale.

She’s not just escaping her house.

She’s escaping the silence.

I glance toward the kitchen again, where Peeta’s now tossing something into a pan, and Rye’s loudly complaining about the amount of garlic.

I sit a little straighter, the tiger still resting in my lap. “Peeta’s kind of like that too.”

Prim looks at me.

I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust her. Just because saying it out loud makes it feel heavier.

“He’s always… good. He shows up. He helps. He’s gentle. But he doesn’t let me in about anything real. Not the heavy stuff.” I glance down, voice dropping. “He doesn’t show me what he paints anymore. Not since he came back.”

Prim watches me carefully now.

“And sometimes he disappears into the basement for hours. At first I think he was just doing it to give me space. But now he does it all the time, I don’t even know what he does down there, I’ve never asked… but before he would’ve just told me.”

I tighten my fingers around the tiger’s paw. “He’s never mean. Never shuts me out on purpose. But it still feels like there’s this part of him I’m not allowed to see.”

Prim is quiet for a moment, then says, “You think he’s trying to protect you, too?”

I nod slowly. “Probably.”

Another beat of silence.

“I think they’re trying to hold all the weight by themselves,” I whisper. “And it’s so heavy, it’s pulling them under.”

And I think of the book—how silence let the rot set in. How no one spoke until it was too late.

Prim hugs her knees to her chest, resting her chin on top. Her voice comes out small, but fierce.

“I just wish there was something we could do. To show them they don’t have to carry it alone. That we’re strong enough to help. Even if they don’t believe it yet.”

She picks at a thread on the edge of the couch cushion, lips pressed together, thinking hard.

Then she looks up suddenly. “Wait.”

I glance at her.

“What if you asked Katniss to take you hunting?”

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says, sitting up straighter now. “Go with her. Learn something. It gets you out of the house, and maybe it helps her too.”

I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “Prim, what does that have to do with any of this?”

She shrugs. “You said you wanted to help. So help. Let her teach you. The woods are the only place Katniss ever felt like herself, even before the Games. Maybe if she had someone out there with her—someone to teach—it would remind her how to breathe again.”

“I only have one hand,” I say flatly.

“You don’t need to shoot a bow and arrow,” she says. “Just go with her. Let her show you things. Tracks. Plants. How not to die in the woods.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go, then?”

She scrunches her nose. “I hate hunting.”

“Exactly.”

“I mean it,” she says with a small laugh. “Why would I want to kill something? I’m a healer, Briella. If you ever saw me try to hold a bow, you’d cry.”

I smirk, but it fades quickly.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “It sounds weird.”

“It is weird,” Prim says brightly. “But you might end up liking it. Or you’ll hate it and Katniss will grumble the whole time. Either way, it’s better than just… waiting around.”

I don’t say anything right away. I just tilt my head back again and stare at the ceiling like it might have the answers written in the cracks.

Then I mumble, “Katniss probably wouldn’t want me there.”

Prim blinks. “Why not?”

“She just wouldn’t,” I say, which is a terrible excuse, and Prim knows it.

“She said once she wanted to take Rory,” Prim says. “I don’t think she ever did, but… she clearly wants someone to teach. She just doesn’t let herself.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Maybe she won’t want to teach me.”

Prim looks confused. “Why?”

I flick my eyes toward the kitchen. Peeta’s voice filters in again—low and easy, like he’s relaxed, finally. Rye says something that makes him laugh.

I jerk my chin in their direction. “Because of that.”

Prim follows my gaze, then glances back at me. “You mean Peeta?”

I nod once.

“Things are still kind of… weird between them,” I say. “After the Games. After all that pretending.”

Prim raises her eyebrows. “It wasn’t pretending for Peeta.”

“I know,” I snap, too fast. Then I sigh. “Sorry. I just…”

Prim doesn’t flinch. She just keeps watching me, calm and steady like she already knows where my thoughts are going before I say them out loud.

“I think Peeta still cares,” I say more quietly. “And I don’t want to make it worse.”

Prim shrugs. “I don’t think Katniss really cares about that. Not in the way you think.”

She’s quiet for a second, like she’s testing the next words in her head before saying them.

“And maybe this could help with that too,” she says. “Help them figure it out. They’ve both been kind of stubborn, and everything’s been tense since the Games. But if Katniss starts coming around again… maybe it gives them space to actually talk.”

I don’t say anything. My fingers are still tangled in the tiger’s fur, but I feel suddenly, painfully alert.

“And maybe,” Prim says, a little more carefully now, “it’ll help Peeta see that you’re strong too. That you can help. That he doesn’t have to protect you from everything.”

That’s the part that catches something deep in my chest. Because more than anything, I want to help him. I want to be someone he leans on—not someone he shields like glass. I don’t say that out loud. But it pulses through me like something too big to ignore.

Still, I roll my eyes and let out a huff of a laugh. “Right. Nothing says good like me face-planting in the woods because I tripped over a root and only have one hand to catch myself.”

Prim laughs too, but her eyes don’t leave mine.

And even though I try to brush it off, I know she sees it—the way I’m turning the idea over now, slowly, quietly. Because maybe it isn’t so ridiculous. And maybe, just maybe, it could matter. Even after Prim falls quiet, her words hang in the air, looping in my head.

Maybe it’ll help Peeta see you’re strong too.

I don’t know why that part stuck. Maybe because I wish he didn’t have to see it at all—I wish he just knew. Or maybe it’s because I’m starting to realize how badly I want to prove it anyway. Not just to him.

To myself.

And then there’s the other part—something even deeper I haven’t let myself look at too closely.

Because the truth is, I’ve always wanted to go into the woods.

Not to hunt, exactly. Not to kill anything. Just to go. To step past the fence and not feel like I’m sneaking or stealing something that was never meant to be mine. To breathe air that isn’t thick with coal dust and ash. To stand somewhere still and quiet, where the world doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in on every side.

To feel free, even for a little while.

My grandmother used to talk about how there wasn’t always a fence. She’d tell me that, back when she was younger, the district wasn’t so locked down. You could wander if you were careful. Go down to the old roads, past where the fence cuts now, all the way to a lake she swore was real—cold and clean, so clear you could see the minnows flash around your ankles.

She used to go with those people she sang the old songs with—the ones she taught me in secret. They’d spend whole days at the lake, swimming and singing to the mockingjays. She said the birds would carry the melodies long after they’d stopped, like the woods themselves didn’t want to let go of the sound.

It always sounded like a different world. One I could almost imagine slipping into, if I closed my eyes hard enough. I used to think that maybe things were better back then. That maybe there was a time where people weren’t so afraid. Where they could laugh without looking over their shoulder.

But then I read the book. And now I’m not so sure.

Because even when things looked better, they weren’t. The Hunger Games still happened. The Peacekeepers were still here. People still starved and disappeared and gave up their children for extra grain. My grandmother might’ve had her lake, but she also knew what it meant to keep her head down. She knew what happened to people who didn’t.

Maybe that’s what Haymitch wanted me to see. That just because the world softens around the edges doesn’t mean the center isn’t still rotten.

And yet… I still want to go.

I want to see the trees from the inside. I want to hear the mockingjays echo back a song no one’s supposed to know. I want to touch something that was real to her, even if it’s gone now.

I want to know what it’s like to feel something unfenced. I want to see it. Just once. So I know it existed.

Chapter Text

We’re on the couch again—same spot, same rhythm, same quiet that settles in like a blanket. I’m curled into the crook of Peeta’s arm, my head tucked just beneath his chin, his fingers lightly tracing the shapes he drew on my cast weeks ago. The sun’s gone down, everything feels soft and sleepy. The TV is still playing something muted, some Capitol rerun, but neither of us is watching.

My eyes stay fixed on the tiger in my lap, but my mind’s somewhere else. Prim’s voice keeps looping through me, soft but steady, like it never really left.

“What if you asked Katniss to take you hunting?”

She meant it. I know she did. She said it like it was nothing, like it was obvious. But it’s been sitting under my skin ever since—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t a joke. It was an idea. A lifeline, maybe. A way to do something, to be something other than the girl curled up on the couch with a broken hand and too many bruises on her heart. And no matter how many reasons I come up with to push it away, it’s still there. Sticking.

I shift a little under Peeta’s arm, and he tilts his head to look down at me. “You look cute when you’re thinking,” he says, brushing a piece of hair away from my forehead.

I bristle, just a little. “I’m not thinking.”

His mouth quirks. “How could I forget—you never think.”

I smack his chest lightly with my good hand, and he lets out a satisfied little breath. I burrow in closer, even as my face heats up.

He presses a kiss to my hair. “And even cuter when you’re grumpy.”

I try not to smile. I do. But it creeps out anyway. For a second, it feels like that’s enough. Like I don’t need the woods. Don’t need Katniss or the lake or whatever imagined freedom is waiting out there. This—the couch, the quiet, the way Peeta holds me like I’m not a burden—is already more than I ever thought I’d get.

Maybe I don’t need to prove anything. Maybe I don’t need to be strong in some wild, obvious way. Maybe just being here is enough.

But then the thought creeps in again. That I do need it. That I need something to prove to myself I can do hard things again. Something that isn’t just surviving.

And I already know I can’t ask Peeta. Not because he wouldn’t get it—he would. He always does. He’d understands me better than anyone. But he’d still say no. Gently. Softly. But firmly. He’d see all the danger. The fence. The cold. My arm. Katniss. He’d worry, like always, and he’d tell me it’s too soon. Too risky. Not worth it. And I wouldn’t be able to argue. Not the way he argues. Not when he’s trying to protect me with that look in his eyes like he already knows what loss tastes like.

So I don’t say anything.

I just rest my head a little deeper against his chest, let him hold me like he always does, and pretend—for now—that this quiet is enough. Even if I know it won’t be for long.

Peeta shifts a little, adjusting the throw blanket around us, and I feel the moment he realizes how settled I am. “We’re not sleeping on the couch again,” he says firmly.

“I’m not even tired,” I mumble, nose tucked against his shirt.

“Yes, you are,” he says, amused. “We do this every night—you curl up beside me, say you’re not tired, then fall asleep before the next commercial break. And then I have to make a decision.”

I glance up at him.

He gives me a dramatic sigh. “Wake you up and feel like a monster, or leave you here and feel like a worse monster. So I stay. And I sleep terribly. And my back hurts. And you wake up perfectly fine.”

I grin. “Sounds like you’re the only one with a problem, then.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow like he’s about to argue, then—without warning—he gently nudges me off his chest with one arm, sending me sliding sideways into the cushions.

“Hey!” I protest as he stands up, stretching like a smug cat.

“I’m saving my spine,” he says. “This is an act of self-preservation.”

I’m still half-curled on the couch, blanket rumpled, the tiger flopped across my lap like a fellow casualty. I blink up at him, mock betrayed. “Wow. Abandoning the injured.”

He grins and heads toward the stairs. “Tragic. Tell it to your tiger.”

I glance down at the tiger. He doesn’t say anything. Figures.

He hold out his hand. “C’mon,” he says, gentler now. “Let’s go sleep in a real bed so you don’t wake up all crabby.”

I don’t take it. I try to cross my arms, which is a lot less threatening when one of them’s in a sling. “I’m never crabby.”

He grins. “Look at you trying to cross your arms. You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

I scowl, which really doesn’t help my case.

Peeta just chuckles. “See?”

I eye his hand like it personally insulted me. Then I take it anyway. I trail behind him, still holding on, grumbling under my breath about how many stupid stairs there are in this stupid house, every step dragging a little more than the last.

At the top, he stops like always, turning to look at me with that gentle, unreadable expression. He doesn’t say anything—he never does. Just waits. Giving me space. Letting me choose. His door is just ahead, already cracked open. Mine is a few feet away, quiet and neat and still. He always gives me this choice. And I always pick the same thing.

But tonight… I pause. Maybe this is it. The first step. The smallest kind of proof. I could go to my own room. Sleep on my own. Show him I’m okay. That I’m strong. That I don’t need him beside me to feel safe anymore. My eyes flick toward the door of my room. It’s cozy. Warm. Safe. During the day, it feels like mine. Like a place I could grow into.

But at night… It’s different. At night, my mind spins too fast and too loud. At night, I wake up gasping from dreams I can’t explain, sweating through the sheets, the sound of Capitol voices echoing in my ears. The sharp smell of metal. The too-bright lights. The cold. I can’t picture opening my eyes in the dark, throat tight with panic, and not finding him there. Not hearing his voice. Not feeling his hand on my back, anchoring me.

I glance at Peeta again. He’s still waiting. Patient. Like he won’t be hurt if I choose differently—but he’ll notice. And I know I’m not ready.

Not yet.

We settle into bed like we always do—slow and quiet, like it’s something that matters. Peeta helps me out of the sling first, careful with the straps, his touch gentle where the fabric presses too tight against my shoulder. Then he takes off his prosthetic leg, setting it beside the bed like he always does, the routine smooth and practiced now, like brushing teeth or turning down the blankets.

I curl onto my side, the tiger cradled in the crook of my good arm. Peeta slips in behind me, warm and steady, one arm around my waist, anchoring me in that way he always does. Like he knows I need to feel held before I can sleep.

For a while, we don’t say anything. And then, of course, my thoughts creep back in. The woods. Prim’s voice looping in my head. Maybe it’ll help him see you’re strong too.

I’m quiet long enough that he notices.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips close to my hair.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He chuckles lightly. “Because you always talk about something stupid before we fall asleep.”

I frown, shifting a little. “I do not.”

“You do,” he says. “You talk and talk and then just—out. Like I’m mid-sentence and suddenly you’re snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” I mutter.

“I didn’t say you did,” he says, mock-innocent. “But now that you bring it up…”

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he says, tugging me gently closer. “So what’s tonight’s stupid thing?”

I pause. Then test the waters.

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

I hesitate. Then, finally, “about doing something different.”

His voice is soft, curious. “Like what?”

“Like getting out of the house more. Doing stuff.”

He shifts slightly behind me, not pulling away, just adjusting. “Am I boring now?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “No. I just think… I’m used to always doing something. Even the bakery. I hated it, but it still filled my time.”

“Yeah,” he says, thoughtful now. “I get that. I was bored a lot when I first came home, too. But I found stuff to do.”

There’s a pause. Then his hand skims gently down my arm, stopping just above the cast.

“Your hand is healing fast,” he says. “Cast’ll come off in a few weeks.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be able to play guitar again.”

That makes something twist in my chest. I nod, even though he can’t feel it.

“And you could go back to school soon too,” he adds.

“I hate school.”

He laughs softly. “They probably don’t want you back anyway. It’s probably been a lot more peaceful without you slapping people.”

“It was one time, Peeta. Let it go.”

He leans forward, kisses the back of my head. “Never.”

I settle deeper into the blankets, the tiger pressed against my chest, his fur warm from my hand.

“I just…” I start again, quieter now. “I think I need to find something to do. Until the cast comes off, something outside.”

Peeta hums. “We could start going for walks. You can finally stop wearing pajamas all day.”

I make a face. “These are my victory pyjamas. You don’t insult the uniform.”

He laughs under his breath. “I stand corrected.”

There’s a beat of quiet, then he says, “We’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

I nod against the pillow. “Okay.”

There’s another soft pause, the kind that settles gentle over your chest and makes the dark feel less heavy.

“Goodnight, Tiger,” Peeta says, his voice already sleep-soft.

“Goodnight, Peeta.”

Then he shifts slightly and leans forward over me, pressing his mouth lightly to the top of the stuffed tiger’s head. “Goodnight, other Tiger.”

I smile into the blanket.

There’s a pause.

“He’s not very talkative,” Peeta murmurs.

I laugh under my breath. “I think he knows he’d never get a word in between the two of us.”

“Smart man.”

The room is dark and still. Peeta’s breathing deepens behind me, slow and even. His arms are around me like always—one tucked under my ribs, the other draped across my waist, steady as anything. I could fall asleep like this. I usually do.

But my mind won’t settle. I keep thinking about the woods. Whether it’s actually a good idea. Whether it’ll help anything at all.

Prim thinks it will. She’s already decided it’s brilliant. But she’s like that—she’s soft and hopeful and so sure that things can get better if you just try hard enough. She won’t understand why I’m still hesitating. Why I keep turning the idea around in my head like it might bite me.

And I can’t talk to Peeta. Not about this. Not because he wouldn’t understand—he would. That’s the problem. He understands me more than anyone. He knows I need him to fall asleep. He knows I rely on him. And that’s just another reason to keep me away from the woods, to keep me safe. And I wish it could be enough. I wish this—his arms around me, the quiet hush of the room, the tiger tucked close—was all I needed. I wish I didn’t have these thoughts circling around in my head, this pull toward something I can’t quite name. How am I supposed to say it—to look him in the eye and tell him I want to go off into the woods without him? To follow Katniss Everdeen through the trees like I’ve got something to prove?

The worst part is, I don’t even know if I’d like it. I don’t know if I’d feel brave, or just cold and lost and stupid for trying. I don’t know if Katniss could ever make the world feel quiet the way Peeta does. I don’t know if I want to find out. But I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life afraid to try.

I shift a little, and his arm instinctively tightens around me. He doesn’t even wake. It’s just how he is—steady, protective, constant.

Rye’s not the answer either. He gets stuff. More than people think. But not all the way. Not this. He watched me fall apart on the floor when my hand broke. He picked me up and held me like I was going to disappear. He’s quieter about it than Peeta is, but he’s just as protective. Just as stubborn.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as complicated. He doesn’t have all that weird tension with Katniss, all the pretending and not-pretending. But he’d still see his little sister, barely healed, dragging herself into the woods with one hand. He’d never say it, but I think he’d be harder to convince.

And then there’s Haymitch.

Haymitch, who I used to think was just a drunk with a bad attitude. The guy who fell off the stage at reapings, the guy who’s face I spit in.

But now I’m not so sure.

He gave me that book. He let me sit on his porch and didn’t say anything when I couldn’t talk. He listened. And then he said exactly what I needed to hear, without making it sound like some lecture. Maybe he can help me figure this out. Like he helped with the book. Like he already knew what I’d take from it before I even opened the first page.

The idea settles in my chest. Quiet. Solid. I think that’s the plan.

I let my eyes close, breathing in the familiar warmth of Peeta’s arm, the tiger still tucked against my stomach. I won’t ask him. Not yet. But Haymitch? He might know what to do. And finally, with that thought wrapped around me like another blanket, I start to fall asleep.

The next morning is soft and slow, like most of them are lately. Peeta leans against the kitchen counter across from me, sipping from a mug with both hands. His hair is still mussed from sleep, and there’s a smudge of flour near his elbow from something he probably baked hours ago. He always gets up first.

I’m sitting at the island, one leg tucked up beneath me, the other swinging slightly. The tiger is in the chair next to mine, upright and serious like he’s earned a place at the table. Peeta didn’t even blink when I plopped him there.

I stab a piece of egg with my fork and guide it carefully to my mouth. One-handed breakfast isn’t glamorous, but I’ve gotten better at it.

Peeta watches me with that soft sort of amusement he gets sometimes, like the whole scene is something he wants to tuck into his memory for later.

“You’re getting better at that,” he says, nodding toward my plate.

I shrug. “I’ve had practice.”

He smiles into his mug. “You going to start cooking next?”

“Not with this arm,” I say, lifting my cast slightly for emphasis. “Unless you want half the kitchen on fire.”

He chuckles. “Guess I’ll keep my job a little longer, then.”

The sun is spilling in through the window behind him, catching on the tiny steam trails rising from his cup. It makes the whole room feel warmer. Softer. But even in the warmth, I can feel it building. That restless buzz in my chest. The one that started yesterday and never really went away.

I pick at another bite of eggs and glance at the tiger like he might give me advice. He doesn’t. Of course not. He’s just here for moral support.

After breakfast, Peeta disappears down into the basement like he always does. He doesn’t say why, and I don’t ask, I don’t even dwell on it. Not this time. I just watch the door click shut behind him and listen for the soft sound of his steps fading down the stairs.

Then I move.

I grab the tiger from his chair—he’s still sitting there like he was waiting for something—and I tuck him under my arm like always. My plate’s still on the counter, eggs half-eaten, but I don’t stop to clear it. I just head straight for the door.

The boots Peeta gave me are waiting in their usual spot. Soft. Worn. A little too big.

I slip them on and brace a hand against the wall to keep steady. Then I open the door and step out into the air.

It’s cooler than I thought it’d be. A breeze pushes at the hem of my shirt and stirs the leaves in the yard. The sun is still working its way up, and the ground is dewy and soft underfoot. I cross the yard quickly, not giving myself time to think too hard, and make my way to Haymitch’s front porch.

I knock.

Not loud. Not timid either. Just enough to say I’m here. And then I wait. Tiger tucked tight under one arm. Boots planted. Heart pounding.

There’s no answer at first. Just the sound of something shifting inside—wood creaking, maybe a muttered curse—and then footsteps. Slow, annoyed ones.

The door cracks open, and Haymitch squints out at me like the sun’s personally offended him.

“Seriously, Carrot Top?” he grumbles. “I just fell asleep.”

I blink. “It’s morning.”

He groans. “Exactly.”

I don’t ask why he’s going to sleep when most people are waking up. I just tighten my grip on the tiger and say, “I need to talk to you.”

He eyes me warily. “More literary analysis?”

I shake my head. “I wanna talk about Katniss.”

That gets his attention, but not in a pleasant way. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I say quickly, fumbling with the tiger’s paw. “She’s my best friend’s sister. She saved Peeta’s life. And I don’t know anything about her.”

He stares. “So you woke me up to gossip?”

“I’m not gossiping,” I mutter. “I’m curious.”

“What do you want to know?”

I glance down. “What’s she like?”

He huffs and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “She’s stubborn. A pain in my ass. Never listens.”

I bite back a smile. “Is she… nice?”

He thinks about it for a second. “To the right people.”

I nod slowly. That tracks.

“So… Katniss goes past the fence a lot, right?”

“Mm. Pretty much every morning,” he says, voice rough but steady.

“She hunts?”

“Among other things.”

I nod, trying to act casual like this is just small talk, but inside my fingers twitch at the fraying seam on my sleeve. “Does she ever take anyone with her?”

He snorts faintly. “Used to. That Hawthorne boy. Before he started working in the mines.”

I pause, fiddling with the fraying seam on my sleeve. “Would she… ever take someone else?”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “You mean Prim?”

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I mean… like someone who’s not great with a bow but could learn. Eventually.”

“Someone small?”

I look up at him, a bit defensive. “Size doesn’t matter.”

Haymitch smirks, shaking his head. “Does this hypothetical someone have a broken arm?”

I groan. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re transparent.”

I glance out toward the street, then back at him. “Do you think she’d ever do a favor for someone? If they asked?”

He studies me for a beat. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On the person. On the favor. On the mood she’s in and whether you catch her before or after she’s had to talk to anyone.”

I fidget, toeing at a loose board on the porch. “She doesn’t like helping people?”

“No,” he says. “She does. She just doesn’t want to admit she does.”

“Right.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking?”

I keep my eyes on the porch boards. “Just trying to figure something out.”

He watches me for a second longer, then sighs like he’s tired of the dance. “Just ask what you actually want to ask.”

I meet his eyes, steady myself. “Do you think she’d let me go with her? Just once. Past the fence.”

He looks me up and down slowly, his eyes dragging from the sling to the tiger, down to my legs. Then he lets out a dry laugh.

“You’ve got one arm in a sling, the other is holding a tiger. You’re wearing flannel pyjamas, and unless I’m losing my mind, it looks like you’re wearing slippers.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Obviously I’d change first,” I snap.

He raises a deeply skeptical eyebrow. “Would you bring the tiger?”

I blink down at it, like I’d somehow forgotten it was there. Tucked in my good arm, like always. Its head flopped sideways, one paw curled against my ribs.

“Of course not,” I say, but the words come out weak and unconvincing. I hadn’t thought about that part. I didn’t realize going into the woods meant I’d have to leave him behind.

Haymitch sees it. Of course he does. That smug little smirk slides back across his face.

“Yeah,” he says, voice dry. “You’re definitely ready for a wilderness expedition. Maybe you can ask the squirrels to braid your hair while you’re out there.”

My jaw tightens. I look away, swallowing hard. This was stupid. What was I even thinking? I turn on my heel, more than ready to retreat back across the yard and pretend this never happened. Pretend I wasn’t ridiculous enough to show up in my pyjamas and ask about sneaking past an electrified fence with a stuffed tiger under my arm.

But before I can step off the porch, I feel his hand on my shoulder. Not rough. Just enough pressure to make me pause.

“Tell me why you want to go,” he says.

His voice has changed. It’s quieter now. Not mocking.

I don’t answer right away. Just stand there, facing the steps, the tiger’s head resting against my ribs like he’s waiting too.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Not really.”

His hand stays on my shoulder—light, but steady. Waiting.

I fidget with the tiger’s paw, the fraying seam I’ve been picking at for days. The words feel awkward in my mouth, but I push through them anyway.

“It’s not about being reckless,” I say slowly. “It’s… about the book. The one you gave me. How it talks about things maybe changing—how people might find a way to breathe again, even if the world’s still broken.”

I finally turn to look at him. “And maybe,” I add, swallowing the lump in my throat, “maybe I just want to prove to myself that I can do something. That I’m stronger than this broken arm or the stupid things that keep holding me back.”

My throat feels tight. I don’t know what I expect him to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe that would be easier.

He’s quiet for a beat. Doesn’t let go of my shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything right away either. Just looks at me with this strange, sharp softness in his eyes—like I’ve surprised him, but he doesn’t want me to know it.

Then he huffs a little, under his breath. Almost a laugh. “Damn,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Didn’t expect an actual answer.”

I shift my weight, suddenly self-conscious. “Forget it,” I mumble. “It’s dumb.”

His grip tightens just slightly. “It’s not dumb,” he says. Firmly.

I glance at him, and he’s looking out across the yard now, not at me. His voice comes low and rough, like it’s scraped from somewhere deep.

“Maybe it won’t change a damn thing,” he says gruffly. “But there’s a reason why you think it will. The only way to know is to try. If you hate it, fine—never do it again. But if it helps even a little, it’s worth the risk.”

I look up at him, biting my lip. “Do you think Katniss would take me?”

He snorts, a humorless sound. “If I knew what that girl was going to do next, my job would be a hell of a lot easier.”

He stares at me a second longer. Then he jerks his head toward the yard. “Go ask her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t sit on my porch waiting for the stars to align. You want to go past the fence? Ask the girl who’s best at doing it.”

I hesitate, but he lets go of my shoulder and starts moving back toward the door.

“Oh,” he says over his shoulder. “And lose the tiger if you don’t wanna be laughed out of the woods.”

He disappears into the house, the door creaking behind him. And I’m left on the porch—my heart hammering, the tiger pressed tight to my chest—realizing he just told me yes. Kind of. Which might be the best I’ll get.

I cross the quiet road between houses, boots soft against the smooth stone. The tiger is in my arms again, tucked tight without me thinking. The houses all look the same here—wide porches, tall windows, painted shutters—but somehow, Katniss’s still feels different. A little darker. A little quieter.

I knock on the door before I can lose my nerve.

Three short raps, not too loud. I adjust the tiger in my arms while I wait, feeling suddenly very aware of the fact that I look like a child who got lost on the way to a sleepover.

The door opens a moment later.

Katniss blinks at me, clearly confused. Her braid’s half-undone, and she’s wearing an oversized flannel with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. She’s got that same guarded look she always wears, like she’s bracing for something.

“Prim’s at school,” she says flatly.

“I know,” I say quickly. “I—I’m not here for Prim. I mean, I am, sort of. But not really.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, not in a cruel way—just sharp. Assessing. Like she’s waiting for the catch.

I shift on my feet, then glance down at the tiger and wince. “Sorry, I didn’t really think this through. I probably look insane.”

Katniss doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t open the door any wider, either.

I clear my throat. “Can I—uh, do you mind if I talk to you for a second? Just… out here’s fine.”

She looks at me for a long moment. I can see her trying to figure out what this is—whether I’m here on someone else’s behalf, whether I’m going to mention Peeta, or Prim, or ask for some favor she doesn’t want to give.

Finally, with a little sigh, she steps onto the porch and closes the door behind her. “Alright,” she says. “Talk.”

It’s not hostile, just blunt. Like everything with Katniss.

I shift the tiger into one arm and start picking at a loose thread on the hem of my shirt. “Okay, um. So. I wanted to ask about the woods.”

Her posture stiffens just slightly, arms still crossed over her chest. “What about them?”

“I know you go out there a lot. Haymitch said… every morning, basically.”

“Pretty much.”

“And I was wondering—” I swallow. “I was wondering if you ever take people with you.”

She tilts her head, cautious. “Why?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t quite know what to say. Not in a way that’ll make sense to her. Not in a way that doesn’t sound like a Peeta-adjacent favor or some weird idea planted by Prim.

“I’m not asking for anyone else,” I blurt finally. “I just—I want to go. Just once. I know I probably seem like the last person who’d want to do something like that, but I’ve just been thinking about it a lot, and—”

“Why?” she asks again, sharper this time.

I meet her eyes, nervous but not backing down. “Because I want to see what it’s like. And because maybe it’ll help. You. Me. I don’t know.”

Katniss doesn’t answer. She just watches me like she’s trying to see past what I’m saying to whatever this really is. And maybe I don’t totally know myself. Not yet. But I wait anyway, and she doesn’t slam the door in my face.

Katniss leans back against the porch railing, arms still crossed, eyes narrowed just enough to make me feel like I’m being studied. Like she’s waiting for the part I’m not saying.

“You want to go into the woods,” she says, slow and skeptical. “Why?”

“I told you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just want to see what it’s like. Learn something. I thought maybe… you’d be willing to take me.”

She gives a soft, humorless huff. “I don’t take people.”

“Not ever?”

She glances away for a second. “Used to.”

“I’m not asking you to hold my hand,” I say quickly. “I know I don’t look like much right now—” I glance down at the tiger still tucked in my arm, then tuck him a little tighter behind me like that’ll help. “But I can be useful.”

Katniss raises an eyebrow. “With a broken arm?”

“I’m getting better,” I say, defensively.

She just keeps watching me. And for a second I think she’s about to shut it all down and tell me to leave. But she doesn’t. She shifts slightly, gaze flicking to the street, like she doesn’t want to be having this conversation on her front steps.

Then she asks, a little too flatly, “Did Peeta put you up to this?”

“No,” I say, louder than I mean to. “He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

That seems to surprise her. Not much, but enough to make her eyes flick back to mine with more focus.

“Then why me?” she asks. “You’ve got him. That other brother. Prim.”

“Exactly,” I say. “They all think I need protecting. Like I’m made of glass or something. I thought maybe you’d be different.”

Katniss doesn’t respond to that right away. Her mouth tightens slightly, like I hit something she didn’t want me to.

Then, finally, she says, “It’s not a game out there.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” she snaps, not unkindly—but sharply. Like she’s tired of people pretending they understand things they’ve never lived through. “You think it’s quiet and peaceful and healing, but it’s not. It’s survival. And I don’t have the time or the energy to babysit someone who just wants a story to tell.”

“I don’t want a story,” I say quietly. “I just want something real.”

We stare at each other for a long time. She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t agree. But she doesn’t shut the door either.

“Let me think about it,” she mutters finally.

Then she turns and slips back inside without another word. I don’t move right away. I just stand there, alone on the porch, heart beating fast and the tiger tucked awkwardly under one arm, trying not to smile. Because she didn’t say no.

The walk back feels different this time. My steps are lighter, almost hopeful, as I cross the yard with the tiger pressed close. The quiet of the street surrounds me, but it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

I open the door and step inside—but then freeze. Peeta’s already standing in the entryway, like he’s been waiting for the sound of the latch. His arms are crossed, his brow faintly creased, but his voice is calm. 

“Where were you?”

I shift the tiger a little higher under my good arm, suddenly aware of how small and exposed I feel. “Out,” I say, my voice flat.

He watches me for a moment like he’s trying to decide how far to push. “Out where?”

I glance past him, toward the kitchen. “I went to see Katniss.”

That makes him pause. He doesn’t react right away—just stands a little straighter, his mouth pressed into a tight line. The quiet stretches.

“Why?” he says, and there’s something new in his voice now. Something taut.

“I wanted to talk to her,” I say. Simple. Steady.

“About what?”

I hesitate, then meet his eyes. “I asked her if she’d take me past the fence. Just once. Into the woods.”

His arms uncross slowly. “You think that’s a good idea?”

I feel my jaw set. “Yeah. We talked about it last night. About how I need to get out more.”

“We talked about going for a walk,” he says, and now his voice is cooler. “Not hiking through the woods with Katniss and one working arm.”

I feel heat rise in my chest. “Maybe I don’t want to take a walk with you holding my hand the whole time.”

He blinks, taken aback, but recovers fast. “Maybe I need to hold your hand.”

The words aren’t angry. They’re honest. Too honest. And somehow that just makes it worse.

“I’m stronger than you think,” I bite out.

He lets out a bitter breath. “You can’t even leave a room without that tiger tucked under your arm.”

The silence is instant and sharp. I don’t know who’s more surprised—him or me.

I stare at him, something in my throat twisting. “Why do you even care?” My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. “You know I’ll be fine. Katniss is smart—she’ll know what to do if something happens.”

He steps forward, voice rising now, more frustration than anything. “That’s what you think. But things go wrong. All the time. What if you fall? What if you get hurt again?”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You said that about the bakery,” he snaps, and this time his voice actually breaks. “You said it was fine—and then our mother broke your hand.”

Everything inside me goes still.

He freezes too, like he hears it a second too late. The silence that follows is thick and ugly.

I stare at him, my heart thudding in my ears. “Wow.”

“Ellie—” he starts, reaching toward me.

But I shake my head, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “You don’t even care about the woods. You care that it’s Katniss. You’re still upset she doesn’t love you.”

The words land like glass cracking underfoot.

Peeta’s face shifts. I can’t tell if it’s shock or hurt or something worse. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then turns his back to me completely.

I don’t move. I stay in the doorway, clutching the tiger like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and I wonder how we got here—how everything soft between us just snapped in two.

Peeta doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stands with his back to me, shoulders tense, the air between us stretched so thin I’m afraid to breathe.

Then, barely above a whisper, he mumbles, “I’m going upstairs.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t even look at me. He turns and walks away, footsteps heavy against the wood floor. I hear the stairs creak under his weight, the soft thud of his door closing a second later. Not a slam. But not quiet either.

And then it’s just me.

Standing in the entryway, still clutching the stupid tiger like it can fix anything, like it can hold the pieces of me that suddenly feel scattered everywhere.

Chapter Text

I don’t move. Not right away. I’m still standing in the doorway, frozen like if I don’t breathe, I can rewind the last five minutes and take it all back.

The tiger is cradled tight in my arm, his fur warm against my skin, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does. Not the stillness. Not the quiet. Not the fact that the front door is closed and the world outside feels far away. It’s just me. The hallway. The echo of everything I said.

I stare at the stairs like maybe he’ll come back down. Like maybe this time he’ll forgive me without making me say the words out loud. But he won’t. Not this time. I know it.

Because we don’t fight. Not like that. When I’m impossible—when I’m angry at the world and flinching at shadows—Peeta doesn’t yell. He doesn’t storm out. He sits with me. He talks me down, even when I don’t want him to. Even when I don’t deserve it. But I pushed him. Hard. Too hard.

I said things I didn’t mean. And worse—I said things I did.

I brought up Katniss.

And the truth is, it wasn’t fair. We never talk about her—only when Prim brings her up, and even then, Peeta barely says anything. Just clipped, careful answers. Whenever I try, he changes the subject like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s something. I can feel it, always just under the surface. And I hate it. I hate that he thinks I can’t handle the truth, that I’m too young or fragile or whatever else he’s decided I am. I hate that there’s this whole part of his life I’m not allowed to see.

And maybe I don’t get it. Not all the way. I don’t understand that kind of love. I’ve never had it. I don’t know what it’s like to carry someone in your heart for so long when they never really looked back. But I still think it’s selfish. To be angry at her for not loving him back. She can’t control that. Just like he couldn’t control loving her.

Still—I said it. I threw it in his face. Because he hurt me. He said the thing we don’t say. The bakery. Our mother. The hand I can’t use. He said it like it was proof I shouldn’t go, like I can’t be trusted not to break again. Like I’m still fragile. Still weak.

And it hurt. So I wanted him to hurt, too.

That’s why I said what I did. That’s why I brought up Katniss. But I shouldn’t have. Because he didn’t deserve it. Not after everything he’s done. Not after all the times he stayed, even when I gave him every reason to walk away. And now I don’t know if I’ve pushed too far.

I blink, and I realize my eyes are stinging, though I’m not sure when they started. My throat feels tight and scratchy, like I’ve been shouting even though my voice never really rose. Everything just cracked. Quiet and sudden and all at once. I shift slightly, trying to breathe around the knot in my chest. The house feels too big now. Too hollow. I should go upstairs. Or into the kitchen. Or just anywhere that isn’t here, replaying every word in my head like I’m picking at a scab. But I don’t move. Because all I can think about is that this might be the first time I’ve made Peeta want to walk away from me. Not because he was angry. But because he was hurt.

And I did that.

When I finally move, it’s just enough to turn around and lock the door behind me. The click is louder than it should be. Sharp. Final. We don’t lock the door during the day. At night, sure—Peeta always double- and triple-checks it, rattling the knob like it might change its mind. But during the day, we leave it open. So Prim can walk in after school without knocking. So Rye can drop by with something from the bakery and pretend he was “just in the neighborhood.” Because this house—it isn’t just Peeta’s and mine. It’s theirs too.

It’s the place we all come when we’re too tired to pretend we’re okay. The place where no one yells. Where the lights are soft and the couches are warm and the bad dreams don’t reach as far. It’s like a shield. From everything else. The one soft place left.

And I ruined it.

I stare at the lock, the little metal latch I flipped like it meant nothing. Like I didn’t just slam a door on everything this house is supposed to be.

On Prim.

On Rye.

On Peeta.

The tears start before I can stop them. Not all at once—just a prickle behind my eyes, a sting that builds too fast. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard, but it doesn’t help. My chest pulls tight, and my grip on the tiger slips just slightly as my arms begin to shake.

I press a hand to my face, try to breathe through it, but it’s no use. The tears come anyway—hot and messy, spilling over my cheeks as my body curls in on itself like I can fold away the shame. Like I can shrink small enough that none of this matters. But it does. It does so much it hurts.

I wrecked it. The one good thing. The one place where everything felt light. And now Peeta’s upstairs and I’m down here, and the house feels wrong. Like it’s holding its breath. Like even the walls are waiting to see what happens next.

I think about going to the couch. It would be easy—just a few steps away, the blanket still rumpled from where we left it last night. The tiger’s been there a hundred times. So have I. Pressed up against Peeta’s side, head tucked under his chin, his arms around me like the world couldn’t touch us. That spot—the corner of the couch near the lamp—it’s always felt like a hiding place. A soft one.

But I don’t move. Because what if I never get to curl up there with him again?

The thought lands so suddenly, so hard, that it knocks the air out of me. What if that was the last time? What if I just tore a hole in something we can’t sew back together?

Last night, I told myself it might not be enough. That maybe I needed something more than just the couch and the quiet and the way Peeta holds me like I matter. I told myself I needed the woods. Something bigger. Something harder. Some kind of proof.

But I was wrong.

I didn’t realize it until now—until the soft thing slipped out of reach. Until the house turned quiet in the worst way. Until Peeta walked away. It was enough. It was the thing. Him, this house, that couch, the way he smiles at me like I’m not broken—it’s always been enough. I just didn’t know it until I ruined it.

I blink hard, tears slipping again. My legs feel shaky. My arms, too. The tiger is crumpled awkwardly in my hold, but I can’t bring myself to let go. I just stand there, caught between the door and the living room, and realize all over again that maybe the woods weren’t the answer after all. Maybe I was already home.

My legs give out before I make a choice. I slide down against the door, the wood cool against my back, and let myself sink to the floor. My knees pull in toward my chest—awkward and uneven with the cast—but I don’t care. I just hold the tiger tight against my ribs and press my forehead to my knees.

And then I cry.

Not quietly, not the kind of crying you can swallow down or hide behind your hands. This is the kind that cracks something open. The kind that sounds like guilt and heartbreak and too many words I can’t take back. I bury my face in my arm and let it come.

I don’t know how long I stay there. The sun shifts, the silence stretches, the warmth in the room changes—softens. But I don’t move. I don’t want to move. It’s like everything inside me is too heavy to carry, and the floor is the only place solid enough to hold it all.

Peeta’s gone quiet upstairs. I don’t know if he’s pacing or lying in bed or just staring at the wall like I am down here. I don’t know if he’s still angry—or worse, if he’s hurt in that quiet, deep way he gets when something really matters. I don’t know anything except that I ruined the one good thing I had left. And I’m not sure if I’ll get it back.

Footsteps creak on the stairs.

I don’t look up. I don’t need to—I know it’s him. I’ve memorized the sound of his footsteps. Light. careful. Even when he’s upset, Peeta moves like he’s trying not to wake someone. Like softness is a habit he can’t break.

My breath catches, but I keep my head down, pressed tight against my knees. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to know what I did. If his eyes are cold, I’ll break. If they’re kind, I’ll break worse. He’s probably going to the kitchen. Or the basement. He has every reason to step around me and keep walking. I deserve that.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

I feel the moment he lowers himself beside me. The creak of the floor, the familiar warmth of his presence. He doesn’t touch me—just sits close enough that I can feel him there.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than if he’d yelled. I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders curling in tighter. No. He’s not supposed to say that. He’s not the one who ruined everything.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmurs. “About the tiger. About… Mom. I didn’t mean it like that, I just—” He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know. I messed up.”

My throat twists. It’s too much.

I start crying again, harder this time, into the crook of my good arm. It’s not soft or quiet. It’s ugly and full and desperate, and I hate that he’s here to see it.

Peeta shifts slightly beside me, still not touching, still giving me space like he always does. I can hear the worry in his voice when he speaks again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, a little more urgently now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I shouldn’t have said any of it—I wasn’t thinking. I was just scared, and I… I’m sorry, Ellie.”

I shake my head against my knees.

“Please don’t be mad,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper.

And that’s when it all snaps inside me—not from anger, not from hurt. From guilt. From knowing I made him think I could ever be mad at him for being the one person who never, ever leaves.

“I’m not mad,” I whisper, my words muffled against my legs. “I’m not.”

Peeta doesn’t respond right away. I can feel him holding still beside me, like he’s not sure if he heard me right.

I press my forehead tighter to my knees. “I’m mad at me. I ruined everything.”

There’s a pause, then his voice comes soft and confused. “Ellie…”

“You came down because you thought I was mad at you,” I say, my voice cracking. “And you apologized. Like it was your fault. But it wasn’t. You were right about everything, and I just—I said the worst thing I could think of. And I don’t even know why.”

My chest jerks as I try to breathe. It comes out broken. Ragged. Like my ribs forgot how to work.

“I thought…” I swallow, hard. “I thought maybe I didn’t need you so much anymore. That it would be better if I could do things on my own. If I didn’t… depend on you so much. But now all I want is to go back to last night. Before I said anything. Before I messed it all up.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’m afraid of what I’ll see—if he’s still hurt, or worse, if he’s done. If I finally crossed a line I can’t come back from. So I just sit there, shaking and small and pressed into myself, waiting for the part where he tells me it’s too late. That I pushed too hard. That I broke us for good.

Peeta shifts beside me, and I feel the warmth of his hand hovering just over my back, not quite touching yet—like he’s giving me the space to pull away if I need it. But I don’t. I don’t want space. I want him.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says gently. “Ellie… we’re allowed to fight.”

I flinch. Just slightly. Because even now, it doesn’t feel true. We’ve never fought. That’s what makes it safe. That’s what makes him safe.

He keeps going, slow and steady, like he knows I need time to catch up to his words. “You can say something mean to someone you love. It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you scared, or hurt, or human. And I’m not going anywhere just because you said something that stung.”

I shake my head against my knees. “You should hate me.”

His hand lowers to the middle of my back—warm, grounding. “No,” he says, quiet but firm. “I could never hate you. There’s nothing you could say or do that would make me stop loving you.”

My throat tightens. I almost try to argue, but the words won’t come. Just this deep, aching disbelief twisting in my chest.

“Ellie,” he says softly, like he already knows what I’m thinking, “people say things when they’re angry. Or scared. It doesn’t mean they meant them. And even if they did, even for a second… it doesn’t make them unlovable.”

I tense up, the word hitting somewhere deep. 

Unlovable.

That’s what I’ve always been afraid of. That I could say one wrong thing, be too much, need too much—and it would be over. That even Peeta would get tired. That even he would leave.

“No matter what you say to me,” he murmurs, “I’ll always be here. Always.”

I finally lift my head. My eyes are puffy, my throat raw. But I look at him anyway. I have to.

“Really?” I whisper.

“Really.”

I don’t move. I just stare at him, breathing unevenly, trying to understand. Trying to believe him. Because I don’t. Not really. I want to—but I don’t. I search his face, watching for the part where the kindness slips, where the truth cracks through. Because none of this makes sense. Not the way he forgives me. Not the way he stays.

He’s good. He’s steady. He already has enough to carry—wounds and nightmares and Capitol scars that still haven’t faded—and now me, with my broken hand and sharp words and moods that turn on a dime.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Why do you even put up with me?”

His brow furrows, confused. “Ellie—”

“You’re good,” I go on, the words falling out fast. “You’re kind and patient and strong, and I just… snap at you and fall apart and make everything harder. I don’t understand why you stay.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. His eyes stay right on mine, steady as ever.

“Because I love you,” he says softly. “And that means I’m here. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

I glance down at the floor, at the tiger in my lap, anywhere but him. My voice drops to almost nothing. “I’m not easy to love.”

The silence stretches, thick and tight.

Then I feel his hands—gentle, certain—cup the sides of my face. He tilts my head up, and I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are soft. Steady. No anger. No pity. Just Peeta, like always.

“You don’t have to be easy to love,” he says, firm but quiet. “You just have to be you. That’s all I want.”

His thumbs brush lightly along my cheeks, catching the last of the tears. His hands are so warm, and the way he’s looking at me—it’s like he means it. Like there isn’t a single part of him that’s lying. He nods once, small and certain, like he knows I need to see it to believe it.

That’s when I reach for him.

I wrap my good arm around his neck and pull him close, it’s awkward and clumsy with one arm still in a sling. The tiger ends up squished between us like always, like he’s part of the deal now too. I bury my face in Peeta’s shoulder. He smells like cinnamon and flour and home, like everything I thought I ruined but maybe didn’t.

He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. His arms fold around me, sure and steady. One hand finds the back of my head and runs gently down my hair.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And somehow, this time, I believe him.

I press my face a little deeper into his shoulder, my voice muffled when I whisper, “Thank you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Of course,” he says lightly. “What else am I here for? Looking handsome and providing baked goods?”

I huff a wet laugh, wiping my nose against his shirt without much shame. “You forgot emotional support.”

He nods solemnly. “Right. Add that to the résumé. Peeta Mellark: local baker, part-time therapist, full-time emotional punching bag.”

“Don’t forget tiger wrangler,” I mutter.

He glances down at the squashed stuffed animal between us. “How could I?”

And just like that, it’s lighter again. Not fixed, not perfect—but something close to okay.

He reaches up and gently brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch light but full of care. “Feeling better?” he asks softly.

I nod.

“Okay,” he says, his voice still quiet but steady now. “Why don’t you tell me why you want to go into the woods?”

I hesitate, eyes dropping to the floor. We just got good again—soft again—and I don’t want to mess that up. Not after everything. Not after how close I came to losing it.

“It’s stupid,” I mumble, barely loud enough to hear.

Peeta doesn’t even flinch. “It’s not,” he says gently. “Nothing you want could ever be stupid.”

I look back up at him and catch the way he’s watching me—patient, steady, waiting like he always does. Like he truly believes I have a real reason to say. I take a slow, deep breath, trying to steady my nerves before I start.

“It started with Prim,” I begin quietly. “She said Katniss has been acting different lately, pushing her away. She said maybe Katniss needs something to do. Someone to teach. So at first, I thought about it just for Prim.”

I pause, swallowing, then keep going. “But then I realized… it’s something I want to do too.”

Peeta’s lips twitch into a small smile, teasing but gentle. “Because you want to get away from me?”

I shake my head quickly. “No, I wanted to even before all this happened. I just never thought it could actually happen, so I never said anything.”

He nods, waiting for me to say more.

“Grandma used to talk about the woods, how there wasn’t always a fence. She’d tell me these stories, and I wanted to go so badly. And being stuck at home so much, with my hand broken, made me want it even more.”

I glance at him, feeling the weight of possibility finally there. “And now… there’s a chance.”

Peeta’s eyes don’t leave mine—not once. And for a second, I think he might laugh, but he doesn’t. His smile softens, the teasing fading into something quieter. Warmer.

“That makes sense,” he says, his voice low. “You’ve been cooped up for weeks. And you grew up on those stories. Of course you’d want to see it for yourself.”

I nod slowly, relieved he understands. But he keeps going.

“I think Grandma used to scare Rye with those stories,” he adds with a faint grin. “But not you. You always wanted to follow them.”

There’s something proud in his voice. Something that makes my chest ache in a different way.

“Honestly,” he murmurs, “I think she would’ve taken you if she could’ve.”

I smile at that—small, but real. “Me too.”

Peeta bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “Well… if Katniss bails, you’ve got me. I’ll take you.”

I blink. “Really?”

He shrugs, mock-serious. “Sure. Just give me a week to train, a map, three knives, and maybe a bear repellent.”

I laugh quietly, the tension in my chest loosening just a little.

And Peeta, grinning now, says, “We’ll be unstoppable.”

I picture it without meaning to—me and Peeta, stumbling around in the trees like a couple of idiots. He’s holding a loaf of bread like it’s survival gear, jumping every time a squirrel twitches a leaf. I’m trailing behind in flannel pajamas, the tiger tucked under my arm like some kind of useless compass.

“We’d last five minutes,” I mutter.

Peeta grins. “They’d be a good five minutes.”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “We’d get lost.”

“Probably.”

“You’d forget the map.”

“I’d never forget the snacks though.”

That makes me snort, and the sound surprises both of us. It feels stupid and warm and safe. He’s still smiling when he says it again, softer this time.

“They’d be good minutes, Ellie. I promise.”

I lean my head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t move—just lets me rest there, both of us still sitting on the floor with our backs against a door that’s never locked. The house is quiet around us, warm and still. I can feel his breath, steady and close.

“Yeah,” I whisper, eyes falling closed. “They would be.”

He glances down at me, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “C’mon,” he says, nudging my knee gently with his. “Let’s fuel up for our wilderness expedition.”

I squint at him, still curled into his side. “With what?”

His smirk widens. “I’ve got a tray of cinnamon buns in the fridge.”

That perks me up. “You do?”

He nods and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m tired of listening to you complain about how long they take to rise.”

I scowl at that, eyeing the hand he offers me. “I never complain.”

He rolls his eyes, like it’s not even worth arguing about, then leans down and grabs my hand anyway, tugging me up with him.

I yelp as he pulls me to my feet. “Hey! I’m injured here.”

He doesn’t even turn around, just smirks over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen. “You can’t keep using that excuse if you plan on becoming a fierce woodland hunter.”

I follow him, limping a little for dramatic effect. “I wasn’t planning on wrestling deer, just walking.”

“Well,” he says, already opening the fridge, “better start building your stamina now. The buns are step one in your rigorous survival training.”

He sets the tray of cinnamon buns on the counter, carefully peeling off the plastic wrap, and I drop into one of the stools with an exaggerated huff. He shoots me a smirk over his shoulder, then goes to preheat the oven. The second his back is turned, I lean forward—just a little—with my good hand. I’ve always liked the way the dough feels when it’s all soft and puffy like that.

But before I can touch anything, his hand closes gently around my wrist. I freeze and glance up at him, already guilty. He’s looking at me the way he always does when he catches me doing something I’m not supposed to—equal parts exasperated and amused, with that quiet kind of fondness that makes my chest ache. Like I’m someone he expects to be impossible, and somehow still likes anyway.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to touch them when they finish rising?”

“I was just looking,” I say, all wide-eyed and innocent.

He gives me a long-suffering look, still holding my wrist. “You were looking with your hand.”

“I wasn’t going to smush them,” I argue, trying not to smile.

“That’s what you always say right before you smush them,” he mutters, shaking his head. But there’s no heat in it—just something warm and familiar, the kind of teasing that only comes after years of practice. The kind that means we’re okay again.

He lets go of my wrist and turns back to the fridge, muttering something under his breath as he pulls something out. I settle back into my chair, already eyeing the cinnamon buns again, hand inching slowly toward the tray like I might get away with it this time.

But then there’s a knock at the door.

Both of us freeze. We glance at each other, brows furrowed. Prim’s at school. Rye’s at the bakery. No one ever knocks during the day.

Peeta straightens up and wipes his hands on a dish towel before heading to the door. I shift slightly in my seat, the tiger still in my lap. He unlocks it and opens it—and I see the way he tenses, just barely.

“Katniss,” he says.

“Hey,” she replies, voice awkward, a little unsure.

I realize—suddenly and sharply—that they haven’t really talked. Not since the Games ended. Not since the reporters left and the spotlight faded and everything between them got quieter and harder to name.

Katniss clears her throat and shifts her weight. “I just came by to talk to Briella,” she says. Then she stumbles a bit. “I probably should’ve come to talk to you first.”

I tilt my head slightly. Her voice isn’t clipped anymore. That guarded, matter of fact way she talked to me on her porch—it’s gone now. Something about Peeta pulls it out of her. Softens the edges.

He lets out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry. She already told me about the woods.”

Katniss blinks. “She did?”

Peeta nods, leaning casually against the doorframe, but I can still see the faint worry behind his eyes. 

“And what did you say?” Katniss asks, more carefully now.

He glances back at me, then returns his gaze to her. “I don’t love the idea of my little sister trekking through the woods with a broken hand,” he says honestly. “But she’s persistent. And I’ve never been very good at saying no to her.” There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not teasing. It’s warm. Real.

“And I know you wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

“Of course not,” Katniss says without hesitation.

Peeta studies her for a second, then asks, “So it’s a yes?”

Katniss pauses for a second. “If she still wants to.”

Peeta glances over his shoulder toward me. “Ellie,” he says gently, nodding for me to come over.

I slip off the chair, the tiger still tucked tight under my arm. My legs feel a little unsteady as I cross the room, like I’m not sure what I’m walking into. Katniss is still standing on the porch, and she can’t see me yet. Peeta steps aside, and then she does. Her eyes flick to mine, and in an instant, that softer look she gave him is gone. The guardedness snaps right back into place.

“You still want to go?” Peeta asks, looking at me, his voice quiet.

I nod.

Katniss watches me for a second. Then she says, clipped and to the point, “Tomorrow morning. Six o’clock. Out front.”

I nod again.

“No pyjamas,” she adds. “Wear sturdy boots. We do a lot of walking.”

“Okay,” I say.

“And bring a jacket. It gets cold.”

I nod a third time, standing there like I’m memorizing a checklist.

“If you’re late, I’m not waiting. If you complain, we’re going back.” Her eyes scan me carefully, pausing just long enough to make sure I understand. Then, finally—“And no tiger.”

That makes me smile, for real this time. I hand the tiger over to Peeta without a second thought. “Deal.”

Katniss doesn’t smile back, but something in her face shifts—a small ease around the eyes, like she’s letting something go.

“Okay,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

She glances at Peeta one last time, something passing between them I can’t quite read, then turns and heads back down the steps.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. My shoulders sag, and I lean slightly into Peeta’s side, the tension finally spilling out of me all at once.

“She said yes,” I whisper, almost like I’m afraid saying it too loud might undo it somehow.

Peeta looks down at me, his hand still holding the tiger I gave him, and gives me a soft smile. “She did.”

I blink up at him. “That was terrifying.”

He laughs, soft and low. “You did fine.”

“I think I stopped breathing for the entire conversation.”

He grins. “I noticed.”

I glance at the door again, then back at him. “She really came all the way over here. To say yes.”

“She did.”

That makes something twist in my chest—not in a bad way. It’s just… big. I press my lips together to keep the smile from growing too wide. “Tomorrow morning,” I say, almost in disbelief.

Peeta leans his shoulder against the wall, arms still crossed, watching me with that faint smile. “I’m honestly glad she said yes,” he says. “Because I was not ready to be your guide through the wilderness.”

I glance over, eyes narrowing playfully. “Really? I thought you were ready to surprise me.”

“I was,” he says with mock offense. “But surprise you how? By getting us both lost before breakfast?”

I snort. “Yeah, you stay in the kitchen where you belong, baking and stuff.”

His eyes widen dramatically. “Wow. Reducing me to some cheap stereotype.”

“You’re a baker,” I say with a shrug. “I’d hope you’re good at baking.”

He grins. “Well, good news—your cinnamon buns are about five minutes from changing your life.”

I grin back, and even though I’m nervous, even though I’m already thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, the only thing I feel right now is this warm, flickering hope—like maybe, just maybe, I didn’t ruin everything after all.

Chapter Text

I knew I shouldn’t have said it the second it left my mouth.

Not because she cried or yelled or stormed away—she didn’t. She just looked at me, like I’d hit something fragile that would never quite heal right again. And then she said the one thing I didn’t see coming. The thing that left me standing there, stupid and breathless, while she gutted me with seven words.

You’re still upset she doesn’t love you.

She didn’t yell that either. Just said it. Flat. Sharp. Like she wasn’t even trying to hurt me—like she honestly believed that’s what this was about.

I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know how. So I turned around. Walked away. Not because I didn’t care—but because I did. Too much. I knew if I stayed, I’d say something worse. I’d say something I couldn’t take back. And she’s eleven. And I’m not allowed to break her.

I sat in my room for a long time, replaying every second of that fight. My heart pounding like it thought we were still arguing. My hands balled into fists against the mattress.

I wasn’t mad at her for asking Katniss. I was scared. Terrified. Her hand’s still in a sling. She has nightmares. She flinches at shadows. And now she wants to wander into the woods with a girl who barely speaks and a forest full of traps?

But I didn’t say that. I said the thing about the tiger—like she was too weak to handle real danger. And then I said the thing about Mom. Like it was proof something bad would happen again.

She told me she didn’t want me holding her hand anymore. That she was strong enough on her own. She couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d tried. Not because I want her to need me forever. But because I know what it cost her to believe she was better off alone. That somewhere in her head, she’d decided needing me was a weakness she had to grow out of.

I didn’t know how to tell her that, how to explain that she can always lean on me, so instead I said something cruel. And then she said something worse. And then it all just… shattered.

I don’t know how long I stayed upstairs. Long enough for the guilt to settle in like smoke. But it wasn’t just guilt. It was… everything. I wasn’t ready for her to bring up Katniss. I didn’t think she’d ever use that against me. And the worst part is—she wasn’t even wrong. It caught me off guard, cracked something open I wasn’t ready to show her. I didn’t want her to see me like that—still beat up over a girl who doesn’t love me back. Not her big brother. Not the one who’s supposed to be steady.

So I stayed upstairs. Not out of pride, but because I was ashamed. Because I didn’t trust myself not to make it worse. Because I didn’t want to see her flinch again. But the longer I waited, the more I realized that staying away was its own kind of damage.

When I finally came down, I heard the smallest sound. Not crying exactly. Just breathing wrong.

Then I saw her.

Curled up by the front door, pressed into herself like she was trying to disappear. Tiger tucked under one arm. Her face buried in her knees. So small I almost didn’t see her.

I stopped at the bottom step, and for a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. My chest clenched so hard it almost knocked the air out of me. She didn’t look up. Not even when I stepped closer. I sat down beside her without a word. Not touching. Not crowding. Just… being there. I hoped that would be enough to start.

And then I told her the truth. That I was sorry. That I shouldn’t have said it. That I’d messed up. And when she started crying—really crying—something broke open in me.

Because she believed it was her fault.

She thought she ruined everything.

And I hated that. Hated that she was sitting there, tearing herself apart, convinced that I could stop loving her just because we fought. Just because she said something ugly. Just because she needed space and didn’t know how to ask for it without burning the whole room down.

But I’m not leaving. She can set fire to every word between us and I’ll still be here, covered in ash, holding out my hand.

Because I love her. Because that’s what you do when someone’s yours. When they’re your family. When they’re your whole damn heart.

I said it again and again, in as many ways as I could. I told her we’re allowed to fight. That I’ll always love her. That one moment—one awful sentence—doesn’t undo everything that came before.

She shook her head like she didn’t believe it. Said I should hate her. That she ruined everything between us. And I swear, if I could have taken every lie her head told her and wrung it out like poison, I would’ve.

Because no, she hadn’t ruined anything. She just made a mistake. The way scared people do. The way kids do, when they’ve spent too long learning to tiptoe around love like it might shatter.

And when she said she didn’t understand why I stayed, why I loved her even when she made things harder—I wanted to tell her everything. About how loving her isn’t hard. About how she saved me, too. About how I don’t care how many times she breaks, as long as I get to be there to help her put the pieces back.

But I didn’t say all that. I just said what mattered.

Because I love you. And that means I’m here. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.

And she looked away, eyes full of disbelief, and whispered, I’m not easy to love.

That broke me.

Because she is easy to love. So easy it feels instinctive—like breathing, like blinking. She’s stubborn and chaotic and far too curious for her own good, but none of that makes her hard to love. It makes her her.

She’s easy to love because she tries so hard. Because she feels everything deeply. Because she’s loyal in a way most people never learn to be. Because she still finds reasons to smile even when the world gives her none.

The only reason she believes she’s hard to love is because the person who should’ve loved her first taught her that she had to earn it. That she had to be quiet, or careful, or perfect.

But that’s not love. Not real love.

Real love is what I feel every time she walks into the room. Every time she curls up next to me like she still believes I’m safe. Every time she looks at me and I see that same fire still burning behind her eyes, even after everything.

She doesn’t have to be anything but herself.

So I reached out. I tilted her face up gently, and I made her look at me. Because I needed her to see—in my eyes, in my voice, in my hands—that I wasn’t going anywhere. That nothing she said or did would change what she means to me.

When she finally reached for me—awkward and clumsy with that arm still in a sling—I didn’t hesitate.

I never do.

I pulled her into me, tiger and all. I wrapped my arms around her like she might fall apart without it. Maybe I did too. I buried my face in her hair, and she buried hers in my shoulder, and everything else—every fight, every word, every sharp edge—melted between us.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered.

She’s asleep now. Or close to it. Breathing slow and deep against my chest, one hand curled tight in the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

The tiger’s squished somewhere between us—limb caught under her arm, his little plastic eye staring up at my chin like he’s in on the moment. Like he’s always been part of this deal.

I lie still, one arm around her shoulders, the other drawing light shapes on her back. Tiny sun. Smiley face. A flower with too many petals. A crooked little star.

Stars were always her favorite.

When we were younger, she’d ask for the whole sky. “Draw the stars, Peeta. All of them.” And I would. Every time. I’d trace them across her back, shoulder to shoulder, until her breathing slowed and her hands unclenched and the storm in her head passed. It was the only way she could sleep sometimes. Not lullabies. Not stories. Just the weight of my hand and stars she couldn’t see.

And now—here we are again.

Her head is tucked under my chin, one arm flopped across my ribs, one of her legs half off the couch like always—like she owns every inch of me and knows it. Like nothing ever happened.

But it did.

And I don’t know how she’s still curled up on my chest like this. I thought she’d never trust me again. Not after I said terrible things to her. Not after I did the one thing I swore I never would.

I walked away. I left her.

I never did that before. Not when we were little. Not ever. Because I always knew how she was built. I knew how fast her thoughts spiraled if no one caught them. How guilt could swallow her whole before anyone else realized something was wrong. I always made sure I was there first—to catch her, calm her, sit beside her on the stairs and draw the whole damn sky until she believed the world wasn’t ending.

That was my biggest fear when I got reaped.

Not the Games. Not dying. Not pain. Not even the fear.

It was her. Leaving her.

Knowing she’d be stuck in that house with our mother. That no one would be there to trace stars on her back. That she’d sit in the dark and spiral and think it was her fault I was gone. That she’d watch me die on a screen and carry that weight forever.

I told Rye to protect her. I made him promise.

And when I came back—when I saw her on Rye’s shoulders at the train station, arms around his neck, like it was the only place she felt safe—I knew he had. I saw it in the way he carried her, the way she trusted him. I was so relieved I almost couldn’t breathe.

Because she hadn’t been alone through all of it.

But today… she was. Because I walked away.

I left her standing in that doorway, clutching her tiger like it was the only thing keeping her upright. I let my anger win. I turned my back and took the stairs one by one and shut the door and didn’t come back. And she sat there. Curled up. Crying. Thinking she broke something between us. Thinking it was her fault.

I’ll never forgive myself for that.

I shift a little, adjusting the blanket over both of us, careful not to wake her. My hand keeps tracing—slow and steady. Another star. Another.

She’s still here. Still curled into me like she always did when the nightmares got too loud. She still thinks I’m safe. Still trusts me enough to fall asleep on my chest, even after all of this.

I tighten my arm around her just a little. Not enough to wake her. Just enough so she knows I’m not going anywhere. She shifts on my chest, breathing slow and steady. Her hand tightens on the front of my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to me, and then—there it is.

Her nose wrinkles.

It’s the smallest thing. Barely even a movement. But I notice it. I always do. She’s done it for as long as I can remember—right before sleep takes her. Like some last little protest against rest. Like she wants the world to know she’s not letting go easily.

She did that the first time I ever saw her.

I was five years old when my father knelt down in front of me. Back then, he was the coolest person I knew—his words were law, his stories were truth. He rested his big hands on my shoulders and said, “Your mother’s pregnant.”

I didn’t really know what that meant. Not exactly. Just that things were changing. That someone new was coming.

My older brothers didn’t care much for me back then. I was too small, too quiet, never fast enough to keep up or old enough to be in on their jokes. But the thought of a new sibling—my sibling—that meant everything. Someone who might choose me. Someone who’d be mine.

My mother never talked about it. Never touched her belly, never smiled about what was coming. It was like it was just one more thing she had to carry. Another burden to survive.

But my father did. He talked about names. Scribbled them in the corners of his recipe book, tested them out while humming old lullabies he barely remembered. He said he hoped it’d be a girl. Said every boy needs a little sister—that she’d bring light into the house. That she’d soften things.

That was all I needed to hear.

Every day after school I’d burst through the bakery door and ask, “Is she here yet?” And he’d laugh and ruffle my hair and say, “You don’t even know if it’s a girl yet.”

But I did know. I don’t know how—I just did.

And then one day, it happened.

Early spring. Too warm for the time of year. The kind of day that makes you feel like something’s waking up. I came home and the house felt different. Not the usual brittle tension. It was quiet, but soft—like the silence was full of something.

My mother wasn’t around. Probably already off somewhere, pretending it hadn’t happened. But my father was standing in the living room, holding a bundle wrapped in one of my grandmother’s old quilts. She was there too, sitting on the couch.

My father smiled when he saw me, and I remember running over—so eager, I almost tripped on the rug. My grandmother pulled me gently onto the couch beside her, and my dad knelt down again—just like he had that day months before—but this time, he didn’t say anything. He just placed the bundle in my arms.

And there she was.

Briella.

So small. Wrinkled. Soft. Her whole face scrunched up, her nose wrinkling just like it does now, like even then she wanted to push the world away.

And I remember thinking, even at five years old—

You’re mine.

Not in the way you own something. In the way you promise to protect it. In the way your chest expands around a truth that’s bigger than you. In the way you know, deep down—

This one changes everything.

From that moment on, we were inseparable. I wanted to be wherever she was. I asked if I could take her to school with me—told my dad I’d hold her the whole way and everything. He just chuckled and said no, not yet. I remember being disappointed. I wanted her beside me right away, like maybe if I could just carry her around, nothing bad would ever touch her.

But it wasn’t the end of the world. 

Our mother didn’t want to stay home with a newborn. Said she had work to do. Said the bakery couldn’t run itself. So she went back almost immediately, like nothing had changed. And someone had to watch Briella. That someone was Grandma. My dad’s mom. Fierce and kind and always a little bit magical.

And that’s when everything shifted.

Because I already went to Grandma’s after school. I was too little to be useful at the bakery—couldn’t reach the counters, too clumsy to frost cakes without knocking them over. So every afternoon, I walked through her front door, and everything in me just… relaxed.

Her house was small, but it never felt cramped. It always smelled like tea and fresh bread, and there were so many blankets piled on the old couch it felt like sinking into a nest. The light came in warmer through her windows, like even the sun knew to be gentle there. It was my favorite part of the day—walking in, hearing the kettle whistling, and my grandmother already calling out, “There’s my boy.”

She’d make me something to eat, ask me about school, then sit beside me and play her old guitar. She tried to teach me a few times, but I never could quite get it. My fingers didn’t move the way hers did. But I liked watching. I liked the music.

And now, Briella would be there too. The place that already felt like home to me would be hers too. I hadn’t even known to hope for that. But suddenly I had more than a baby sister—I had a baby sister at Grandma’s. Safe. Close. In that sunlit little house where nothing ever hurt.

Every morning, my grandmother would walk to the bakery, wrap Briella up in that long scarf sling she wore across her chest, and come find me. She’d take my hand and walk me to school. Our brothers always walked ahead, too proud to be seen holding her hand—but I never let go. Not once.

When we reached the school steps, she’d always crouch down so I could say goodbye to Briella. I’d lean in close and whisper the same thing every morning:

“Don’t forget about me while I’m gone.”

I really believed she might. That she’d grow and change in the hours I was away, and forget who I was.

My grandmother always smiled and said the same thing back, her voice soft and sure:

“She couldn’t if she tried.”

After school, I’d run all the way to her house. My backpack thudding against my back, my shoes hitting the cobblestones too hard. I’d burst through the front door, and without missing a beat, Grandma would say, “She’s sleeping in the back.”

And I’d tiptoe through the house like I could actually be quiet with that much excitement buzzing in my chest. She always napped in the crib beside my grandmother’s bed. I’d climb onto the edge of the mattress, sit cross-legged, and just… watch her. She didn’t do much. Slept. Fidgeted. Sighed in her sleep. But to me, it was all magical. Every stretch of her tiny arms, every flutter of her eyelids felt like watching a miracle happen. And maybe I imagined it, but every time I came into the room, her little fists would tighten. Like she knew I was there. Like she could feel it.

I never let her out of my sight.

I wanted to see everything. Every time she opened those big blue eyes. Every time she rolled over. Every time she made a new sound. When she started crawling, I’d sit on the floor for hours just moving around a little, watching her chase me down with those unsteady little limbs.

And then she started walking.

She had the same idea I did. She never let me out of her sight. Wherever I went, she followed—trailing after me on those stubby legs, barely able to keep up. But she didn’t care. She was persistent, even then.

And then one afternoon, she said her first word. I remember it so clearly it feels like yesterday. I was sitting on the couch at Grandma’s, chewing on a piece of bread, just waiting for Briella to wake up like I always did. The bedroom door creaked open a little, and then I saw my grandmother come out holding her. Briella was tucked against her chest, half-asleep, one fist rubbing her eyes, cheeks flushed from her nap.

But then she looked up. And the second she saw me, her whole face changed—like someone flipped a switch. Her eyes lit up, and she let out this soft, breathy sound of recognition. Grandma smiled and carried her over, then gently set her down on the floor. She made her way over to me, clumsy and adorable, and then stopped right in front of my knees.

And then she said it.

“Peeta.”

I froze.

At first, I thought I imagined it. That I just wanted it so badly my brain made it up. But then she did it again. Raised one chubby little finger and pointed at me.

“Peeta.”

My chest just about cracked open.

I looked over at Grandma, wide-eyed, like I needed someone else to confirm it was real. But she was already smiling. That quiet, knowing smile of hers.

“She knows who her person is,” she said.

And I knew she was right. She was mine. And I was hers. Not because we said so. Not because someone told us to be close. Because something in her, something small and stubborn and bright, reached for something in me—and I never stopped reaching back.

And now here she is. Lying on my chest, hand fisted in my shirt like she still remembers. Like she still knows who her person is.

Once she started talking, she never really stopped. It was like she’d been saving up every word she’d ever heard—storing them somewhere behind those big blue eyes—just waiting until her mouth could catch up. And once it did, there was no slowing her down.

Didn’t matter what she was saying. It didn’t even have to make sense. She just needed to talk. Needed to fill the silence like it made her itchy. Like quiet was something she didn’t quite trust yet. She’d trail behind me through the house, narrating everything we did. What color the sky was. What the cat across the street looked like. How many buttons were on my shirt. If I so much as looked at a piece of bread funny, she’d ask if it was my favourite and if I wanted to name it.

I didn’t mind. I never minded.

Most kids her age talked in fits and starts. But not Briella. She talked like she was trying to connect something. Like she thought if she stopped talking, the thread between her and the world might snap. So she just… kept going. Little stories. Big questions. Half-remembered songs. Dreams she’d had. Things she wanted to do tomorrow. Things she definitely didn’t want to eat for dinner.

I’d sit beside her on the floor and just nod. Or hum. Or add a sentence here and there when she paused to breathe. It wasn’t about the conversation—it was about her voice finding its place in the world.

And even then, I think I knew—words were going to be her armor. Her deflection. Her tether. The thing she used to reach out when everything else felt too sharp. She was this little firecracker of sound in a house that spent too long holding its breath. And I was just grateful to be the one she talked to.

Then she realized that I liked to talk too—and that was a whole new story.

She’d ask me these questions, completely out of nowhere. Most of the time they didn’t make any sense. Half the time there wasn’t even an answer. But she expected one, so I always found a way to give her something.

“Do you think clouds get lonely when they’re not touching?”

I told her no, they probably like the space sometimes. Everyone needs a little breathing room, even clouds. She squinted at the sky for a long time after that like she was trying to see if they agreed.

“If you had to eat one thing forever, but it couldn’t be bread, what would it be?”

I said peaches. She scrunched her nose and said that was a terrible choice, because the fuzz feels weird and they go bad too fast. I told her she asked my opinion, not for the best answer. She accepted that. Barely.

“Do you think bees talk to each other?”

I told her they definitely did—that’s how they all found the same flower. “They probably gossip too. Like, ‘Did you see how much pollen she took? Greedy.’”

It never mattered what I said. She’d nod like I’d just revealed the secrets of the universe. Like every word I spoke had weight.

She’d ask me about my day, too—not just how it was, but every little detail like it mattered. If I was telling a story about something my teacher said, she’d want to know what their name was. What color their shirt was. Whether they wore glasses. What they were eating. What the classroom smelled like.

At first, I just made it up. Said whatever came to mind, because there was no way I remembered all of that. But after a while… I started paying attention. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to be able to tell her. I’d sit in class and notice things I never used to. A chipped mug on the teacher’s desk. The way the janitor always hummed the same song. The shape of a chalk smudge on the back of someone’s sweater. The colour of Katniss’ hair tie.

I started tucking those little things away—storing them like puzzle pieces—just in case Briella asked. And most of the time, she did. And every time, she listened like it mattered.

She acted like every word out of my mouth was special. Like I was special. Nothing made me feel better than when she was around. The way she’d tug on the hem of my apron while I was working in the kitchen—just this tiny little insistent pull—and I’d glance down, and she’d be standing there with her big blue eyes blinking up at me like, Can I watch?

And I always let her.

Didn’t matter if I was kneading dough or shaping rolls or elbow-deep in batter—I’d lift her up and set her on the counter and let her watch. And the way she’d look at me while I worked, like I was doing something important, like I was some kind of magician instead of a tired kid in a flour-dusted apron—it made everything feel lighter. Sometimes I’d give her scraps to play with. Sometimes I’d sneak her a sugar cube or let her lick the spoon if no one was watching.

She’d light up every time.

And at night, back when we still shared a room, she’d slip into my bed like it was nothing. Like she knew that’s where she belonged. Her little hand would reach for mine in the dark, or her head would tuck under my chin, and I’d fall asleep faster with her there every time.

She always made the world feel softer. Lighter. Even when nothing else did.

She had this laugh, too—sharp and sudden, like she surprised herself every time it came out. It would echo through the house, through the bakery, and I swear even the bread would rise a little happier those days.

She’d sit on the floor while I did chores, her arms wrapped around her knees, asking a hundred questions about what I was doing. If I was icing cupcakes, she wanted to know what every color was made of. If I was rolling dough, she’d try to copy me with little fistfuls of flour. She was always covered in it—white streaks on her cheeks, in her hair, up her sleeves—and she never seemed to notice.

And sometimes, when the bakery was slow, I’d draw. We didn’t have real art supplies—just scrap paper and broken charcoal pencils for taking down orders that turned your hands black—but I liked it. It gave my mind somewhere to go. One afternoon, I was sketching something on the back of a receipt, not thinking much of it, when I felt that tug on my apron again. I picked her up and set her down next to me, and she leaned over the counter to look. She asked me to draw more. I told her we didn’t have any more paper. But she didn’t accept that—she never took no for an answer. She climbed off the counter and disappeared for a bit, then came back with a whole stack of random paper—napkins, cookie bags, anything blank she could find. She dumped them on the counter in front of me and said, very seriously, “Draw.”

So I did.

She sat beside me, calling out requests. Cats. Trees. The sun with a smiley face. I’d draw each one, and she’d take them and study them like she this tiny little art critic. She never judged them harshly—honestly, I could’ve scribbled a stick figure and she would’ve clapped. She only let me stop when a customer came in, the second the front door shut behind them, she’d pick up right where she left off—tilting her head, tapping the counter, telling me what to draw next like I hadn’t even paused. And I always listened to her. I think I’ve always listened to her—ever since she was a three-foot-tall dictator with scraped knees and a mop of orange curls, bossing me around like she was in charge of the whole world. Because if me doing what she asked made her happy, then why wouldn’t I?

She could be a pain, though. Stubborn as anything. Always talking, always climbing into or under or on something she shouldn’t be. Loud in a house that didn’t like loud. Emotional in a family that didn’t know what to do with emotion. She could argue her way through anything—even when she was five and had chocolate all over her mouth, she’d swear she didn’t eat the cookie. And I loved her for it. Because she was fiery, and bright, and unbreakable. The only thing that made everything around us feel bearable.

But our mother never saw that.

I think she hated Briella more than the rest of us. I don’t know if it was something about Briella specifically, or just the fact that she refused to break the way our mother needed her to. She was too loud, too sensitive, too alive. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t swallow things the way I did. She asked why things were unfair instead of just taking them. And our mother hated her for it.

You could see it in every look she gave her. Every time Briella opened her mouth, her voice would go sharp. Every movement became something to criticize—her handwriting, the way she sat, the way she was. And that made me so angry, because how could anyone look at her and choose to be cruel?

That’s why I always stepped in. I couldn’t stand to see her get hurt. Even as a baby, when she’d cry, something in me couldn’t bear it. Not because it was loud or annoying—because it hurt. I had this bone-deep need to make it stop. To fix it, to make her smile again. Even though I was just a kid myself and couldn’t do anything but sit there and rock the cradle and whisper soft little nothings until she settled again. And when she got older, and it was our mother making her cry, I did what I had to. I came up with excuses. I lied.

That’s probably why I got so good at it—not for myself, but for her. I learned what kinds of lies worked, how to sound convincing without sounding smug, how to look guilty just enough to sell it. And when the lies stopped working, I took the blame. Took the hits. Gladly. I would’ve taken a hundred if it meant she didn’t have to.

But sometimes I didn’t make it in time. Sometimes I failed. And when she was the one who got hurt, it broke me. Because she didn’t deserve it. None of us did. But especially not her. And even when I was the one bruised, the one in pain, she’d cry for me. She didn’t understand it. She just saw me hurting and couldn’t handle it. And even through the pain, I’d find a way to comfort her. Because she mattered more.

There was one time—she must’ve been four, maybe not even—and she was curled up in my lap after our mother had screamed at her for something stupid. Her little cheeks were red, her eyes all puffy, and she looked up at me and asked, “Was I bad?”

And I didn’t know how to answer. Not in a way that would make sense to her. Because no—she wasn’t bad. The world around her was. The way people treated her was. The way love was withheld like punishment—that was what was wrong. But how do you explain that to a kid who just wanted to know why the person who was supposed to love her most seemed to hate her?

And the worst part is—it worked.

This morning, when I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, not because of one harsh word, not because of one bad moment—she looked up at me and said “Really?” Like it was something she honestly couldn’t believe. Like she was bracing for the other shoe to drop. And it wrecked me.

After everything—after all the nights on this couch, all the sleepy braids, all the tiger jokes and clumsy hugs and quiet reassurances—she still doesn’t think she’s safe. Not really. She still thinks she has to earn love. That if she’s not careful, not perfect, it’ll disappear. That if she messes up—if she snaps, if she cries, if she needs too much—then even I might leave. She still thinks she has to be polite. Or unbreakable. Or useful. That love only comes if you behave the right way. That softness is a trick. That it fades when you’re no longer convenient.

Our mother finally pushed her too far. She did what she always wanted to do—put out that fire. Not all the way. Briella’s still stubborn. She still bosses me around like she runs the place. But the light’s dimmer. That shine she had when she was little, that spark that used to pour out of her in nonstop questions and ridiculous stories—it’s quieter now. Fainter. She second-guesses herself before she speaks. She watches people’s faces too closely. She doesn’t ramble as much. And when she does, sometimes she cuts herself off halfway through like she’s afraid she’s being annoying.

I see all of it.

I know what our mother did to her. I know how many times she’s had to shrink herself just to survive a room. I know how many times she flinched at a voice raised too loud, or a hand moving too fast. How many times she looked around and realized no one was going to stop it—so she stopped it herself, by being quieter, smaller, more agreeable. I know the way she was taught—again and again—that love comes with a price. That safety is something you earn. That it can be taken away the second you stop being perfect.

She learned that from the woman who raised her.

And no matter how many times I hold her now, how many stars I trace on her back, how many times I whisper “I’ve got you,” part of her still doesn’t believe I always will.

And that kills me.

Because she deserves more than this world has ever given her. Because I’d love her if she was loud forever. If she made every room messier. If she needed to be held every night for the rest of her life. If she never said a single brave thing again. She wouldn’t have to earn a thing.

I love her so much it terrifies me sometimes.

And not just in the way people mean when they say that. It’s not soft and easy all the time. It’s not just sweet moments and sleepy cuddles and laughter in the kitchen. It’s messy. It’s sharp. It’s protective to the point of panic. It’s staying up all night just to watch her chest rise and fall, like if I stop looking, she’ll disappear. It’s memorizing the shapes of her bruises before they fade. It’s hearing my mother’s voice in her screams. It’s holding her while she cries and feeling like my ribs are going to crack from how hard I’m wishing I could take it from her.

It’s carrying everything I can, even when I’m drowning in my own weight.

And it’s knowing—really knowing—that she’d never ask me to. That even now, she still thinks she has to do it alone. Still thinks she’s a burden. Still thinks love is something fragile. Like she has to hold her breath to keep it.

Sometimes I think about what it must’ve been like for her. Sitting in that house, watching it all happen on a screen. Not knowing if I’d live through the next hour. Watching me bleed, watching me nearly die, over and over again. She would’ve seen the tracker jackers. The sword wound. The mutts at the end. She would’ve heard the cannon every time and wondered if it was mine. I know her—she would’ve waited for each face to flash across the sky with her breath held, hands clenched. Eleven years old and forced to watch her brother fight for his life while the entire country cheered.

And I think about the reverse, more often than I should. What if it had been her. What if they’d called her name instead of mine. What if I’d had to stand there in that square and watch them pull her up onto that stage with her hair in braids and that look in her eyes that says she’s trying not to cry. What if I’d had to watch them take her, put her on a train, dress her up and drag her into the arena and make a show out of her final days?

I wouldn’t have survived it. Not one second.

Before I ever went into that arena, I already knew the Games were horrible. I’d watched enough of them—enough reruns, enough Capitol specials—to know Briella would never make it out. I didn’t even think I would. But I had a plan. If her name ever got called, I’d volunteer—not to take her place like Katniss did for Prim—but just so I could be there. So she wouldn’t die alone. So I could at least try to protect her. Even if I failed. Even if I couldn’t stop it. I could’ve drawn shapes on her back. I could’ve held her when the fear got too loud. I could’ve made sure her last moments weren’t the worst of her life.

It was only ever a short-term plan. There were only two years where we’d be eligible at the same time. After that, she’d be on her own. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… and I wouldn’t be able to help her.

But now? Now it’ll never work. I’m a Victor. A mentor. Next year will be her first reaping. And if they call her name, I won’t be allowed to step forward. I’ll be trapped in a suit, stuck on stage while they walk her out. I’ll have to sit at a table and try to give her advice like it means something. Like there’s anything I could say that would matter. Then I’d have to watch her train. Watch her fight. Watch her die.

And worst of all—I’ll have to smile. I’ll have to pretend.

Pretend like nothing happened. Pretend for the interviews. Pretend for the sponsors. Laugh at Caesar’s jokes and mingle with Capitolites while my sister—my baby sister—is out there in that place I barely escaped from. I’ll have to listen to people talk about her odds like she’s not a person. I’ll have to hear the crowd gasp when the Careers chase her down, hear them cheer when they corner her. And I’ll have to smile through it.

She won’t ever have to take tesserae. I’ve made sure of that. But neither did I. My name was in there five times out of thousands, and they still pulled it. Prim’s name was in once. Once. And they still picked her.

I don’t know if the reapings are rigged. But I’ve seen it before—Victors’ children getting picked. Siblings. It makes good drama. It keeps the Capitol buzzing. They like a story. They like the irony.

If they pick her, I won’t survive it. I won’t.

I already wake up in a sweat most nights just imagining it. Just the thought of her being sent to that place—of her face on that screen, scared and alone and trying to be brave—I can’t breathe. I know what would happen. It wouldn’t be quick. It wouldn’t be kind. The Gamemakers would want a spectacle. And the Careers… they’d be worse. They taunted Katniss just for getting an eleven in training. Imagine what they’d do to the little sister of a victor. The little girl with curls and wide blue eyes and a tiger she still sleeps with.

They’d eat her alive. They’d turn it into a game of their own. Taunt her. Break her.

And I wouldn’t be able to stop it.

I look down at her again. Her hand’s fisted in my shirt, like letting go would mean falling. She’s holding on like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I adjust slightly, wrapping my arm more tightly around her—and that’s when I feel it.

The cast.

Hard plaster where there should be warm skin. Where I should feel her soft little hand.

And I hate it—I hate that she has to walk around with this stupid thing, a constant reminder of what happened. That even though she got help, she’s still not healed.

But even with all that, I’m more grateful than anything that she got help. That they fixed her hand. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if she never got to use it again, the same way I never got to use my leg again.

What if they hadn’t approved the trip? What if Mom had done this a year earlier—before I became a Victor, before I was important enough to matter? What if this happens to another little girl in 12 and no one helps her? What if she just has to learn how to live with one hand?

I hate all of this.

Not her—never her. I hate the world that’s done this to her. I hate the way she flinches at raised voices. The way she apologizes for taking up space. The way she shakes when she cries and doesn’t try to stop because she’s learned it doesn’t help.

She shouldn’t have to live like this. She shouldn’t have to live in a world where being a child means being scared all the time. Where home is something you survive instead of something that makes you feel safe. She shouldn’t have to live in a world where your mother hits you for making mistakes and pretends you deserved it.

She shouldn’t have had to sit in that living room and watch her brother bleed out on television. She shouldn’t have had to hear the cannon and wonder if it was mine. She shouldn’t have had to memorize my face in case she never saw it again.

And she definitely shouldn’t have to live in fear that the same thing will happen to her.

That she might hear her name called, walk up onto that stage, and know with complete certainty that it’s over. That she’s been handed a death sentence by people who will never know her. Who will never care.

She shouldn’t have to live in a country where children are turned into entertainment. Where bravery means dying young. Where the only way to be safe is to smile through pain and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

She deserves more than this. She deserves everything the world refused to give her—safety, softness, someone who stays. She deserves to fall asleep without clinging to me like I’m the last thing keeping her above water. To cry without feeling like she has to apologize for it. To exist without being punished for the way she feels.

And I swear, if I could give her that—if I could build a world where she could just be—I would. I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I glance down at her again, then up at the clock on the wall. Just past nine.

Of course.

She always falls asleep early. Even when she was little, she was full of so much energy all day long, never sitting still for more than a few minutes. So by the time bedtime rolled around, all the day’s movement would catch up with her. She’d resist it at first, insisting she wasn’t tired, but her steps would slow and her voice would soften. I’d help her get ready for bed—brushing her hair, pulling on pajamas—and she’d lean into me, finally giving in to the quiet pull of exhaustion, curling up close and letting herself rest.

Now she doesn’t do as much—not with one arm in a sling and a body still healing—but she’s still always moving. Still full of all that quiet, stubborn energy, like her body never quite knows how to rest.

I should probably wake her up. She’ll want to sleep in a real bed if she’s serious about going into the woods tomorrow. I don’t need her being grumpy the whole time. The woods don’t need two people scowling their way through the trees—Katniss already has that covered.

And if I’m being honest, I hate sleeping on the couch. I always wake up with a knot in my back and a crick in my neck that takes half the morning to work out. And my leg? Forget it. I can never reach down to take it off properly with her sprawled across me like this, so I just sleep with it on—and pay the price.

But I hate waking her up. Always have.

Back when we both had to be up before sunrise to knead dough, it used to be the worst part of my morning—looking over at her in her little bed, tangled in all those blankets, her curls spread across the pillow, and knowing I had to be the one to pull her from it. But I always made sure I was the one to do it. At least if it was me, she’d wake up groggy and scowling, not with bruises and our mother screaming at her for being lazy. That was always the trade-off—peace for a little morning annoyance.

Now there’s less at stake. So most nights, I just let her sleep and sacrifice my back for the cause. But if I stay here tonight, I’ll never fall asleep in time—and worse, I might not wake her up in time. Then she’ll be late for Katniss and the woods, and she’ll never let me hear the end of it. Not to mention, I should get her arm out of that sling before bed. It always hurts her shoulder when she sleeps in it.

So yeah, I should get up. I should make sure she gets proper sleep in a proper bed.

But seeing her like this stirs up another memory. This is exactly how she used to lie on me when she was a baby.

Back then, I was still small myself. Too young to carry her around for long—my arms would get tired fast, and half the time I didn’t even know how to hold her right. So my grandmother used to lay me on the couch and settle Briella on my chest instead. Said it was good for both of us.

I’d lie there for hours, barely breathing because I didn’t want to wake her. I’d watch the way her cheek squished into my shirt. The way her lips parted slightly in sleep. The way her tiny fingers would twitch in the air until they found mine—and then she’d just hold on.

She’d fall asleep like that. And I never wanted to move. She doesn’t remember that now. I don’t think she could. But it’s the same thing she does even now—still climbs onto my chest like this, still finds my hand in the quiet. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

She has no idea how far this goes. How many versions of her I’ve held like this. She doesn’t know how much it means that she still feels safe here. That after everything—after the hospital, after the bakery, after this morning—she still trusts me enough to come back to this place. To settle into my arms like no time has passed. Like we never left that little house that smelled like bread and tea.

She has no idea that this is the only place in the world where I ever really feel like myself. And I’ll never tell her. I’ll just keep holding her. Quiet. Steady. Like I always have.

Eventually, I sigh and glance down at her again. I shift slightly and give her shoulder a gentle shake. “C’mon, sunshine. Time to go upstairs.”

She lets out the tiniest groan and curls tighter into my chest, like she thinks if she ignores me long enough, I’ll give in and let her stay. Classic move.

I nudge her again, a little more insistently this time. “Ellie. Don’t make me start singing.”

Another groan, deeper now. She buries her face in my shirt like that’ll save her.

“Alright,” I mutter, grinning despite myself, “you’ve got five seconds before I start tickling you.”

That gets her. With a final, exasperated breath, she groans, “Fine.”

She pushes herself upright and scoots to the other end of the couch, slow and scowling. She rubs her eye with the back of her good hand—same as she’s done since she was three. That sleepy, rumpled look, curls wild and eyes half-shut. Grumpy like always.

And still my girl.

Update: I found this on pinterest and I just had to add it. Baby Peeta watching baby Briella sleep at grandmas house.

Chapter Text

The house smells like cinnamon and something else warm—like comfort baked into the walls. The kitchen’s still messy, but neither of us has moved to clean it. Not yet. We’re both hovering by the front closet now, trying to solve what Peeta calls “The Great Jacket Crisis.”

I only have one. It’s thick and worn and smells faintly like flour from last year’s deliveries. But with the sling on, I can’t zip it up. I tried. The zipper caught on the edge of the cast and then snagged the fabric, and I nearly fell over trying to yank it off. So now Peeta’s digging through the closet like it’s a treasure chest, mumbling to himself about fleece linings and sleeve length while I stand awkwardly nearby, still holding the tiger in one arm.

He pulls out a jacket and holds it up. It’s clearly one of his—dark blue and far too big, with a frayed cuff and a slightly crooked button at the top.

“This one’s warm,” he says, giving it a little shake like that’s going to prove something.

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s massive.”

He shrugs. “It’s called layering.”

“It’s called drowning.”

He rolls his eyes and hands it to me anyway. I try to wiggle it on one-handed, the tiger squished between my elbow and my side, but I fumble with the sleeve and end up getting stuck halfway. Peeta sighs like I’m the most exhausting person alive, then steps forward to help.

“Hold still,” he mutters, reaching out to tug the fabric over my arm.

“You’re the one who gave me a parachute,” I grumble.

He doesn’t respond, just pulls the jacket into place with practiced gentleness, careful not to jostle my sling. Once it’s on, it really is too big. The hem falls halfway to my knees, and the sleeves completely swallow my hand.

Peeta steps back, surveying the look. “Okay, it’s a little big.”

“A little?” I lift my arm and the cuff flops dramatically.

He grins. “You look like a very small bakery burglar.”

“I hate it,” I declare, even though I kind of don’t. “Next.”

Peeta sighs like this is the hardest work he’s done all day and turns back to the closet. He shuffles through a few more jackets—one that smells like basement, one that has a mysterious tear in the armpit, and one that I swear used to belong to Rye and still has sawdust in the pocket. I try them all on anyway. Each one is worse than the last.

“This one’s stiff,” I complain, tugging at the sleeves of a scratchy brown coat.

“It’s canvas,” he says. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“It feels like wearing a wall.”

He groans and dramatically buries his head in the coats for a second. “I should’ve just let you freeze.”

“I’d rather freeze than look like a sad bread ghost,” I say, yanking off another one.

Then, finally, he pauses. Reaches toward the back. “Okay… this one’s a long shot.”

He pulls out a leather jacket—dark brown, clean-lined, with gold zippers and soft creases like it’s been touched maybe twice. He holds it up, a little uncertain.

I blink. “I’ve never seen you wear that before.”

Peeta smirks. “Because I never have. Effie sent it. Told me it would make me look ‘rugged.’”

I snort. “You?”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended. “I could be rugged.”

“You bake cinnamon buns.”

“Exactly,” he says, wagging the hanger. “Nothing says rugged like emotional availability and carbs.”

I roll my eyes, but he steps forward and helps me slide into the jacket. It’s still big, but not ridiculous. It fits better than the others—loose in the arms but warm, soft inside, and the sling doesn’t get in the way. When he zips it up halfway for me, it settles around my shoulders like maybe it was meant to be borrowed.

He steps back and eyes me critically. “Okay. You look… cooler than me.”

“I know,” I say smugly.

He zips the jacket up the rest of the way for me, careful around the sling. Then he steps back and smoothes out the shoulders, his hands lingering for a second like he’s still adjusting more than just the fabric.

“I don’t know,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Half the stuff I get from the Capitol… I don’t even recognize myself in it.”

I glance up at him, surprised. It’s not bitter, the way he says it. Just quiet. Like a thought he didn’t mean to let out. But I can’t let him sit in it. Not when I know better.

“I did,” I say gently. “Even when you were covered in fire.”

He blinks, meeting my eyes. There’s something like surprise there—like maybe he didn’t realize I heard him.

“In the chariot,” I go on, voice steady. “You looked… different. Shiny. Important. But it was still you. I could tell.”

He’s quiet for a long second. Then something in his face softens—like the edges he didn’t know were sharp have just eased. He doesn’t say thank you, and I don’t need him to. He just reaches up and tugs lightly at one corner of the jacket like he’s fixing something, but I think he just needs to move. To do something with his hands.

And for a moment, we both just stand there. Me in this too-big leather jacket. Him in that old hoodie with flour on the sleeve. And somehow, it feels like we’re both wearing exactly the right thing.

The front door creaks open without a knock—typical—and Rye steps inside, shaking a bit of flour off his sleeves. He’s halfway through brushing it from his hair when he glances up and stops short.

He blinks. Then squints. “Are you… wearing a leather jacket?”

Peeta steps aside like he’s proud of the display. “Compliments accepted.”

I strike a pose. “It’s vintage Capitol. Effie-chosen. Very exclusive.”

Rye stares at me, unimpressed. “You look like you lost a bet.”

“I had to find something that fits over my sling,” I explain, holding up my cast like it’s obvious.

His brow raises. “Why?”

I glance at Peeta, then back at Rye. “Because I’m going into the woods with Katniss tomorrow morning.”

He barks out a laugh—sharp and automatic. “Right. Sure you are.”

I don’t say anything.

Peeta doesn’t either.

Rye’s grin fades. “Wait…” He looks between us. “You’re serious?”

I nod. “Six o’clock sharp. No pyjamas. Sturdy boots.”

He blinks again, like he’s trying to compute the words. “You’re going into the woods. With Katniss.”

“Yep.”

“In that jacket.”

Peeta crosses his arms. “It’s rugged.”

Rye gives him a look. “It’s ridiculous.”

I grin. “That’s what makes it perfect.”

Rye shakes his head, still staring at me like the jacket’s playing a trick on his eyes. “You’re seriously doing this?”

“She’s already talked to Katniss,” Peeta says. “It’s happening.”

That just makes Rye whip toward him. “And you think this is a good idea?”

Peeta doesn’t flinch. “I think it’s something she wants. And I trust Katniss.”

Rye scoffs. “You trust Katniss to take an eleven-year-old into the woods like it’s nothing? With a broken hand?”

“I trust her not to let anything happen.”

“Oh, great,” Rye says, throwing his hands up. “That’s comforting. She’ll keep you safe from a bear attack or a pack of wild dogs—awesome.”

Peeta stays calm, annoyingly so. “It’s not like they’re going on a camping trip. It’s just walking.”

Rye just stares at him. “Peeta. She has one hand.”

“I can still walk,” I cut in, defensive. “It’s not like—”

But he doesn’t even look at me. “Six a.m.?” he says to Peeta, incredulous. “It’s dark at six. You really think this is smart?”

Peeta shrugs, all nonchalance. “That’s the point. If it’s dark, the peacekeepers won’t see them leave.”

Rye lets out a frustrated noise, somewhere between a scoff and a groan.  “You know how this sounds, right? Sneaking out before dawn with a broken arm to go wander around the woods with Katniss Everdeen?”

“She’s not wandering,” Peeta says. “Katniss has a plan. You’ve seen her when she’s in that mode.”

“Yeah, and it’s terrifying,” Rye mutters. “She’s a walking weapon.”

“Exactly,” Peeta says, smiling slightly. “What better bodyguard?”

Rye gives him a look like he might actually lose it. “This isn’t funny, Peeta.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Peeta replies evenly. “You’re the one who laughed.”

“That was before I realized you weren’t kidding.”

Rye runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “She has one hand, Peeta.”

“I’m still right here,” I mumble.

But it doesn’t matter. Rye’s not listening. Not because he doesn’t care—because he cares too much. It’s all over his face, in the way his brows keep pinching together, in how his voice rises even when he’s trying to stay calm. He’s not mad. He’s scared.

And Peeta knows it. Which is probably why he keeps that maddening calm in his voice.

“She’s not going alone,” Peeta says. “And she’s not doing anything she can’t handle.”

“She can’t even zip up her own jacket right now.”

“That’s why I helped her,” Peeta says with a shrug. “Problem solved.”

Rye throws up his hands again, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

Peeta and I share a look—just a flicker of understanding between us, but it’s enough. And of course, Rye catches it.

His eyes narrow, mouth tightening. “You know what? I’m putting my foot down. I’m older than both of you. And if I say no, then it’s a no.”

I cross my arms—well, arm—and tilt my head. “Bannock’s older than all of us,” I point out sweetly. “So I’ll just ask him.”

Rye scoffs. “He won’t listen to you.”

“No, but Agnes will. And he has to listen to her. She’s his wife.”

Rye stutters for a second. “That’s—okay, no. That’s not how marriage works.”

“How would you know?” I ask, all innocence.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then snaps it shut again, his ears going slightly pink. Peeta snorts behind me.

“This isn’t funny,” Rye says sharply, whipping toward Peeta now.

Peeta raises both hands, still grinning. “It’s getting a little funny.”

“It’s not funny!” Rye says, voice pitching up, arms flailing a little now. “She’s got one hand! It’s still dark out! There are snakes, there are cliffs—”

“Cliffs?” Peeta lifts a brow, amused. “What cliffs?”

“I don’t know!” Rye exclaims. “I haven’t been out there! There could be cliffs!”

And it’s then—somewhere between the cliffs and the snakes and the completely made-up threats—that it clicks. He’s not angry. He’s scared. His voice isn’t sharp the way it is when he’s really mad. It’s tight. Uneven. Like he’s barely holding it together.

Because he cares.

The teasing slips off my face, and I step forward before I can think twice. I wrap my good arm around his waist and hug him tight, pressing my cheek into his side.

He freezes. “What are you doing.”

“Hugging you.”

“Stop it,” he says, reaching down like he’s going to pry me off. “You’re trying to distract me.”

I bury my face in his shirt. “You care.”

“I do not.”

“You care,” I say, dragging the word out with a grin.

“I don’t! I just—” He stammers, trying to twist away, but I hold on tighter. “I don’t want to have to follow you into the woods when you sprain your ankle or get scared of a bird.”

Peeta snorts behind me.

Rye glares at him. “You’re not helping.”

But I just squeeze him tighter. “You care,” I sing under my breath.

“Stop saying it like that.”

“You care.”

He groans, head tilting back like he’s asking the ceiling for strength. “Why is this my life?”

Peeta raises an eyebrow and grins. “You know, Rye, I’m starting to think this isn’t about the woods. It’s about the fact that she looks better in that jacket than you ever could.”

Rye throws a hand in the air. “Okay, first of all—rude. Second of all, this still isn’t a good idea! I mean it! She’s going to trip on a root and break her other arm, or get chased by a squirrel with a grudge or—”

The door opens again.

We all turn.

Prim steps inside and freezes mid-step when she sees me hugging Rye, my face pressed into his shirt and him standing there stiff as a board.

“Aww,” she says, dropping her bag onto the floor. “What’s this?”

Peeta smirks from where he’s still leaning against the wall. “She just convinced him to let her go into the woods.”

“No she did not,” Rye cuts in immediately, his voice borderline offended.

Prim doesn’t even seem to hear him. She looks at me, eyes wide. “Katniss said yes?”

I nod.

She squeals. “Briella!” She rushes over and throws her arms around both of us, joining the hug without hesitation.

Rye tenses all over again. “Peeta. Peeta, get them off of me.”

Peeta just shakes his head, smiling. “Nope. You got yourself into this.”

“I didn’t get myself into anything! I was ambushed!”

“You care,” I whisper smugly against his chest.

“I do not.”

“You dooo.”

“I will throw you both outside.”

“You care,” Prim chimes in, grinning like it’s the best thing she’s seen all week.

Rye looks to Peeta like he’s expecting backup, but Peeta’s already walking to the oven. “You’re on your own, man. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Rye groans dramatically. “Why is everyone in this house like this?”

But he still hasn’t pulled away. Not really.

Prim’s arms wrap tighter around us, and Rye lets out another groan, stiff as ever, mumbling something about being under attack. Peeta’s already back at the oven like this is all perfectly normal. And maybe it is. Maybe it will be.

I press my face deeper into Rye’s shirt, eyes closing. They don’t know. Neither of them. Not really. They don’t know that just a few hours ago, this door was locked. That I was curled up on the floor, shaking and crying and certain I’d ruined it all. That the one place that’s ever felt safe suddenly felt hollow.

And now I’m here. Wrapped up in this ridiculous, lopsided hug. Warm and squished and still sore in all the ways that matter—but I have this. I have them. And I don’t know how I got it back. But I did. And I’m not letting go.

Eventually, Rye pries us off. Grumbling the whole time, of course. He still doesn’t agree—he makes that very clear—but the fight’s gone out of him. He just mutters something about dragging a chair in front of the front door tonight, “just in case,” like he’s going to physically block me from leaving at six in the morning.

Prim laughs and tells him he’s ridiculous. He doesn’t deny it.

The rest of the afternoon settles into something easy. Lighter. Prim is even brighter than usual, which is saying something—she’s always buzzing with that soft, happy energy that makes it feel like the sun follows her around. But today, it’s more than that. It’s like she’s glowing.

She keeps talking about the woods, bouncing between stories and advice, telling me what to expect. She’s been out there a few times with Katniss—never far, never long. But she hated it. Said it scared her. That every time Katniss shot something, all she wanted to do was save it.

But she thinks I’ll be good at it.

I don’t know if she thinks I’m brave or just stubborn, but she’s… optimistic. She talks like she can already picture me out there—quiet and capable, moving through the trees like I’ve always belonged in them.

I think about that for a while—why she’s so happy. Why she’s so invested in all of this.

And then I remember what she said, back when she first brought it up. About how Katniss has been acting different lately. Distant. Like she’s slipping further away every day. Prim thinks this might help. That maybe if Katniss has someone to teach—someone who needs her—it’ll pull her back in.

That’s why she’s excited.

Because maybe, if this works, she gets her sister back.

And I don’t know what that’s like. Not really. I mean, sure, things weren’t exactly the same when Peeta came home. He had more shadows. More silences. But he was still him. He still made time. Still teased me with his stupid jokes. Still held me when the dreams got too loud.

Prim didn’t get that.

So maybe this isn’t just about the woods. Maybe it’s about something more. Something bigger than me.

So I’m going to try my hardest tomorrow. Not for me. Not for whatever dumb reasons I had at the start—some story from Grandma, or the fantasy of being someone tougher, braver, freer. That doesn’t matter anymore.

I’m doing it for Prim.

Because she’s helped me more times than I can count. She’s always been there—sitting with me when I couldn’t stop crying about the Games, brushing my hair when I was grumbling about something stupid. She never made me feel dramatic or like I was a burden. She’s stayed by my side through every mood, every spiral, every impossible part of me.

So now it’s my turn. I’m going to do this for her. Even if I don’t really know what I’m doing.

Because the truth is—I have no idea what to expect. People used to talk about the woods like they were haunted or cursed—like stepping past the tree line would swallow you whole. I think that’s what they wanted. Just stories to scare us into staying in line.

But Katniss has been going out there since she was a kid. And she’s okay. So maybe it’s not that bad.

Or maybe it is. And she’s just braver than I’ll ever be.

I don’t know. I don’t even know if she wants me there. She said yes, but maybe that was just to shut me up. Maybe she knew I’d keep asking, and it was easier to say yes now and let me fall apart later—use that as her excuse to never bring me again. Like, see, I tried, she couldn’t handle it.

I don’t think she likes me. Not really.

Not the way she likes Prim. Or even Peeta.

When I showed up on her porch, she looked at me like I was just… a problem. An interruption. Which, to be fair, I was. But it still stung.

I think about Rue sometimes. About how Katniss protected her in the arena. Took her in. Made her feel safe. But Rue reminded me of Prim. So she definitely reminded Katniss of Prim too. That softness wasn’t for just anyone. It was for someone.

Maybe I don’t deserve that. Katniss doesn’t owe me anything. I’m not her sister. I’m just the little sister of the boy she couldn’t love back. The one she had to hold hands with and kiss for cameras and lie next to in the dirt. That’s probably reason enough to keep her distance. I bet she thinks I’m gonna ask questions, dig into things, try to get some kind of answer out of her.

But I’m not. I won’t say a word about Peeta. Not one.

Tomorrow, I’ll prove to her that I’m serious. That I want to learn. That this isn’t about spying or clinging or making things weird. I won’t complain. I’ll ask questions—good ones. I’ll talk about Prim. She’ll want to talk about Prim.

And maybe, if I do everything right… maybe she’ll let me come again.

Maybe she’ll trust me.

The rest of the day passes in pieces. Prim stays. So does Rye, though he keeps pretending he doesn’t want to. He lingers in doorways, makes a show of being annoyed, but never actually leaves. He grumbles about how I’ve somehow tricked everyone in this house into losing their minds, how six a.m. is an unholy hour, how no eleven-year-old should be allowed to have this much influence. But he doesn’t storm off. He doesn’t even get up when Peeta teases him for the fifth time in a row. He just sighs dramatically and takes another bite of the cinnamon bun he said he didn’t want.

Prim still bright. She’s light and giddy and full of stories about the woods: about what the air smells like early in the morning, how the birds sound before the sun really rises. She talks fast, like if she says enough good things, maybe I won’t feel nervous anymore.

I smile and nod, but I’m not really all there.

Even when we’re all crowded around the table for dinner—Prim chattering beside me, Rye muttering about overcooked vegetables like he’s the district’s leading food critic, Peeta rolling his eyes with that soft smile he saves just for family—I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

They don’t notice. Not really. Prim’s too busy being excited, and Rye’s too busy pretending he isn’t scared.

But Peeta does. Of course he does. He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t ask or push or give me that big brother lecture I probably deserve. He just keeps glancing over when the conversation dips, catching the way I push food around my plate or go quiet halfway through a sentence. He sees it all—he always does.

And later, when the plates are cleared and the house is quiet again, he walks over to me by the sink and nudges my arm gently.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the couch. “You’ve got an early morning.”

I don’t argue. We don’t say much. Just sink into the cushions like we always do, his arm pulling me in close, my cast resting awkwardly against his chest. The blanket’s already there, warm from earlier. So is the tiger. It’s all familiar. Steady.

And as I press my head under Peeta’s chin, his heartbeat close and calm against my cheek, I try not to think about everything I have to prove tomorrow. I just breathe. Because for tonight, this is enough.

After a while, his voice breaks gently through the stillness.

“You nervous?”

I nod, just once. My head is already tucked under his chin, so he feels it more than sees it.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Doesn’t press or ask why. Just lets the silence settle again, like he knows I need it.

A few breaths later, he asks, “Excited?”

I think about it for a second.

About Prim’s glow and Rye’s grumbling and Katniss standing in the doorway, deciding—for some reason—that I was worth saying yes to. About the jacket, and the darkness, and the woods that might feel more like stories than anything real.

Then I nod again. Slower this time.

Peeta’s arms tighten just slightly around me, his hand smoothing down the back of my hair. “That’s a good mix,” he murmurs.

And somehow, it is.

At some point, I fall asleep. It’s not on purpose—I don’t even realize I’m drifting until I’m already gone. But being near Peeta, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his arms around me—it always does this. It always has. There’s something about him that quiets my body, makes it safe to rest. Even when my thoughts won’t stop, even when nothing else makes sense—he does.

I don’t know how long I’m out. But eventually, I feel his hand gently shake my shoulder.

“C’mon, sunshine,” he says softly. “Time to go upstairs.”

He’s right, obviously. My neck hurts, and the couch is never as comfortable as I think it’ll be. But I still grumble a little as I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

He stands and waits for me, like always. Doesn’t rush me. Just offers his hand when I’m finally upright.

We head upstairs together, quiet. It’s late enough that the house feels hushed in that deep, soft way it only does at night. And when we reach the hallway, I don’t hesitate. I follow him into his room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is. Because I don’t have to choose. I can have the woods. And I can have him. I don’t need to pick.

When I open my eyes, it’s because someone’s shaking my shoulder—gently, but persistently—followed by a whisper that’s somehow both too soft and too annoying for this hour.

“Time to get up.”

I groan and bury my face deeper into the pillow. My whole body feels like it’s made of sandbags. Heavy. Unmoving. Offended by the concept of being awake.

“I hate waking up early,” I mumble into the pillow. “What time is it?” 

“Five-thirty,” he says casually.

That earns another groan. It’s the same time he used to wake me up for the bakery, back when everything smelled like cinnamon and sleep.

“Alright,” Peeta says, far too calm, “maybe I’ll just go tell Katniss you don’t wanna go anymore.”

That makes me lift my head, just barely. “You wouldn’t.”

He shrugs, already halfway to the door. “She’s probably sharpening her arrows as we speak. I’m sure she’d love to hear you’re bailing.”

I sit up with a dramatic sigh, dragging the blanket with me. “You’re evil.”

He just smiles. “I prefer ‘motivational.’”

I throw off the blanket with a groan and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor like it personally offended me. I’m still half-asleep, still grumbling under my breath, when I see it—folded clothes sitting neatly at the edge of the bed.

I blink at them, then reach over.

They’re stacked just the way Peeta always folds things. Not military-perfect, but close. Like he’s trying really hard not to care too much, even though he clearly does. The corners are even. The lines are straight. It makes something in my chest pinch a little.

There’s a pair of pants on the bottom—sturdy, thick, definitely not mine. Then three shirts: a soft undershirt, a thin long sleeve, and a heavier one in waffle knit, sleeves already rolled like he knew I’d do it anyway. On top of it all, a thick pair of socks. Grey, with white at the toes and heels. The kind he wears when it snows.

I smile, quiet and soft. Of course he thought of this. Of course he didn’t say anything.

I leave the clothes on the bed—I’ll get dressed in a minute—and scoop the tiger up instead, pressing it tight against my side as I pad down the stairs. The house is still dim, still quiet in that early-morning way that makes everything feel soft around the edges.

When I reach the kitchen, Peeta’s already there, standing at the stove like he’s been up for hours. He’s wearing that old gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s flour dusted faintly across his wrist. It smells amazing—warm and rich and like home.

I plop down in my usual seat at the table, still hugging the tiger, and rest my chin in my hand. Peeta glances over his shoulder, then turns and sets a plate in front of me.

It’s piled high—eggs, bacon, and even little potatoes, cut into tiny cubes the way he knows I like them. Everything still steaming.

I blink at the food, then look up at him. “No cinnamon buns?”

He smirks, grabbing a fork and setting it next to my plate. “You need real food.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Buns are real food.”

“Buns are sugar and sentiment.”

I stab a potato cube and mutter, “Sounds like breakfast to me.”

He moves behind me and starts braiding my hair, fingers gentle but sure. “Let’s do it nice and tight so it doesn’t get in your face,” he murmurs.

I nod, and he picks up the brush, working through the tangles with practiced ease. The soft bristles glide over my scalp, steady and soothing. He runs his fingers through it one last time before starting the braid.

“Your hair’s getting pretty long,” he says quietly.

“I know. I haven’t cut it in a while.”

“I like it better long.”

“Me too,” I say—soft, honest.

The words linger in the quiet kitchen, and then something shifts in me. A memory stirs, unasked but warm.

Our father always cut my hair.

He cut all of our hair—always on the back porch so it wouldn’t get everywhere, always with the same pair of dull old scissors. For the boys, it was easy. Just enough to keep it off their foreheads. Quick, tidy, no one cared if it was a little uneven.

But me? I was a different story.

The first time they decided it was time for a haircut, it was the middle of summer. Hot and sticky. The boys had already gone—Rye and Peeta sitting on the edge of the porch while my father trimmed the last bits of Bannock’s hair. Then it was my turn.

I remember sitting down on the little crate, nervous, my legs too short to reach the floor.

Peeta crouched in front of me. “It’s gonna be fine,” he said, like he always did. “You’ll look great.”

Rye, being Rye, said, “We should just chop it all off. Like ours. Way easier.”

Bannock didn’t say anything—he was always quieter than the rest of them—but I think he gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before disappearing inside.

Then my father knelt in front of me, scissors in one hand, comb in the other. “Okay, peanut,” he said, voice warm. “Trust me?”

Back then, I did. So even though my stomach was fluttering and I kept fiddling with the hem of my shirt, I nodded.

He started cutting. He had no idea what he was doing.

Peeta kept trying to help—“Maybe wet it first?” “Try smaller sections.” Rye leaned over his shoulder going, “That’s not straight,” and “It’s starting to look like a triangle.” I remember Peeta trying to hold one side down while Rye held the other and my father tried to even it out.

One side ended up shorter than the other. Somehow he tried to give me bangs. They stuck straight out.

It was a disaster.

Peeta knocked on Delly Cartwright’s door that afternoon, hair still damp from his own trim. She came over, took one look at me, and said, “Oh.”

But she fixed it.

She somehow made it okay, snipped and trimmed until it didn’t look like I lost a fight with a rake. After that, she gave my father a list of very specific tips—how to part it, how to angle the scissors, when not to listen to Rye.

And even though my hair was a mess that day, I didn’t feel like one. I felt… loved. Important. Like I was worth the effort.

Peeta finishes the braid and ties it off with a soft tug, then kisses the top of my head like always. “There,” he says, like it’s no big deal. But his hands linger for just a second at the nape of my neck before they fall away.

I finish eating breakfast as fast as possible after that—partly because I don’t want to sit with the memory too long, and partly because I really don’t want to be late. My stomach’s too full and too tight at the same time. I scoop up the tiger from where he’s sitting beside my plate and we head upstairs.

The clothes are still folded neatly at the end of the bed, right where he left them.

Peeta picks them up like he’s done a hundred times before, already moving toward me. He always helps me get dressed. And I never mind. It’s never made me feel small or incapable. It’s always just made me feel… worth being taken care of.

But today, I’m going into the woods. Today, I want to try.

“I can do it,” I say, quietly but firm.

Peeta pauses, still holding the pants. His expression flickers—just for a second—then he nods and sets them down beside me. “Alright,” he says carefully.

I take a breath, then reach up and start unbuttoning my pajama shirt. It’s slow. Awkward. I fumble with every button, only one hand and a cast to work with, but I get there. I ease the shirt off my shoulders and set it aside. Then I slide into the first shirt he laid out—the soft undershirt. Then the thin long sleeve. Then the waffle-knit one. By the time I’m done, I feel like a marshmallow.

“Do I really need three shirts?” I mutter, tugging at the sleeve.

Peeta smiles faintly. “I wanted you to have layers.”

Then I reach for the pants, sturdy and soft, and a little too clean. I pause. “Where did these come from?”

“Prim brought them by,” he says. “Really early this morning. I think she’s more excited than you are.”

I blink. “She did?”

He nods, moving toward the closet. “Said you probably didn’t have the right kind of pants, and she has no need for them.”

I linger on the pants a second too long, running my fingers over the waistband. Then I push up from the bed and slide off my pajama pants. I step into the new ones. They fit perfectly. I never realized we were the same size.

Then come the socks—thick, gray, white at the heels and toes. I look down at my cast sticking out from under three layers of shirts, then at the socks, then at Peeta. He starts to step forward, but I hold up my good hand quickly.

“I got it.”

He pauses, then holds up both hands in surrender.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort. I pry the socks open using my good hand and the edge of my cast, my left thumb sticking out just enough to help. It’s clumsy and way too slow, but I don’t stop. Not even when I nearly fall sideways trying to tug the second one on.

When I finally get both socks on, I grin up at him smugly. “See?”

We both look down at the socks. The seams are all crooked and the heel of the left one is way up by my ankle. But Peeta doesn’t comment. He just nods solemnly, like they’re perfectly done.

Then he grabs the sling from where it rests on the nightstand and holds it up. “Can I help you with this?”

I pretend to think about it, tilting my head. “I’ll allow it.”

He smiles—because we both know I couldn’t get it on by myself even if I tried. I’m pretty sure the designers meant to make it impossible, like they knew I’d try to go without it unless someone made me wear it. The Velcro’s set way back by my shoulder. There’s no way to reach it on my own.

Peeta slips it over my head gently, his hands steady and practiced. He fastens the strap behind my neck, making sure it sits right, then checks the angle of the support band. It’s all so normal now, him doing this. Just another thing he does without needing to be asked.

“There,” he says when it’s secure.

I glance down at it. It’s snug, not too tight. Familiar.

“Okay,” I breathe. “I think I’m ready.”

We head downstairs, quiet but moving with purpose now. The house is still dim, washed in the gray of early morning, like it hasn’t quite woken up yet either.

We stop by the front door. I sit on the little bench, the one we always use when we’re pulling boots on before the market or slipping them off after a muddy walk. Peeta crouches in front of me without a word.

He starts with the socks.

I watch as he straightens them carefully—fixing the seams, tugging the heel of the left one back down where it belongs. I roll my eyes, but I don’t stop him.

“Happy?” I mutter.

He doesn’t even look up. “Getting there.”

Then he slides my feet into the boots, one at a time. His hands are gentle, practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times. He tugs the laces tight, knots them once, then again for good measure.

Double knots. Of course.

Once the boots are on, he stands and reaches for the jacket hanging on the hook by the door. It’s the leather one—his leather one. He holds it up, then helps me slide my good arm through the sleeve. The left one just hangs there, limp and empty at my side.

Then he moves in front of me again and gently zips it up over the sling, tugging the zipper up in one smooth motion until it reaches the collar. It fits surprisingly well. Warm. Sturdy.

I glance up at him, and he smooths the shoulders like he did yesterday. Then he steps back, gives me one last once-over, and nods.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “You’re ready.”

He turns and walks into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls down a soft cotton bag. When he comes back, he places it gently in my good hand.

I glance inside. It’s a loaf of bread. Golden, dense, wrapped in a thin cloth to keep it warm.

“I thought you guys might want a snack,” he says.

I frown. “Peeta…”

“What?”

“This trip is about proving I’m independent,” I mutter. “I can’t pull out a snack halfway through like a toddler.”

He gives a half-shrug. “Then don’t eat it. Just carry it.”

I’m about to argue again when he cuts in, voice quiet but steady.

“Trade you.”

My mouth opens, confused—then I follow his glance downward. I’m still holding the tiger. Heat floods my face. I hadn’t even realized. I grip it tighter for a second, then shift the bread bag over my shoulder and silently hold the tiger out.

Peeta takes it gently, carefully, like it’s made of something delicate. “I’ll keep him safe,” he says softly.

I just nod.

Then he glances out the window, the one that looks straight down the path. His brows lift slightly.

“She’s early,” he murmurs.

He looks back at me—not rushed, not panicked, just steady. “Show her you’re prepared,” he says gently. “Go now.”

I nod, even though my stomach twists. I don’t know why I’m nervous—this is what I wanted. What I asked for. But suddenly I feel small in the jacket, like the sleeves are too big and the sling is too obvious and maybe Katniss will take one look at me and change her mind.

I take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like Peeta taught me when I used to panic in the middle of the night.

He moves to the door and rests his hand on the handle. “You’ve got this,” he says softly.

Then he opens the front door, and the cool morning air spills into the house, brushing against my face like a question.

Katniss turns her head toward the sound of the door opening. Her eyes land on me first, then shift to Peeta behind me. He gives me a tiny nudge, barely a push—more of a reminder. I swallow hard and step forward, the boots thudding softly on the wood as I make my way down the steps.

I meet Katniss halfway between our houses, the space between us filled with early morning mist and breath that fogs the air. She glances past me and gives Peeta a small wave. He returns it without a word, then looks at me one last time and holds up a thumbs-up. Encouraging. Quiet. Steady.

Then the door clicks shut behind me, and it’s just us. I take a breath and turn to face her. She’s already straightening her posture, already settling into that more guarded version of herself. Whatever softness was there yesterday is tucked away again.

“You ready?” she asks, her voice flat but not unfriendly.

I nod.

Her eyes drop briefly to my side. “Did you bring the tiger?”

I shake my head.

“Good,” she says, and then turns without waiting for a response. Her boots crunch against the dirt path as she starts walking, like this is just another morning and I’ve always been meant to trail behind her.

So I do.

Chapter Text

Katniss walks fast. Like she’s trying to leave something behind. I have to pick up my pace just to keep up, boots thudding quietly against the stone path. The cotton bag bounces against my side with every step, the warm loaf inside shifting slightly with the motion. I don’t say anything. Neither does she. She doesn’t glance down at me. Doesn’t slow. Just keeps moving like she always does—like forward is the only direction that matters.

We pass the edges of the Victor’s Village, the houses still heavy with morning quiet. I glance back at Peeta’s front door as we move away, but it’s still closed. No sign of him in the window. No flicker of movement. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot someone standing by the tall iron gates at the edge of the neighbourhood.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.

I narrow my eyes.

Damn it, Rye.

He’s leaning against the gate like he’s been there a while, arms crossed, one foot kicked casually back against the stone post. When he sees us approaching, he pushes off the gate and starts strolling toward us like he’s got all the time in the world.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask, already annoyed.

Rye shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just taking a walk. Figured I’d check if you’re crazy enough to actually follow through.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He grins wider. “Hey, I’m just saying, Katniss is fast, but you’re still hobbling around with that sling. You sure you’re up for this?”

Katniss stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching us but saying nothing. 

“I’m fine,” I say, voice sharper than I mean.

“Right.” Rye smirks. “You’re fine. That’s what you say about everything.”

I grit my teeth. “I’m going.”

Rye leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to sound like a warning. “Look, I don’t want to be the bad guy, but you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to Katniss.”

“She said I could come,” I snap, trying not to sound defensive.

The words hang in the air, sharper than I meant. I instantly regret the edge in my voice, like I’ve just proved his point for him. My stomach twists, but I keep my chin up.

“Yeah, well, I’m the one who has to put up with you moping around for weeks if you mess up.”

I stare him down. “I’m not messing up.”

“Sure,” he says with a smirk that says he’s heard this before.

He glances at Katniss, hoping she’ll back him up, but she just shrugs and stays silent.

“Just remember,” he says, still teasing but with an edge, “the woods don’t care how stubborn you are.”

I meet his gaze and say quietly, “Neither do I.”

Rye’s grin falters just a bit, then he straightens and backs off. “Alright then. Be careful. And try not to die out there, little sister.”

I scowl.

Katniss finally steps forward. “Let’s go.”

Rye pushes off the gate again and saunters away, still smirking like he’s won some invisible battle.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and fall into step behind Katniss. We walk in silence for a while. My breath hitches now and then, trying to keep up with Katniss’s steady, fast pace. I swallow the ache in my side and push on.

Then, without looking back, Katniss says flatly, “Your brother needs to learn when to stay out of other people’s business.”

I blink, caught off guard. “I didn’t even know he was gonna be there.”

She stops walking. Just like that—mid-stride, full stop. I skid a little trying to match her.

“Well,” she says, turning her head just enough to glance down at me, “he seems to think there’s going to be an issue.”

I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts in, voice sharp. “I’m not here to babysit. So if there’s going to be a problem, maybe we should just turn around now.”

“There won’t be,” I say quickly. My voice is firmer than I expect it to be. “I said I could do this. I can.”

Katniss stares at me for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then she turns and starts walking again—faster than before.

I keep up, but my cheeks are burning.

I knew I’d probably mess something up today. I knew Katniss would get annoyed with me eventually—say I was too slow or too loud. I thought maybe I’d trip over a root or ask too many questions or scare something off. But I didn’t think I’d blow it before we even crossed the fence.

All because of stupid Rye.

Of course he had to show up. Of course he had to act smug and make it look like I needed some kind of chaperone. Like I couldn’t be trusted to walk beside Katniss without adult supervision. And now she thinks this whole thing is some fragile little charity project. That I’m going to fall apart the second we’re alone out there.

I tighten the strap of the bag over my shoulder and focus on Katniss’s boots in front of me. Just keep walking. Don’t say anything. Don’t apologize. You wanted this, I remind myself. So act like you belong here.

We walk for a while in very tense silence. The kind that feels like it’s pressing down on my shoulders, like the air itself is waiting for me to mess up again. If I were walking with Peeta somewhere, I probably would’ve asked “Are we there yet?” five times by now. Maybe more. He would’ve rolled his eyes, said “Almost,” and then made up some ridiculous story about where “there” even was. Something with magic or a secret bakery hidden in a tree stump.

But Katniss doesn’t joke. She doesn’t even glance at me. Just keeps walking like I’m not even here, like she’s not one wrong word away from turning around.

We make our way through the Seam, the roads getting thinner, the houses more spaced out, more worn. The people out here don’t look at us—not like they do in town. They’re used to Katniss moving through these streets. Me, not so much. But no one stops us.

Eventually, the houses give way to trees, and I see it: the fence. It cuts through the edge of the district like a warning—tall and rusted and still, the way it always is. I’ve seen it before, of course. I’ve even walked along it. But today, knowing we’re about to cross it? It feels different. Like the line between two worlds. I swallow hard and keep moving.

We get closer to the fence, and just before we reach it, Katniss throws an arm out and presses a hand lightly against my chest. Like she thinks I was about to walk straight into an electric fence. Like I don’t have any sense of self-preservation. This is normally the point where I’d grumble something like “I’m not an idiot, you know,” just to prove it. If I were with Peeta, he’d smirk and say, “That’s debatable.” If I were with Rye, he’d skip the smirk and just say I am an idiot.

But with Katniss, I don’t say anything. I just stand still and watch her. She steps forward a bit, tilting her head slightly and holding her ear close like she’s listening for something—some quiet hum or crackle only she knows how to hear. Then she hovers the back of her hand near the fence. Pauses. I hold my breath.

Finally, she reaches out and lets her knuckles graze the metal. I flinch, sure she’s about to get shocked—but nothing happens. No spark. No sound. No jolt.

She turns back toward me, calm as ever. Like she never doubted it for a second. Like I’m the only one still wondering if we’re about to die.

“All right,” she says. “We’re good.”

Katniss pulls back the corner of the fence near one of the posts—just enough space for someone to slip under. I stand there waiting for her to tell me what to do, maybe something helpful like “watch your head” or “go slow.”

Instead, she just jerks her head toward the opening. She looks annoyed already. Off to a great start.

I crouch down and try to shuffle under, balancing on the balls of my feet and trying not to let my sling drag. Every inch closer to the metal, the more I’m still not entirely convinced this thing won’t fry me if I brush it the wrong way. I duck low and squeeze through, heart pounding like the fence might change its mind at any second.

I make it to the other side in one piece—and before I even turn around, Katniss is already there too. Like she just blinked and teleported through.

She starts walking again—still fast, still not looking back to see if I’m following. Like this is a solo trip and I just happen to be tagging along. I hurry to catch up, boots thudding against the dirt path, sling bumping awkwardly against my side.

When I finally fall into step beside her, she starts talking. Not friendly. Not mean. Just direct. Sharp as flint.“There are rules,” she says. “You don’t go off on your own. You don’t touch anything unless I say it’s safe. You keep quiet unless you have something important to say. And if I tell you to run, you run.”

She still doesn’t look at me. Just walks like the ground knows to move out of her way.

“Got it?” she asks, flat and clipped.

I nod. Then realize she’s not looking. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Got it.”

We walk in silence after that—me trying not to trip over roots or fall behind again, her moving like she was born with the map in her head.

Then the trees change. It happens gradually, but suddenly I notice it. The edge of the Seam blurs into something else—less scrub, more green. Taller trunks, thicker brush, the air cooler and heavier with the smell of moss and bark. The light changes too—filtered now, the sun flickering through leaves in thin, shifting beams.

We’ve reached the woods.

Katniss slows just slightly. Not enough to be generous—just enough to listen. Her head tilts like she’s tuning into something I can’t hear. A squirrel rustling through leaves. A breeze brushing past the canopy. Her hand rests briefly on a tree trunk as she steps around it, like she’s greeting an old friend.

It’s beautiful. Quiet in a way that isn’t empty. Not like our house. Not like the bakery in the early morning before anyone speaks. This quiet hums with life. It moves. It watches. It doesn’t care if I belong—but it’ll notice if I make a mistake.

I start to look around.

I can’t help it—everything feels kind of magical. Like stepping into one of those old stories Grandma used to whisper when I was little. The trees tower over us, tall and ancient and quiet, their branches reaching out like they’re holding hands. The light filters down in soft strips, painting the ground with flickers of gold and green. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not up close.

I breathe it in. Dirt and bark and something sharp and clean—maybe pine, maybe something else entirely. The air feels different here. Lighter. Wilder. I tilt my head back and stare up at the pale morning sky through the tops of the trees. No coal smoke. No soot. Just soft blue and a few wisps of cloud.

It feels like another world.

And then Katniss snaps, “If you keep looking around like that, you’re gonna walk straight into a tree.”

I jerk back, startled, and she continues, tone clipped, “Prim’s the one who can fix a broken nose, not me.”

I swallow and lower my gaze, whispering, “Sorry.”

The air seems to tighten around us, the quiet broken by my racing heartbeat. Katniss moves ahead again, barely looking back. I bite my lip and follow, trying to focus, trying not to look up again.

I keep my head straight from then on, focusing on the path ahead. That’s when I really notice how thick the layer of leaves is on the forest floor. It’s fall, so it makes sense, but I hadn’t realized just how many there are. Trying not to step on one feels impossible.

I glance down at Katniss’s feet, hoping to copy her steps and find the quietest path. But she’s stepping right on top of the leaves—and there’s no sound. Not a single crunch.

Every time I put my foot down, it cracks and crunches loud enough to echo through the trees. I can feel every crunch like a knife slicing through the silence, and it makes me want to freeze in place. I bite my lip, forcing myself to keep moving despite how obvious I feel.

Just as I’m trying to tiptoe more carefully, my foot lands on something hard beneath the leaves—a twig I didn’t see. It snaps loud and sharp, like a gunshot in the quiet woods.

Katniss whips around instantly, eyes flashing. “Watch it!” she snaps, voice low but fierce. I freeze, heart pounding, knowing I just made everything harder.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying in the still air.

Katniss shoots me a hard look. “Don’t be sorry. Just be quiet.”

We keep moving, the silence thick between us. I’m trying so hard to keep up, to stay quiet, to not mess this up. But then—my foot catches on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and I stumble forward with a sharp crack of snapping branches.

Katniss spins around again, eyes blazing. “Really?” she snaps.

I bite my lip, cheeks burning. “I’m trying.”

She exhales sharply but says nothing more. We keep walking, my heart pounding louder than the crunching leaves beneath my feet.

I’m so frustrated with myself. How hard can it be to walk quietly? Every step feels like a disaster. I keep messing up, like I’m made of clumsy mistakes instead of bones and skin. I wanted to prove I could do this—that I’m ready, that I’m not some scared little kid who trips over her own feet. But now all I’m doing is giving Katniss more reasons to think I don’t belong here. Maybe Rye was right. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m just making this harder for everyone. But I can’t give up now. Not after getting this far. I have to keep trying—even if it means breaking every rule just to catch up.

We reach a part of the woods where the carpet of fallen leaves thins out, replaced by a soft bed of pine needles. They barely make a sound beneath my feet. For once, I actually sound quiet.

Katniss glances back, eyes scanning for me. When she sees I’m still there, her expression softens just a little. Eventually, she slows her pace and stops next to a hollowed-out dead tree stump. I wonder if she’s about to sit me down and tell me to wait here while she finishes hunting. But instead, she crouches down and pulls something from inside the stump—a bow.

She starts inspecting it carefully, checking the strings and the wood. I can’t help myself. “Why do you keep it in there?” I ask.

Katniss doesn’t look up, just keeps her gaze on the bow, but she doesn’t snap at me.

“Because you’re not allowed to have weapons unless you’re a peacekeeper,” she says quietly. “If someone found it, I could get in trouble.”

I nod slowly. “Can’t you get in trouble for hunting?”

She shrugs. “I could, but most peacekeepers buy from me, so they don’t really care.”

She stands up and slings the bow over her shoulder.

I realize she didn’t snap at me for asking questions. She didn’t say I was making too much noise. That’s the trick—ask questions about the woods, show that you’re interested.

I walk a little faster to catch up, then glance sideways at her.

“Have you ever had someone find it? The bow, I mean?”

Katniss doesn’t look at me. “No. I’m careful.”

That makes sense. Of course she’s careful. She probably checks every footprint, every snapped branch. Still—I nod again. “Do you always come out through the same part of the fence?”

“No.” A pause. “That’s how people get caught. Routine.”

Right. Routine is bad. I store that away, hoping she can tell I’m not just asking to ask. That I’m listening. We keep walking. The trees close in tighter. It’s not scary, exactly, but it’s… big. Wild in a way nothing in District 12 is. Like anything could happen out here.

I try to think of something else. Something useful. “Did you teach Prim all this?”

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but not a frown either. “Some of it. She didn’t like it much.”

“She said she got scared whenever you shot something.”

“She’s soft.” Another pause. “That’s not a bad thing.”

I nod again. “I don’t think I’ll be like that.”

That earns me a glance. Just a brief one. “No,” Katniss says. “I don’t think you will.”

The ground shifts under my feet—a dip I don’t see in time—and I stumble a little. Nothing dramatic, but I feel my face burn anyway. Katniss doesn’t comment. Just keeps walking.

I rush forward again, trying to focus. “How do you know where to go? I mean, everything kind of looks the same.”

“You learn landmarks,” she says. “Trees that split funny. Stones that don’t match the rest. You get used to the paths. And the light.”

I look up. The canopy is thick, but here and there the early sun slips through in soft patches, hazy and gold. “The light?”

She nods. “Tells you where the sun is. Helps you find east. And time.”

I glance up again, squinting. I try to imagine the direction. “It’s morning, so it should be… there?”

Katniss doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, “Close enough.”

It feels like praise. Not a lot of it, but enough. I try to stay quiet after that. Not because I’m out of questions—I’m not—but because I think I’ve said the right amount for now. I don’t want to ruin it. And even though she still hasn’t smiled, not really, the silence feels a little less sharp than before.

Katniss veers off the path without warning, and I hurry to keep up. We stop at a small clearing. The ground here is more disturbed—leaves kicked up, paw prints pressed into the mud. She crouches low beside a patch of brush and pulls it aside.

That’s when I see them.

Two squirrels, strung up by their feet. Eyes glassy, bodies still. A few feet away, two rabbits hang the same way—one of them small enough that I feel my stomach clench just looking at it. Katniss doesn’t flinch. She reaches forward and starts untying the first snare, fingers quick and practiced.

I stay back, watching. I don’t say anything, even when my chest twists. I know better than to ask the kind of questions that would annoy her. Still, the sight of the rabbits stings more than I expect. 

She moves to the next one and checks the tension on the line before she resets it. “These are snares,” she says. “Gale made them.”

I nod slowly. “He’s gotta be pretty smart to figure that out.”

Katniss shrugs without looking up. “He’s smart with certain things.”

That answer hangs in the air for a second too long, but I don’t push it. I just glance back down at the rabbit, stomach twisting again—not just because of what it is, but because of what it reminds me of. I tuck that thought away. Not now.

Katniss resets the rest of the snares in silence. I stay quiet too, watching her hands. Trying to understand. Trying to learn. She crouches beside the last snare and gestures for me to come closer.

“Here,” she says. “Watch what I’m doing.”

I kneel beside her as best I can, careful not to let my jacket drag in the leaves. She holds the wire in one hand, pinching it between her fingers. “This one’s a simple loop. The idea is that when something steps through—” she flicks a twig toward it and the loop cinches tight “—the tension pulls the knot and traps their leg.”

I flinch a little at how fast it snaps closed, but I nod.

She glances sideways at me, then back to the wire. “It doesn’t kill them. Not always. Just holds them until you come back.”

I nod again.

Then she starts working the wire into position, resetting the loop. Her fingers move fast—loop, anchor, twist. It’s all second nature to her. She’s quiet as she works, but when she finishes, she shifts slightly and eyes me again.

“You won’t be able to set one with one hand,” she says simply. “But when the cast comes off, I’ll teach you.”

It’s so offhand, so casual, like she didn’t even mean to say it. But it lodges in my chest like something solid.

She’ll teach me.

When the cast comes off.

So she’s thinking that far ahead. She’s not already writing me off as useless or slow or annoying. She’s not giving up on me. I don’t say anything—don’t want to ruin it—but I duck my head to hide the small smile that creeps up anyway. I feel it in my chest more than my face. A flicker of something warm. Pride, maybe.

I haven’t messed this up yet. She still might take me again.

Katniss stands up without a word and starts walking again, the bow slung over one shoulder and her braid swinging slightly as she moves. I scramble to my feet, nearly slipping on a patch of damp leaves. My boot catches on a root, and for a second I think I’m going to fall flat on my face—but I catch myself, barely, and hurry to catch up.

She doesn’t look back.

It’s not mean. Just… efficient. Like she expects me to keep up. Like if I don’t, that’s on me.

We move deeper into the woods, the trees growing taller, closer, the light shifting in patches overhead. It’s quieter here. Less crunch beneath my boots. More moss. More stillness.

Then something catches my eye.

“Wait,” I whisper.

Katniss turns around fast. Her eyes snap to mine. I point up into the trees. “Is that a mockingjay?”

She follows my finger, her gaze lifting.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “There’s a lot of them out here.”

But there’s something behind her eyes—some flicker of recognition, like a shadow just passed over her. She turns back around and keeps moving, slower now, but without another word.

I watch the bird a moment longer. I’ve heard about them my whole life—my grandmother used to talk about them like they were something sacred. I’ve always wanted to hear one sing. To see if they really repeat you.

And before I can stop myself, I clear my throat. Just soft. Then I sing.

When I was a babe, I fell down in the holler

When I was a girl, I fell into your arms

We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

You went to the dogs and I lived by my charms.

I pause, breath catching a little. The forest holds still—and then, from the branches above, the mockingjay answers. Note for note. Then another joins in. Then another.

And suddenly it’s like the whole forest is singing. The sound wraps around me, bright and strange and echoing off the trees like something ancient. Like magic. For a second, I feel like I’ve stepped into one of those old stories. Like the woods opened their mouth and answered me back.

Then it fades.

I look at Katniss.

She’s stopped a few feet ahead of me, standing perfectly still. She turns back, staring at me with something I can’t read. It’s not anger, exactly. Or surprise. Just… stillness. Something held.

And that’s when it hits me. What I just did.

I made a whole lot of noise. Loud noise. In the middle of the woods. Probably scared off every animal for miles. I clap my hand over my mouth, heat rushing to my face.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to mess things up—”

Katniss cuts me off. “No. It’s fine.” Her voice is quiet. Stiff.

Then she turns and starts walking again—faster this time. I hurry to catch up to her, heart sinking fast. My boots scuff the forest floor as I move, too loud in the silence she’s left behind. I can’t believe I did that. Of all the things I could’ve done wrong out here—of all the ways I thought I might mess up—starting a full forest concert was not one I’d planned for. I didn’t mean to make so much noise. I just got caught in the moment. It felt special. And now I’ve gone and scared off every rabbit in the woods. Katniss probably thinks I’m a complete idiot.

I clench my jaw, trying not to look as embarrassed as I feel. Stupid. So stupid. But just as I’m about to fall back into that awful, tense silence again, Katniss speaks.

“I haven’t heard that song in a long time.”

I blink and look up at her. “You… you know that song?”

She nods, still facing forward. “My father used to sing it. Just like that.” There’s a pause. “He always used to sing to the mockingjays.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not sharp, not annoyed—just… soft. And suddenly the air feels different.

Katniss doesn’t say anything for a while after that. Just keeps walking, quieter now, like maybe the forest is settling back around us. Then, out of nowhere, she asks, “Where’d you learn it?”

I glance over. “My grandmother.”

Katniss nods, like that makes sense. Then she looks ahead again. “She teach you the guitar too?”

I blink. It takes me a second to answer, mostly because I’m stunned. How does she know I play guitar?

Before I can ask, Katniss clears her throat. “Prim mentioned it once,” she says, not quite looking at me. “That you sing and play guitar.”

“Oh,” I say, because I don’t really know what else to say. “Yeah. My grandmother taught me that too.”

Katniss is quiet for a beat. Then: “You know, you can get in as much trouble for singing those songs as I can for hunting.”

“I know,” I say, lowering my voice. “My grandmother always told me to keep them a secret.”

Katniss just nods again. Nothing more. But something about the way she says all this—quiet and careful—makes me think she knows exactly what it means to keep dangerous things tucked close to your chest.

We keep walking after that. It’s still quiet, but not like before. Not cold or tense—just… quiet. Thoughtful. Katniss doesn’t seem irritated anymore. Her shoulders aren’t tight, and her pace has slowed just a little. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell she’s thinking—probably about the song, the birds, maybe her father. I don’t ask. Katniss doesn’t seem like the type to have a heart-to-heart with a girl she just met. Not unless she has to. So I keep my eyes on the trail ahead and match her silence. I think that’s what she wants right now—not questions or chatter, just someone who understands how to be quiet.

After a while, Katniss stops beside a fallen log. I think she’s about to pull out another bow or check some hidden supply stash. But instead, she just sits down. I pause for a second, unsure if I’m supposed to sit too, but then I lower myself onto the log beside her. She doesn’t say anything—just pulls a squirrel from where it’s tied to her belt and lays it across her lap.

Without a word, she pulls a knife from her boot and starts to skin it.

It’s quiet, just the soft sound of blade against fur and the occasional snap of tendon. It’s gross. I mean, really gross. But I don’t look away. Not once.

She must notice, because after a few moments, she glances over. “Most people can’t watch this.”

“I want to learn,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I expected.

She gives a small nod and turns back to the squirrel. “Then watch closely. The trick is not wasting any meat.”

And I do. I watch her hands the way I watched her set the snare—like if I stare hard enough, the knowledge might sink into me too. I watch every movement, every careful slice, the way she holds the knife, the way her fingers work without hesitation. It’s brutal, yeah—but it’s also kind of… impressive.

She holds it up when she’s done—clean, skinned, neat. It looks just like the ones my father used to buy from her. Back then, I had no idea I was eating squirrel. Not until Rye decided to open his big mouth and ruin dinner for me.

“My father used to buy those from you,” I say, quietly.

She nods without looking up. “I remember. He was always very fair.”

My head dips a little. “Yeah. Fair.” The word tastes bitter in my mouth.

“He used to buy Prim’s goat cheese too,” she adds after a beat.

I tilt my head, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

She nods again. “I’d bring it by some mornings. He said he used it for tarts.”

I nod too, remembering them now. The goat cheese tarts with apples. We didn’t eat them often. They were too expensive, too delicate. Too good to waste on us.

Katniss looks down at her bag and starts to untie a small bundle. “Speaking of goat cheese…” She unwraps it carefully. “Prim thought we’d want a snack.”

I smile and reach into my own bag. “So did Peeta.”

I glance at the soft bundle in Katniss’s hands, the pale cheese carefully wrapped, and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about the fact that both of them packed us snacks.

Prim gave Katniss goat cheese—Prim, who’s only twelve, who should be the one being looked after, not the one worrying whether her sister will get hungry out in the woods. And Peeta—he gave me bread, and I argued with him about it. Said I didn’t need it, said this trip was about proving I was independent. Like bringing a snack would ruin everything. Like it would make me look like a little kid. But now here we are. Katniss has goat cheese in her lap. I’ve got a loaf of bread in my hand. And somehow, instead of feeling babied, it just makes me feel… known. Like they both saw something we’d need before we did. Like they always do.

I hand Katniss the loaf of bread. She takes it without a word, tears it cleanly in half, then unwraps the little bundle from her bag and spreads goat cheese onto each piece—one for her, one for me. She passes mine over, and I take it carefully. The bread is still warm on the inside. The goat cheese melts into it like butter. I smile to myself without meaning to.

The taste brings something back—faint but clear. A moment I hadn’t thought about in a while.

I glance over at Katniss. “One time during the Games, I was freaking out about something. I wouldn’t get out of bed. Just stayed curled up under the blanket like the world couldn’t get to me if I stayed still enough.” I pause, then add with a little laugh, “So Rye—the one who cornered us by the gate?—he carried me out of bed and brought me downstairs. Then he forced me to eat goat cheese Prim had brought over.”

Katniss looks over, the barest hint of interest behind her usual guarded stare.

“He said it was a declaration of optimism.”

Katniss’s mouth twitches, just barely. “What does that even mean?”

I shake my head, grinning a little. “I don’t know. I think he was trying to talk like Peeta. It never worked when he did that.”

That ghost of a smile lingers on her lips, like she’s not quite ready to admit it’s funny—but she kind of thinks it is.

“I didn’t know he’d be like that,” Katniss says after a beat. “Your other brother.”

“What? Annoying?” I offer, raising an eyebrow.

She shakes her head. “No. Just… protective.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “He wasn’t always. But now he’s almost as bad as Peeta. When I told him I was going to the woods with you, he started talking about snakes and cliffs.”

“Cliffs?” Katniss echoes, giving me a sideways glance.

“I never said he was smart. Just protective.”

That earns the ghost of another smile from her—closer this time, like she might actually let it land. “Well, Prim thinks he’s very funny.”

“Of course she does,” I mutter with mock despair.

Katniss leans back a little, brushing her fingers across her pants. “Prim has all kinds of stories from that house.”

She doesn’t say it bitterly. More like she didn’t mean to let it slip out at all.

“You can come too, if you want,” I offer.

Katniss shakes her head almost immediately. “I don’t think Peeta would appreciate that very much.”

“Well, it’s not just Peeta’s house,” I say, lifting a brow. “I can invite whoever I want.”

A pause. Then I add, “I’m sure Prim would love it too. And Rye… he said you were pretty once.”

That makes her stop chewing for just a second. “…Really?”

I nod.

She shakes her head like she’s trying to brush it off. “Great. Now I gotta worry about two Mellark boys.”

“It’s fine,” I grin. “You don’t have to worry about Rye—he has a girlfriend. He just ‘appreciates women,’ as he calls it.”

That gets the softest breath of a laugh from her. “Who’s his girlfriend?”

“I have no clue,” I say, with dramatic annoyance. “He won’t tell me anything about her. Just that she has chocolate-brown hair, grey eyes, and her name’s Terra.”

Katniss tilts her head slightly. “She’s from the Seam?”

I nod, and something in her gaze sharpens.

“Is that why he won’t talk about her?”

I shake my head. “No. He just thinks I’m annoying. He says the second I meet her, I’ll start planning the wedding or something.”

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“He likes her a lot,” I say, a little softer. “He even punched Gale over her.”

My hand flies to my mouth the second the words leave me. Idiot.

Katniss turns toward me, brows raised. “Gale got in a fight over a girl?”

I shake my head quickly. “No, not over her. Just… about her. He was saying something to her about Rye, Rye got mad and punched him.”

She doesn’t say anything right away.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to bring him up?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know… isn’t he like… your guy?”

She tilts her head. “My guy?”

“You know…” I trail off, hoping she’ll pick up what I’m too embarrassed to say out loud.

“Is that why you think I didn’t want to date Peeta?” she asks, tone sharper now. “Because I already had a ‘guy’?”

Her words hit with a quiet intensity, like she’s guarding something raw just beneath the surface.

My stomach flips, caught off guard by the sudden edge. “No! I’ve never even thought about why you didn’t want to date Peeta. I didn’t think it mattered.”

She narrows her eyes a little. “Why not?”

“Because… you don’t need a reason. You’re allowed to not love somebody even though they love you.”

Katniss stares at me for a long time. Not saying anything. Just… watching me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. I brace myself for it—that moment where she snaps, tells me it’s time to go home, that my stupid big mouth ruined everything.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, her shoulders drop a little. Her voice is quieter when she says, “You really don’t care? You don’t think I’m some monster who broke your brother’s heart?”

I blink. That’s not what I was expecting.

I shake my head slowly. “No,” I say. “Obviously I felt bad for him. I still do sometimes. But that’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“You kept him alive,” I add. “That’s all that matters.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t believe the words are actually coming out of my mouth. Like maybe I’m just saying them to be nice, or because Peeta told me to.

Then she says quietly, “Even Prim thinks I should’ve loved him back.”

Her voice isn’t bitter. Just… tired. Like she’s been carrying that thought around for a long time and doesn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“She probably doesn’t mean to make you feel bad,” I say, nudging a twig with the toe of my boot. “She adores you. She’s just… a hopeless romantic. She wanted it to be some great love story.”

Katniss doesn’t say anything, just looks off into the trees. So I keep going.

“She used to squeal. Like actually squeal. Every time you guys kissed on camera.”

That gets her attention—she turns to me, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“I’m serious,” I grin. “She would gush and talk about how romantic it was. Like, hands clasped under her chin, ‘he’s so in love with her,’ all dreamy. It was like watching her favourite story play out in real life.”

Katniss groans softly and drops her face into her hands. “Oh, come on.”

“She’s twelve,” I shrug. “Give her a break. There’s not much else to root for in district 12.”

Katniss huffs out a breath—almost a laugh—and shakes her head like she can’t believe she’s having this conversation. “And what did you think about all the kissing?”

I lean in a little, dropping my voice like I’m letting her in on a secret—even though no one else is around. “I thought it was disgusting.”

“Because we were covered in dirt and blood?”

I shake my head. “No, because kissing is just disgusting in general.”

That gets her. The first real smile. “Don’t worry. I used to think that too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shakes her head, looking away. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I bump her shoulder gently with my good hand. “Come on.”

Katniss deflects with a smirk. “So you’ve never thought about kissing a boy?”

“Nope.” I say flatly.

“Good. Keep it that way. Boys just make everything complicated.”

“What’s complicated about the boys in your life?”

She pauses. For a second, I think I’ve done it again—said the wrong thing, pushed too far. But then she leans back a little, her eyes drifting up into the trees like she’s searching for the right words.

“Well,” she says finally, slow and careful, “I’ve got two boys in my life right now who want to be my ‘guy.’” She even uses the same air quotes I did earlier. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

I shrug. “Who cares?”

“They care,” she says, letting out a small, tired breath.

“Then let them deal with it. If you don’t want a ‘guy,’ then you don’t need to have one.”

Katniss looks at me for a second. Really looks. Then she nods. Not like I solved everything. But like I might’ve reminded her of something she already knew.

She tilts her head at me. “This is not how I imagined this conversation going.”

“What, you thought I was gonna try to convince you to love Peeta or something?”

She shrugs. “Kinda.”

“Then why’d you let me tag along?”

Katniss pauses, like she’s only just now trying to figure that out herself. “I guess I wanted to see what you’d say about him.”

“Why?”

She shakes her head, a little smile tugging at her lips. “More complicated boy stuff.”

I grin feeling a little bold now. “Well, I don’t have anywhere to be. And as you can see, I’m very wise for my age. Maybe I can help you un-complicate it.”

Katniss looks like she’s about to deflect again. Her mouth starts to move, then closes. She takes a breath—deep and uneven—she doesn’t look at me as she speaks.

“I never wanted to get married. Or have kids. All that stuff.” Her voice is steady, but quiet. “So naturally I never wanted a boyfriend either. I never even thought about falling in love.”

I don’t say anything. I just let her talk.

“And then I volunteer to save my sister, and now suddenly I have to pretend to be in love with someone just to stay alive. And in the arena, I did what I had to do. I thought that’s all it was. But then it got… confusing.”

Her hands curl a little in her lap.

“I couldn’t figure out what I was doing for the story, and what I was doing because I actually cared about him. And I told him that. I told him I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.”

She pauses. Swallows.

“He got mad. Shut me out. So I never got to figure it out. I thought maybe when I got home, with some time, I’d be able to think clearly and sort through it all. But then Gale kissed me. Right after we got back.”

She finally glances at me, like she’s checking to see if I’m judging her. I’m not.

“He kissed me,” she repeats, “and then he just… never mentioned it again. Like it didn’t happen.”

Her eyes drop again. Her voice goes softer.

“And now I don’t know what to do. All I know is… I miss Peeta, and I miss how things used to be with Gale. And now it’s like they both want nothing to do with me.”

She goes quiet again, her words hanging in the air like something too heavy to catch.

And I realize—it hits me all at once—this is the most I’ve ever heard Katniss talk. Really talk. Not just short answers or sharp remarks, but her actual thoughts, all of them tumbling out like she’s been holding them back for months and they finally cracked the surface. She must’ve been carrying this around the whole time.

I shift a little closer, careful not to jostle my hand.

“That does sound… really confusing,” I say quietly. “And really complicated.”

Katniss nods, barely.

I take a breath. “I don’t think you have to figure it all out right away. I mean… you’re what, sixteen?”

She gives a little nod.

“Right. No one expects you to have your whole life figured out. And you don’t owe them anything, either of them.”

She glances at me, eyes sharp with surprise.

“You don’t have to love someone just because they love you,” I say. “That’s not how it works. Just… take some time. Figure out what you want first. Then worry about what they want.”

Katniss pulls a twig apart between her fingers, brows drawn. “And what if I figure out what I want and it doesn’t match up with what they want?”

I shrug. “I mean, I can’t say what’s gonna happen with the Gale side of things. That’s his own mess to sort out.”

She gives a weak huff of a laugh, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of blunt honesty.

“But I do know Peeta,” I say, a little firmer. “And I think… he was just hurt. And he didn’t want you to see how much.”

She looks over at me, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“As great as Peeta is—and trust me, I know how great he is—he’s still a teenage boy. And teenage boys? They get pretty butt-hurt about girls.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. Just a small one. But real.

“But he doesn’t hate you,” I go on. “I know that for sure. I don’t think there’s any universe where Peeta could hate you. Even if he’s mad. Even if he’s quiet. I think he just needs some time to figure out his side of things.”

Katniss says nothing for a second, but I can feel her listening.

“And I know he cares about you. A lot. So whatever you decide you want from him—whether it’s nothing, or friendship, or more—I really think he’ll be okay with it. He just needs to know it’s real.”

She stares at me with disbelief, tilting her head a bit. 

“You’re really eleven?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I mean, yeah. Why? Is that shocking?”

She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You just… don’t talk like an eleven-year-old.”

I smile. “Well, I grew up with Peeta. He’s the first person I ever talked to—that’s where I learned all this poetic, emotional crap.”

Katniss looks down, the smile fading just a little. “Yeah,” she says softly. “That sounds like him.”

Then she looks up at me. “Thank you.”

I tilt my head. “For what?”

She shrugs, uncertain. “I don’t know… just for talking to me like I’m someone normal.”

“You are someone normal,” I say quietly.

She lets out a short breath—half a laugh, half something sad. “Not to most people.”

I smile softly. “Well, I’m not like most people.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she says quietly, “you really aren’t. You’re not at all how I expected you to be.”

I blink, curious. “What did you expect?”

Katniss glances away, almost embarrassed. “I guess I thought you’d be whiny. Complain about the cold and the mud.” She hesitates, then meets my eyes again. “I didn’t think you’d be so… smart.”

I smile, not mocking—just honest. “And I didn’t think you’d be so not scary.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of her, soft and surprised.

“I guess we’re both full of surprises,” I say.

Katniss nods, her expression gentler than before. “Yeah… I guess we are.”

After a moment she nudges me with her elbow. “Come on. I wanna get some more hunting in before we have to head back.”

I smile at her. “Good idea. Peeta’s probably already planning the search party.”

She smiles back, then offers me a hand to help me up. I take it, and we fall into step beside each other. She keeps her eyes forward, but it’s different now—her gaze isn’t sharp or guarded, just… calm.

As we walk, I start to think about her. How I really did think she’d be scary. That’s how she always seemed—mysterious, untouchable. And at first, she was. I honestly thought she was going to shoot me with that bow every time I stepped on a leaf.

But now I get it. That wasn’t about anger or cruelty—it was protection. It’s how she keeps the world out. And underneath it all, she’s not scary. She’s scared. Just like everyone else. Just a girl who wants to be heard. Who wants someone to listen.

Chapter Text

After that, we go back to hunting.

It’s different now.

Katniss doesn’t glare at me every time I step on a twig. She doesn’t sigh when I fall behind. The silence between us isn’t heavy anymore—it’s just quiet. Comfortable. I follow her steps as best I can, watching the way she moves through the woods like she belongs to them. Like they listen to her.

At one point, she stops short. Her shoulders go tense. I don’t hear anything. Not a sound. I open my mouth to ask, but then she spins around so fast I nearly fall backward. In one smooth motion, she slips the bow off her shoulder, notching an arrow and pulling it back in the same breath. Her eyes don’t even blink.

Then—thwip.

A squirrel drops from a tree branch in the distance.

I just stand there, staring. My jaw’s probably hanging open, but I don’t even care. She hit it. She actually hit it. Without hesitating, without aiming for more than a second, without even looking like she was trying.

It’s one thing to hear stories about how good Katniss Everdeen is with a bow. It’s another thing to see it in person. I glance at the tree again, then at her. She’s already lowering the bow like it was nothing, like the rest of us could do that if we felt like it.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” I mumble.

She just smirks, not quite looking at me. “You’d never stand a chance.”

She walks over to where the squirrel fell, crouching beside it. She checks the arrow, wipes it clean, then slides it back into her quiver like it’s just part of the routine. Her movements are careful, quiet, practiced in that same way Peeta braids my hair or flips bread in a pan.

I follow slowly, trying not to step on anything loud. When I reach her, she’s already tied the squirrel by the feet and looped it onto her belt with the others. Four now.

“How do you do that?” I ask, still wide-eyed. “I didn’t even hear it.”

Katniss stands. “You learn what to listen for.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

She shrugs. “You’re not supposed to. That’s why they don’t see me coming.”

It’s not bragging. It’s just… fact.

I glance at the tree again. “Can you teach me?”

She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second I worry she’s going to say no. That she’s going to laugh or tell me I’m not ready or that one-handed kids with crooked socks don’t get to learn how to move like ghosts.

But she just nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

She glances over her shoulder and starts walking again. “First, you need to learn how to walk without scaring off the entire forest.”

I grin, relieved she didn’t say no. “I can be quiet.”

She snorts. “You? You’re the loudest eleven-year-old I’ve ever met.”

“I can be quiet,” I repeat, a little more serious.

She glances at me, lifts a brow like she’s not entirely convinced—but I think I see the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Alright then,” she says, nodding ahead. “Prove it.”

So I do. Or at least, I try. I step carefully, watching the way her boots land, where she avoids the dead branches and sticks. It’s harder than it looks. Everything wants to snap under my feet.

But Katniss doesn’t sigh this time. Doesn’t stop to correct me. Just keeps going. And for the first time since we stepped into these woods, I start to believe that maybe I belong here too.

We keep walking—slow and steady—until the trees thin just slightly, and a soft glimmer of sunlight breaks through the canopy. It filters down in dusty gold patches, catching on leaves and spiderwebs, turning the quiet world into something almost magical.

Katniss stops without warning, raising a hand. I freeze instantly.

She crouches low again, not like she’s hunting—just observing. Watching the way the light plays across a patch of ground ahead. Then, without looking at me, she murmurs, “Game trail. Look.”

I step closer and follow her gaze. At first, it just looks like dirt and leaves, same as everything else. But when I squint, I start to see it—soft, narrow impressions in the mud. A few broken twigs. A small print shaped like two long toes.

“That’s a turkey,” she says.

My eyes go wide. “There are turkeys in these woods?”

She glances up at me. “Plenty. If you know where to look.”

I nod, trying to memorize everything I’m seeing, like I can burn the shape of the tracks into my brain. She rises again and starts following the path. I trail behind her, careful now, trying not to break the spell. The woods feel… different. Not just trees anymore. They feel alive, like they’re holding stories, and I just haven’t learned the language yet.

We don’t talk much as we follow the trail. I think Katniss likes it that way. And honestly, I don’t mind. The quiet doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels full. Like there’s something waiting around every bend.

Eventually the trail peters out near a cluster of bushes, and Katniss lets out a soft breath, like she knew it would. “They usually don’t stay long in one place during the day.”

She kneels again, brushing her fingers over the tracks. Then she sits back on her heels and glances up at me. “Wanna see something cool?”

I nod immediately.

She moves to the side of the brush and parts the leaves gently. Behind it, tucked in a patch of grass and moss, is a hidden little nook filled with feathers—black and bronze, shimmering in the light.

“This is where they clean themselves,” she explains. “They kick up dust and dirt to get rid of mites.”

I crouch down beside her, leaning in to get a better look. “It’s like their version of a bath.”

Katniss nods. “Exactly.”

There’s something in her voice—not warm, exactly, but softer than before. Like she’s starting to enjoy explaining this stuff to me.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” I ask.

“Not today,” she says, standing again. “But maybe another morning.”

I glance down at the feathers, then up at the sky breaking through the trees. I feel tired, but not in a bad way. More like… full. Like my head is stuffed with new thoughts, new pictures, new versions of what a morning can be.

Katniss looks at me. “We should head back soon.”

I nod, and we turn around together, heading back toward the fence. Back toward the houses. But for the first time since we left the Victor’s Village, I don’t feel like I’m chasing her anymore.

As we start heading back, I can’t help myself.

“What kind of tree is that one?” I ask, pointing to one with dark, ridged bark and wide leaves.

“Black walnut,” Katniss answers without even looking. “Don’t eat them raw, they’re bitter. But you can crush the shells for dye.”

I blink. “You make dye?”

“Sometimes. Prim likes it.”

I keep going. “And that flower? The purple one?”

“Bee balm. Good for tea. Or insect bites.”

“And that bird?”

She finally glances at me, just briefly. “Chickadee. They’re curious little things, but useless when it comes to game. Make too much noise.”

I nod, trying to file it all away.

Then I ask, “Do you always remember everything like that?”

She shrugs. “You have to. Out here, it’s not just about finding food. It’s knowing where not to step, what not to touch. What might kill you and what might help you get through the winter.”

There’s no anger in her voice—just fact. Cold, but fair.

I fall quiet for a beat, then glance up at the trees again. “I used to think the woods was just trees and dirt and bugs.”

She huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh. “Yeah, most people do.”

“But with you… it’s like it has rules.”

She looks over at me for a second, then back to the path. “It does.”

I watch the way she walks—balanced, quiet, like she’s part of the forest, not a visitor. I’m clumsy and loud in comparison. But she hasn’t snapped at me in a while. That feels like progress.

“So if I learn the rules,” I ask cautiously, “do you think it’ll feel like I belong out here too?”

She pauses just long enough to make me nervous. Then: “Maybe. If you keep your questions smart and your feet quiet.”

I smile at that. “I can do that.”

She gives a noncommittal grunt, but I swear there’s a little upward twitch at the corner of her mouth.

And just like that, we keep walking—me, rattling off questions about leaves and rocks and prints in the dirt. Her, answering most of them with clipped but patient replies.

After a while, Katniss starts asking me questions too.

“How long until the cast comes off?”

I shift my arm in the sling. “Couple more weeks,” I say. “Two and a bit, maybe.”

She lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “Must be driving you crazy.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “I can’t wait to shower without Peeta having to tape a garbage bag to my arm.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, light and surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” I grin. “He takes it very seriously too. Makes this whole production out of it. Checks for leaks like he’s patching a sink.”

Katniss shakes her head, smiling. “Of course he does.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” I admit. “He helps me. Ties my shoes. Buttons up my pajamas. Braids my hair.”

“He braids your hair?” Katniss asks, eyebrows raised.

I nod. “Always did, even when I had two hands. Prim taught him some fancy ones too.”

She glances at me, clearly trying to picture it.

“I remember one afternoon,” I say, smiling at the memory, “we were all sitting on the floor in Peeta’s room. Prim had lined up a bunch of ribbons and hair ties, and she was doing these waterfall braids in my hair. Peeta was just watching so closely, like it was some kind of art. Then she made him try. His first one was awful,” I laugh a little, “but he kept practicing. He wanted to get it right.”

Katniss is quiet for a second. “It’s hard to imagine a boy doing his little sister’s hair.”

I shrug. “Peeta’s not like most boys.”

For a second, I think I see something flicker across Katniss’s face—something soft, something that almost looks like guilt or maybe just remembering. But then she looks away and keeps walking.

I’m about to ask if she’s okay when she speaks first.

“If I wanted to be friends with Peeta,” she says suddenly, not looking at me, “how would I start?”

I smirk. “What, you want him to braid your hair too?”

Katniss snorts, but it’s soft. Not annoyed. “Definitely not.”

I grin a little wider, nudging a branch out of the way as we walk. “Then you’re already off to a good start.”

She glances sideways at me, one eyebrow raised. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He’d be way too nervous to even look at you if you asked for something that involved touching your hair.”

Katniss lets out a quiet breath—maybe a laugh, maybe not. “So then what?”

I shrug. “Start small. Ask him about something he likes. Or tell him something real. Doesn’t have to be big, just… honest.”

We keep walking, the woods quiet around us, and after a few steps, I add, “He’ll meet you halfway. That’s just who he is.”

Katniss is quiet for a few more steps, then asks, “How do I even talk to him? I mean… the first time. Without it being weird.”

I tilt my head. “Peeta doesn’t make things weird,” I say honestly. “He’s easy to talk to. He can pretty much hold a conversation with anyone. You could ask about the weather and he’d turn it into a story.”

Katniss lets out a low breath. “Well, it’s a little harder when you pretended to be in love with him on national television.”

I nod slowly. “I guess.”

We walk a bit farther, and then I say, “Maybe you guys just need to be in the same room together. Let other people do the talking for a bit.”

Katniss glances at me, one brow raised. “And how do we do that?”

I smirk. “I’ll come up with something.”

She doesn’t respond right away, but I catch the corner of her mouth twitching. Not quite a smile, but close.

We continue toward the district, the light slanting low through the trees. Katniss walks beside me without that stiff tension she had this morning. We don’t talk much on the way back, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Like maybe we don’t need the words as much anymore.

Every once in a while, I catch her glancing at me—thoughtful, not guarded. Like she’s still turning everything over in her head. And I let her. Sometimes people need a little silence to understand what they’re feeling.

We walk until the trees start to thin and the air smells more like coal smoke than pine. That’s when I start to feel it—the weight of everything, settling back on my shoulders. But this time, it doesn’t crush me. Not completely.

Because for a few hours, I wasn’t just Briella Mellark, the girl with a cast and a broken family and too many questions. I was someone Katniss Everdeen chose to walk beside.

We reach the victors’ village and stop between our two houses, the quiet settling around us like a soft blanket.

Katniss starts untying the squirrels from her belt, holding them out toward me. “Your half of the haul.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t even do anything.”

She shrugs. “You kept me company.”

A small flicker of pride blooms inside me. I’m about to reach out for the squirrels when a plan starts to form in my head.

“Why don’t you just bring them inside? We can put them in the freezer, tell Peeta how it went.”

Katniss hesitates, brow furrowing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I tilt my head. “You said you wanted to be friends.”

She looks away for a moment. “I know. But I thought I’d have more time to… I don’t know… prepare.”

Then she adds quietly, “And there’s not gonna be anyone else there. You said we’d have more people.”

I start walking toward the house, determination settling in my chest. “This is just step one.”

Katniss watches me for a moment, then nods slowly and follows.

I open the door, and Peeta’s in the kitchen. He looks up, his voice careful. “How did it go?”

I smile, feeling a little spark of hope. “Really good.”

Peeta’s relief is instant—he smiles back, softening. He’s about to say something when Katniss appears in the doorway.

“Hey,” she says awkwardly, holding two squirrels by their feet.

“Hey,” Peeta replies, just as stiff.

I don’t falter. “Well, we should get those squirrels in the freezer.”

“Squirrels?” Peeta blinks, confused.

“My half of the haul,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Peeta nods slowly, still trying to put two and two together. He moves over to a drawer and pulls out some parchment paper. Katniss steps forward and holds out the two skinned squirrels.

Peeta takes them gently. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

It’s almost painful to watch—the quiet tension hanging thick between them. So hopefully, what I’m about to do doesn’t blow up in my face.

I look up at Peeta and smile. “You should make them tonight—how Dad used to, in the pan with the oil and potatoes.”

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sure.”

Then I turn to Katniss, feeling bold.

“You should come too.”

They both freeze like I just announced I’m volunteering for the next Hunger Games.

Katniss and Peeta exchange awkward glances, both starting to mumble excuses.

“I—uh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Katniss finally says, voice hesitant.

Peeta adds, “Yeah, it might be late by the time we finish…”

I cut them off before they can get any further.

“Prim would love it. She came over once during the Games, and Dad made the same thing. She said it was really good.”

Katniss opens her mouth to respond, but I jump in again,

“Rye will love it too.”

Peeta starts to say something, but I look straight at Katniss. “Tell your mom to come. Wouldn’t want to leave her out.”

Peeta frowns a little. “I don’t think two squirrels are enough for that many people.”

I wave my good hand, grinning. “We’ve got chicken in the freezer—just add some of that too. Meat is meat, right?”

I look to Katniss, “It’ll be great—food, lots of people.” I emphasize the last word. She nods, catching on.

I turn back to Peeta. “Seven sound good?”

He clears his throat, then nods slowly. “Uh, yeah. Seven should be fine.”

Katniss says, “Uhh, okay then. I better put the rest of the meat in the freezer.”

“See you at seven,” Peeta says, already turning back to the drawer.

Katniss nods.

The kitchen feels heavy for a second after he turns away, like all the tension just thickened in the air. But then Katniss and I lock eyes. Her expression softens—there’s a flicker of something like warmth or approval. She offers a small, genuine smile, and in that instant, the awkwardness between us shifts just a little.

I smile back. And for once, it feels like maybe this could work.

The door clicks shut behind her, but I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the wood for a second longer, a slow smile pulling at my mouth.

“Maybe we should invite Haymitch too,” I say lightly, still watching the door. “Make it a full party.”

Behind me, there’s the sound of Peeta setting something down on the counter—a little too hard.

“Briella, don’t.”

I freeze. He never calls me that.

Slowly, I turn toward him. “What?”

Peeta’s already looking at me, jaw set, his hands gripping the edge of the counter like he’s bracing himself against something. His eyes are steady but tight, the blue in them cold with warning.

“You can’t just spring things like that on people,” he says, voice low and clipped. Controlled—but barely.

My brow furrows. “She didn’t say no,” I shoot back, trying to keep my voice even, but it comes out sharper than I meant.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. “That’s not the point.”

“So what is the point, then?”

He lifts one hand from the counter, gesturing at the door like it explains everything. “You sprung it on me.”

“You didn’t say no either.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, and that lands harder than I expected.

Something shifts in my chest—confusion, maybe. Or a sting of something like guilt. But I double down anyway. “So what, you’re saying you don’t want her here?”

He drags a hand down his face, jaw tightening further. “It’s complicated.”

I take a step forward. “Well maybe I can help you un-complicate it.”

His eyes flash. “You don’t understand the situation.”

“I understood enough to help Katniss today,” I snap. “When we were in the woods.”

That stops him. For a second, he just stares at me, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m really saying.

Then he laughs—a single, humorless breath through his nose. “Oh, so that’s what you did?” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “Sat around braiding each other’s hair, talking about me?”

It hits me like a slap, but not in the way I expect. I just stare at him, stunned—not by the words themselves, but by the way he said it. Like it’s something silly. Like it’s something to be ashamed of.

That he boiled it down to that—like the only thing two girls could do in the woods is braid each other’s hair and gossip. Like anything soft or quiet or mine can’t possibly matter.

And the worst part? He never does this. He never snaps like this. He never makes the things I do feel pointless or stupid.

Except when it’s about Katniss.

That realization settles in my chest, heavy and cold. Just like yesterday morning, when I first brought up going into the woods. There’s something about Katniss that flips a switch in him—not anger exactly, but fear, maybe. Or something close enough to it that he hides behind sarcasm and sharp edges.

And suddenly, this doesn’t feel like it’s about dinner at all.

I swallow hard and look at him, my voice sharp. “You braid my hair.”

He blinks, thrown off. “What?”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask bitterly. “You braid my hair. Is that stupid too?”

Peeta’s face shifts immediately. He softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you said it,” I fire back, arms still crossed tightly across my chest.

“I know,” he says quickly, voice lower now. “I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean—”

“Then why did you?” My eyes don’t leave his. I want to know. I need to.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

So I answer for him.

“Because of Katniss,” I say quietly. “Because every time I bring her up, you either change the subject or say stuff you never say.”

Peeta looks like he’s been caught in a spotlight—like I just said something out loud he wasn’t ready to admit even to himself. His mouth presses into a thin line.

“I know,” he says again, and this time it’s even softer. “I’m sorry.”

The room feels still after that. The kind of still that makes you aware of every breath, every space between words. My arms drop to my sides.

I look down for a second, then back up at him. My voice isn’t angry now. Just tired.

“Why don’t you just talk to me about it?”

Peeta doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales, slow and tight, his eyes flicking to the side like he’s trying to find a safer place to look.

Then, quietly, barely above a whisper: “Because it hurts.”

That lands between us like a truth neither of us wanted to say out loud. And for a second, I just stare at him.

Because I think—this might be the first time he’s ever said that. That something hurt. Not hinted at it. Not smiled through it. Just said it, plain. Peeta doesn’t do that. He’s the one who always hides it, always pretends he’s fine so no one else has to worry. So I don’t have to worry. Like if he admits he’s hurting, he’s putting weight on someone else’s shoulders.

But now he’s not hiding. Not from me.

I nod, swallowing around something thick in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For inviting her over. I didn’t know it would—”

I stop. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for exactly. For cornering him? For making things harder? For trying to help?

Peeta shakes his head gently. “It’s okay,” he says, voice low. “You didn’t know. I never told you.”

His eyes drop to the counter. He rubs his thumb along the edge like he’s trying to smooth something that can’t be fixed. “I should’ve told you. I just… didn’t want to make it real.”

I blink slowly. That quiet ache settles deeper in my chest, but it doesn’t feel like guilt anymore. Just love and sadness, all tangled up.

Peeta doesn’t look at me right away. His hands are still braced on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense like he’s holding something back. Then, finally, he exhales—long and shaky—and turns just enough for me to see his face.

“Every time I think about Katniss,” he says quietly, “I’m back on that train.”

My chest tightens.

“The ride home, after the Games. When she told me it was all an act. That whole time I was thinking I finally got the girl of my dreams… she was just pretending.” His voice falters for a second, but he keeps going, a kind of numb steadiness in his words. “The whole world saw me acting like a love-sick puppy. And she was just being strategic. Just trying to survive.”

He shakes his head, his jaw clenched like the memory is something he’s had to bite down on for too long.

“So I shut her out,” he continues. “’Cause I couldn’t even look at her without remembering all that. And I brushed you off,”—his eyes lift to meet mine, guilt flickering in them—“because I didn’t want you to see how messed up I was over it. You were already dealing with enough. You didn’t need me falling apart too.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. My throat feels tight.

Because this is it. This is the first time he’s let me see it—not just the cracks, but what’s underneath them. Not the Capitol’s damage, not a wound from the Games, but the quiet, personal kind of pain. The kind he always hides so I won’t have to carry it.

I take a small step toward him. “You don’t have to hide stuff from me, you know,” I say, my voice quiet but steady. “We’re supposed to fix each other’s messes. That’s the deal.”

Peeta lets out a humorless breath, almost a laugh. “No, that’s not the deal. I fix your messes. You’re not supposed to have to deal with my crap.”

I tilt my head, and despite everything, a crooked little smile tugs at my mouth. “I’ve been dealing with your Katniss ‘crap’”—I lift my good hand and attempt a one-handed air quote—“since I was old enough to talk.”

That gets a real laugh out of him, soft and reluctant, but real. He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess you have.”

He finally looks at me, really looks at me, and says, “Sorry for being so crazy.”

I shrug. “I think it’s genetic. We’re all a little crazy.”

That pulls a smile from him—soft, sheepish—but then it fades into something more thoughtful. He leans back slightly, arms still crossed. “I think you’re right. I think this dinner might actually be a good thing.”

I tilt my head, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m gonna have to get used to seeing Katniss. The Victory Tour’s in less than two months, and after that we’re going to be mentors together. It’s better I figure all this stuff out before the cameras get here.”

I nod, feeling an unexpected surge of pride. Like maybe I helped him get there—just a little.

But then it shifts.

Victory Tour.

He’s really going. He’ll be gone for weeks. I know it’s not like he’s heading back into the arena, but still—I’m not ready to be away from him again.

And then the thought hits harder: he’s going to be a mentor. Next summer. That means… I remember Snow’s words. The threat. The one I’ve been avoiding, burying under easier days and half-healed bones.

Peeta in the viewing box. Me in the arena.

I haven’t thought about it in so long—not really. Things have been so easy lately, I almost let myself forget.

My breath starts to hitch, but then Peeta hooks his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into him. The scent of flour and something warmer—like home—wraps around me as he kisses the top of my head.

“Since when did you get so smart?” he murmurs.

I force a smile and lean into him. “It’s weird, right? I haven’t been in school for over a month, and somehow I got smarter.”

He gives a soft huff of amusement, his arm still draped around my shoulder. But I don’t say anything else. I just stand there, curled into him, while his words settle around me like a blanket that doesn’t quite cover all the cold spots.

Because underneath the warmth, something else is starting to stir.

The tour. Mentoring. The arena.

It all clicks together in my head like gears grinding into motion—loud and sharp and unstoppable.

Peeta’s going to be gone. First for weeks. Then, next summer, he’ll be my mentor. Part of me wanted to believe it was just a threat. Something to make me squirm. To keep me scared, small, for another year.

But a bigger part of me knows better.

I’m getting reaped. Snow wasn’t bluffing. He was planning. And all of this—this quiet, this warmth, Peeta’s arm around me—it’s going to be ripped away, and I’ll be thrown into the Games. Less than a year from now. That’s all the time I get.

My eyes fall to my cast, remembering how his fingers curled around it like it was already a leash—a silent claim that no matter what I do, I’m still his possession. The roughness of his touch, the way it chilled my skin through the plaster, stays with me. It’s not just a cast. It’s a reminder. Of control. Of limits. Of the cage I’m trapped in.

I can feel the spiral starting. But I don’t let it pull me under.

Because no matter what Snow does, I can’t stop it. There’s nothing I can do. So I’m not letting him ruin whatever time I have left.

Not today.

I shift a little, letting my body fall heavier into Peeta’s side, and tilt my head up toward him.

“Can you get a garbage bag?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “I wanna take a shower. I smell like dirt and trees.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Thank God. I thought you were gonna walk around like that all day.”

I nudge him with my elbow, and even though my chest still feels heavy, I smile back.

Chapter Text

When I finish my awkward, one-handed shower, Peeta helps me get dressed and braids my hair like usual. He’s gentle and careful, not saying much, just humming quietly under his breath like he always does when it’s quiet. Then he slips into the bathroom to take his own shower.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the silence presses in. I haven’t felt that in so long—that fear that creeps in the moment someone leaves the room. Things have gotten so easy lately. I’ve felt safe. I forgot about the threat. But now I’m right back to those first few weeks after we got home from the hospital, stuck in a loop, hearing Snow’s voice over and over in my head until someone would walk in and interrupt it.

I flop down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

I’ve gotten pretty good at being alone. Normally, I’d just sit in the quiet and make up stories in my head, like the kind Peeta used to tell me. Silly ones. Cozy ones. The kind where nothing bad ever happened for long. But now it’s just Snow. His voice, his smile, his stupid cold hands wrapped around my cast like it belonged to him. I told myself I wouldn’t let him ruin it. I meant it. But right now, he’s all I can think about.

I try to think of something to distract myself.

Prim won’t be home from school for another few hours. Rye’s still at the bakery. I think about maybe going to see Katniss, but that feels… like too much. She already let me follow her into the woods today, already did more than she had to. I don’t want to show up at her door like some overly enthusiastic puppy.

I roll over onto my side, digging my cheek into the pillow. And then it hits me.

Haymitch.

I haven’t talked to him since… yesterday. He probably wants to hear about the woods. I mean, he was the one who told me to ask Katniss in the first place—though maybe that was just to get me off his porch. Still. Whatever. I want to talk to him. Maybe talking to him will settle my head—before Snow’s shadow grows too big.

I head downstairs and slip Peeta’s jacket back on,Bit’s warm from earlier, still smells like the woods—and head out the front door. The wind hits my damp braid and makes me shiver a little, but I tug the jacket tighter around me and keep walking. My boots aren’t even tied, just loosely shoved on my feet, one lace dragging as I cross the yard.

This time, when I knock on Haymitch’s door, I don’t hesitate. I don’t pause with my hand mid-air, second-guessing myself like last time, unsure if he’d even open the door. I just knock. Once. Twice. Firm and clear.

There’s a long beat of nothing.

Just when I start to wonder if he’s even home, I hear the lock rattle. The door creaks open, and Haymitch stands in the doorway.

He stops when he sees me. His eyes move slowly over me in one long sweep—damp braid stuck to my shoulder, Peeta’s oversized jacket hanging loose around me, one sleeve flopping, boots untied and smudging dirt across his porch.