Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The squirrel perches on a distant branch, oblivious to the fact that it's already in my sights. I steady my breath, narrowing my eyes as I draw back the bowstring. With a practiced release, the arrow flies true, and I hear the satisfying thud as the animal tumbles to the forest floor. A faint smirk tugs at my lips as I stride over to retrieve it, carefully pulling the arrow from its eye before slipping the squirrel into my game bag.

I press on with the hunt, slipping silently through the tangled woods. Branches brush against my jacket like whispering ghosts, and my boots ghost over the crunch of dry leaves and twigs without a sound. My body moves on instinct, honed by years of survival, but my mind wanders, betraying me. It drifts back to the looming shadow of the marriage reaping.

I'm in the final cohort of young adults forced into this twisted lottery. By this afternoon, I could be bound in marriage to a stranger—a man I'll have to spend the rest of my life with, bearing his children, building a future I never chose.

Ever since the Rebellion's end, every single person between eighteen and twenty has undergone these humiliating examinations, paired off based on some cold calculation of physical compatibility for childbirth. It's invasive, degrading, and utterly pointless in my eyes. Yet here I am, just turned eighteen, staring down the barrel of this nightmare.

The Rebellion ignited long before I was born, sparked by a girl named Lucy Gray whose defiance set the districts ablaze. Before her, there were the Hunger Games—those barbaric arenas where children slaughtered each other for the Capitol's entertainment. My Uncle Haymitch, a Victor from the 50th Games, struck a crucial blow when he shattered the arena itself, fanning the flames of revolution.

The war dragged on, bitter and bloody, ripping through every corner of Panem. My father and Uncle Haymitch fought alongside countless others under Alma Coin's banner. In the end, the rebels won. President Snow and his cronies were executed, and Coin was installed as our new leader, promising a fresh start.

But victory left Panem in ruins. The population was decimated—mines in District 12 stood empty, fields in District 11 withered untended, factories across the districts rusted in silence. Desperate to repopulate and rebuild, President Coin decreed the marriage reaping. Now, after years of her iron-fisted policy, we've swung to the other extreme: too many mouths to feed, too much resentment simmering in the streets.

Her presidency is crumbling under district pressure, but she's clinging to power long enough to oversee this last reaping. And she's making it worse than ever. In past years, couples were just expected to have one child eventually, on their own timeline. Now? We're to conceive immediately after the vows. Fail, and you're reassigned to someone new until you succeed. It doesn't feel like a path to renewal anymore—it feels like punishment, pure and simple.

I crouch low in the underbrush, my fingers deftly plucking ripe strawberries from their tangled patches. The berries are vibrant crimson, plump and bursting with juice—perfect for trading with Madge. Madge, my closest friend from town, always swears mine taste worlds better than those cloyingly sweet imports from the Capitol, the ones laced with artificial flavors that turn your stomach after a few bites.

I carefully set aside a small handful for Prim, picturing the way her blue eyes sparkle like sunlight on water when she sees her favorite treat. But with the marriage reaping looming, each moment in these woods feels like a stolen breath—bittersweet, precious, and all too fleeting. Soon, I might be chained to a life I never wanted, far from this freedom.

"Looking a little glum there, Catnip," a familiar voice teases, pulling me sharply from my reverie. I glance over my shoulder, my scowl deepening instinctively. There stands Gale Hawthorne, my hunting partner and the one person who knows me better than anyone, leaning casually against a gnarled oak tree. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and three rabbits dangle from his belt by their hind legs, their fur still warm from the snares.

"And you're not?" I retort, my voice edged with challenge as I turn back to the berries, though my hands pause mid-pluck.

He shrugs, that easy nonchalance of his masking the tension I know simmers beneath. "Not particularly. There are worse fates than marriage, you know."

I scoff, the sound sharp and bitter in the quiet forest air. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to carry a baby for nine months, feel it kick and twist inside you, or push it into a world that's still broken." I stand up slowly, brushing dirt from my knees, and fasten the two leather pouches brimming with strawberries to my belt, their weight a small comfort against the uncertainty ahead.

Gale pushes off the tree, his gray eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something vulnerable—hope, maybe? "What if we get paired? It could happen. We already hunt together, know each other's rhythms like the back of our hands. Our quirks mesh. It'd make sense, wouldn't it?"

I straighten fully, facing him head-on, my braid swinging against my back. "I'd rather not marry at all," I say bluntly, the words tasting like ash. "And besides, the odds aren't in our favor. You know how they rig these things—compatibility tests, blood samples, all that invasive nonsense. It's not about what we want."

"There's still a chance," he insists, his voice stubborn as he falls into step beside me. We weave through the trees toward the fence line, our boots crunching softly over fallen leaves in unison, like we've done a hundred times before.

I shake my head, firm and unyielding. "Honestly, Gale, I'd rather it be some stranger who keeps to himself, leaves me be in the evenings. I value our friendship too much to risk twisting it into something else. And... I've seen what love can do. What it did to my mother. I don't want that kind of ruin for myself—or for you."

The words hang between us like a heavy fog, thick and unspoken. Gale falls silent, nodding once in quiet understanding. He doesn't need me to elaborate; we've shared this shadow for years. Our fathers perished in the same mine explosion—a deafening blast that ripped through District 12's underbelly, claiming dozens of lives in an instant. The memory clings to us like coal dust: my mother's hollow stare, Prim's quiet sobs in the night, the way my own heart hardened into a shield. Gale's family shattered too, leaving him as the reluctant provider for his siblings and mother.

In the aftermath, President Coin decreed the mines shut down for good, pivoting District 12 toward a medical economy. Sleek machines from the Capitol now handle the digging, supervised by former miners in safer roles above ground—monitoring gauges, maintaining equipment, away from the suffocating dark. But that change came too late for our families, too late to spare us the grief that reshaped our lives.

Uncle Haymitch—my father's closest friend, the gruff Victor who's always been more family than blood—stepped in when everything crumbled. His unofficial liquor trade, brewed in hidden stills deep in the woods, mostly fed his own demons, but the scraps he tossed our way kept the roof over our heads while my mother unraveled. She became a ghost in our home, lost in her sorrow, leaving me, at just eleven, to shoulder the burden of keeping Prim alive.

That's when I started hunting in earnest, driven by raw desperation and the faint echoes of my father's lessons—how to string a bow, set a snare, track a deer through the mist. I was scrawny back then, barely strong enough to draw the string fully, but I managed squirrels and the occasional wild turkey. It was enough to stave off starvation, to trade for scraps of bread or thread.

Then, two years later, I met Gale out here in the woods—another kid with haunted eyes and empty hands. Together, we turned survival into something sustainable. Our hauls at the Hob brought in fabric for mending clothes, buttons for Prim's dresses, even the rare luxury like soap or a sliver of cheese. It eased the weight on my shoulders, made the days a little less grim.

Things shifted two years ago, when my mother seemed to wake from her trance overnight. She pulled herself together, started working at the district hospital as a healer—bandaging wounds, mixing poultices, drawing on the knowledge she'd buried deep. Prim forgave her instantly, her trust blooming like spring flowers, but for me... the skepticism lingers, a thorn in my side. I'm glad for her recovery, truly, but I still hunt at dawn, still tally our supplies, still brace for the day she might slip away again. Trust doesn't mend as easily as bones.

We approach the electrified fence that separates the woods from the Seam, its faint hum missing due to years of being shut off. I crouch down to slip under the loose section we've used for years, the grass tickling my palms as I prepare to wriggle through. But before I can move, Gale's hand closes around mine—warm, callused from snares and axes—pulling me gently but insistently back toward him. My breath catches in surprise as he turns me to face him, his other hand rising to cup my cheek with a tenderness I've rarely seen from him.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses me. It's soft at first, tentative, then deepening with the weight of unspoken years. Instinctively, I kiss him back, my hands finding his shoulders, drawing comfort from his familiar scent—a grounding mix of damp earth from the forest floor, sharp pine resin clinging to his clothes, and the subtle warmth of his skin, like sunlight filtering through leaves. For a fleeting moment, the world narrows to this: no reaping, no forced marriages, just us in the shadow of the trees.

He pulls back slowly, his gray eyes locking onto mine, searching with a vulnerability that twists something inside me. His thumb traces a gentle path along my cheekbone, lingering as if to memorize the feel. "Anything?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, laced with hope but braced for the answer he already suspects.

I hesitate, my heart a tangled mess of conflict. Part of me aches to say yes—to ignite that spark, to let it bloom into something more, something that could shield us from the uncertainty ahead. But it's not there, not in the way he wants. Gale is my anchor, my partner in survival, the one who understands the hunger in my bones and the fire in my veins. He's irreplaceable, a brother in arms forged in loss and necessity. But love? The kind that consumes, that leaves you shattered like my mother after the mine collapse? That's not us. Not me.

"Gale," I say at last, my voice soft yet steady, like the draw of my bowstring, "I can't risk what we have. Our friendship... it's everything to me. You're everything to me—as you are."

His shoulders sag just a fraction, the hope flickering out like a dying ember, but he manages a rueful smile, one corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that always eases the tension between us. "Yeah, I figured as much. But I had to try, Catnip. At least once, before... well, before everything changes."

He nods toward the fence, then bends to hold the wire higher, creating a wider gap for me to slip through first. I duck under, the cool metal brushing my back, and emerge on the other side into the open meadow. The wildflowers sway gently in the breeze, their colors a stark contrast to the gray drudgery of the Seam beyond—yellow buttercups and purple asters dotting the green expanse, a fleeting beauty that feels all the more precious with the reaping hanging over us like a storm cloud.

Gale follows swiftly, straightening up beside me, and we fall into step without another word about the kiss. The awkwardness lingers for a beat, thick as fog, but we push it aside, resuming our easy banter about the day's haul and tomorrow's snares—anything to skirt the edge of what just happened. It's our way, burying the complicated under layers of practicality.

Together, we trudge back toward the district, the path winding through the meadow toward the smoke rising from distant chimneys. The reality of the marriage reaping awaits us there, cold and unyielding, but for now, we leave our tangled feelings safely tucked away in the woods, where they belong—untouched, unresolved, and out of reach from the world that's already taken so much.

/

My mother stands behind me, her fingers gentle as she pins the last section of my intricate braid to the back of my head, tucking away any rebellious strands with the care of someone handling fragile glass. In the cracked, age-spotted mirror propped against our bedroom wall, I catch her faint smile—a tentative curve of lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes. But my own reflection stares back expressionless, my face a mask of stoic resolve. Her touch lingers, hesitant, as if she's testing the fragile bridge we've rebuilt between us after all these years of silence and sorrow.

"There," she murmurs, her voice soft as a sigh, stepping back to survey her work with a mix of pride and quiet melancholy. "Now you truly look like a bride, Katniss. Beautiful and strong, just like your father always said you would be."

She pauses, her eyes searching mine in the mirror, waiting for some spark of acknowledgment—a smile, a nod, anything to ease the tension humming in the air. When nothing comes, when I remain silent and still, she offers another small, resigned smile, the kind that's laced with unspoken apologies. Then, with a gentle pat on my shoulder, she turns and slips from the room, leaving me alone in the heavy quiet, the door clicking shut like a final punctuation.

I stand there, gazing at my unfamiliar self in the mirror. The dress—my mother's old wedding gown—clings to me in ways that feel both intimate and alien. It's no longer the pristine white it once was, faded now to a soft cream from years of storage in our drafty attic, but it's simple and modest, just like her. The hem skims just above my knees, edged with delicate white lace that whispers against my skin with every subtle shift.

Without my sturdy hunting boots, replaced by these impractical white shoes with their slight heel—borrowed from Madge's mother, no doubt—I feel off-balance, less like the girl who slips through the woods like a shadow and more like a stranger in my own body. The heels make my steps tentative, my posture straighter, but they rob me of the grounded certainty I've always relied on.

This was the dress she wore when she married my father, back when District 12 still echoed with the rumble of mines and the promise of a simpler life. At first, I wanted nothing to do with it—nothing that tied me to traditions or expectations I never asked for. But Prim's eyes, wide and hopeful as she traced the lace with her small fingers, had worn me down.

And in this moment of upheaval, when I look and feel so far from my usual self—braid slung over one shoulder, jacket smeared with forest dirt—wearing it brings a quiet comfort. It's as if my father's presence lingers in the worn fabric, a faint echo of his laughter and strength wrapping around me like a shield. That's what ultimately swayed me, that invisible thread to him. Of course, my mother had to take it in considerably; I'm much thinner than she ever was, my frame honed by hunger and hard work rather than the softer curves of her youth.

My hair, typically in a no-nonsense braid tossed carelessly over my shoulder for practicality in the woods, is now swept into an elegant updo at the nape of my neck. It's still me at the core—functional, not frivolous—but the style softens my edges, makes me look prettier, more refined. Elegant, even. The word bubbles up in my mind, and I nearly laugh, the sound bitter and hollow in the empty room. Elegant? I've never been that. Too rough around the edges, too scarred by survival, too quick with a bow and too slow with graces that don't keep you alive.

I draw in a deep, steadying breath, my hands smoothing down the front of the dress in a futile attempt to calm the storm inside. This all feels so surreal, like a dream I can't wake from—that today, of all days, I'll be married. Bound to a stranger, selected by the Capitol's cold, calculated logic of compatibility and reproduction, as if we're nothing more than pieces in President Coin's grand repopulation puzzle.

The walk to the Justice Building stretches out before me, and I take my time, deliberately slowing my pace to savor these final slivers of solitude and freedom. The path winds through the Seam's dusty lanes, past ramshackle homes with smoke curling from chimneys and children playing in the dirt, their laughter a stark contrast to the knot twisting in my gut.

The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of coal dust and wildflowers from the meadow, and with each step, my mind spirals into anxious whirlwinds about the unknown ahead. Who will my husband be? I hope, with a quiet desperation, that he'll at least be tolerable—kind enough to share a roof without malice, practical enough to build a life without demands. Most pairings I've seen end up civil, sometimes even evolving into a wary friendship born of shared burdens. But the horror stories... they cling to me like shadows, whispered around flickering cooking fires in the Seam or traded like secrets at the Hob.

My stomach churns as I recall poor Levvy, a girl from the Seam just a year older than me, matched last reaping to a brute whose cruelty was infamous even before the vows. He was a former miner, broad and bitter, with fists that spoke louder than words. Weeks after the ceremony, she started appearing in town with bruises blooming like dark flowers on her arms, her eyes shadowed by hollow circles that told of sleepless nights and silent tears.

Now she has a child with him—a squalling baby that binds her to him forever under Coin's unyielding rules. No escape, no reassignment once conception sticks. The thought alone sends a wave of nausea through me, hot and angry and laced with fear. How could anyone endure that? Being forced to bear children for someone who despises you, who twists love into a weapon?

I shiver despite the mild air, wrapping my arms tightly around myself as if to ward off the chill of possibility. I'm no stranger to hardship—skilled with a bow, able to track game through the densest woods, to provide and survive when the world turns cruel. But hand-to-hand fighting? Close-quarters brutality? That's never been my strength; I've always relied on distance, on cunning over raw power. If I ended up like Levvy, facing abuse day after day... I don't know if I could bear it, if my spirit wouldn't fracture under the weight.

And yet, even in the darkest moments, when death might seem like mercy, I couldn't choose that path. Not with Prim depending on me. She'd shatter if I left her, especially if our mother slipped back into that catatonic void she inhabited after the mine explosion. My suffering, however deep, is a price I'd pay a thousand times over to keep Prim safe, to shield her light from the shadows that have already claimed so much of our family.

The Justice Building looms into view at last, its stark facade rising like a judgment against the sky—cold stone and iron bars, a relic of the old regime repurposed for Coin's new tyrannies. A knot of anxiety tightens painfully in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs, but I gather every scrap of strength I have, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin high. Whoever they pair me with, whatever twisted fate awaits on the other side of those doors, I'll endure it. Not for the Capitol, not for Coin's grand vision. For Prim. Always for Prim.

I sit in one of the stark waiting rooms inside the Justice Building, my fingers twisting restlessly in my lap as anxiety coils tight in my chest like a snare ready to snap. The room is divided as sharply as District 12 itself, with the Merchant girls clustered on one side, their pristine white dresses gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights—elaborate confections adorned with swirling patterns, sparkling jewelry that catches every flicker, strings of pearls draped elegantly around necks, and meticulous embroidery that speaks of hours spent in well-lit homes with plenty to spare.

On the other side, we Seam girls huddle in our faded hand-me-downs, dresses worn thin by time and passed from mothers or grandmothers, their colors muted to grays and yellowed whites. The luckier ones among us might pin on a simple brooch or clasp a delicate necklace—a cherished family heirloom that carries the weight of generations—but even those feel like fragile armor against the uncertainty ahead.

"You look nervous," Madge whispers from beside me, her voice a soft thread cutting through the low hum of anxious murmurs. I turn to her, taking in her appearance. Her dress stands out even among the Merchants' finery: beautiful in its simplicity, elegantly tailored with a modest hem skimming just above her knees. The sleeves puff gently at the shoulders, and a large, neat bow ties at the small of her back, adding a touch of whimsy. But it's the golden birds embroidered around her collar that draw my eye—mockingjays, their wings spread in defiant flight, a subtle nod to rebellion that makes my breath hitch.

I sigh, leaning in closer so our words stay between us. "I am," I confess quietly, the admission tasting like defeat. "It's not just the reaping—it's who I'll end up with. Some stranger I'll have to build a life around, like it or not."

Madge nods, her blue eyes mirroring my unease, a shared storm brewing in their depths. "I get it," she murmurs, her tone laced with empathy. "People think being the mayor's daughter gives me some edge, but it doesn't. No special treatment, no pulled strings. I'm right there with you, Katniss—terrified of what comes next."

I study her for a moment, this girl who's become one of the few I truly respect in a district full of whispers and walls. Madge isn't like the other Merchant girls, giggling over boys or fussing with silk ribbons in the schoolyard. She's thoughtful, grounded, with a quiet strength that reminds me of the stories I've heard about her aunt, Maysilee Donner.

Maysilee died in the 50th Hunger Games, fighting alongside Uncle Haymitch in that blood-soaked arena, forging a bond that echoes through our families even now. It's clear Madge inherited that same unyielding spirit, a rarity in a world that grinds down the bold and rewards the compliant.

"At least you won't get paired with someone like Levvy's husband," I say softly, a shudder rippling through me at the memory of that poor girl's haunted face. "The Capitol wouldn't dare be that sloppy with the mayor's daughter. Too much at stake."

She hums thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the edge of one mockingjay on her collar. "Maybe. But even if I dodge the worst, I'll still be trapped in a role I never chose. My husband? He'll apprentice under my father, groom himself to take over as mayor one day. And me? I'll be expected to stand pretty at his side, hosting teas and smiling through speeches, birthing heirs to keep the line going." Her voice sharpens with bitterness, a rare crack in her composed facade. "The world's supposedly safer now, post-Rebellion, but for girls like us? The chains are just prettier. Nothing's really changed."

Her words hit home, stirring the familiar anger that simmers in my veins. I've felt that same frustration a hundred times at the Hob, where grizzled men—former miners with coal-blackened hands and outdated notions—grumble about how hunting's no job for a young woman like me. "Get yourself to a kitchen, girl," they'd sneer, "barefoot and pregnant, like it's meant to be." Gale always steps in, his voice thundering in my defense, but I don't need him to fight my battles.

I've shut them down myself more than once, my stare cold as winter frost: "Unless you're volunteering to feed three starving women, keep your mouth shut and buy the damn squirrel." It works, usually—they back off, muttering, but the judgment lingers like smoke.

Madge and I exchange a brief, knowing smile, a spark of solidarity in the midst of the dread. It's a small comfort, fleeting as a mockingjay's call, but it's shattered when a Peacekeeper strides into the room, his boots echoing like thunder on the tiled floor. He clears his throat, the sound cutting through the air like a whip, and an instant hush falls over us all, the tension thickening until it's hard to breathe. He unfolds a crisp list, his voice flat and mechanical as he begins calling names, each one sealing a fate.

My heart stutters painfully when he reaches mine—"Katniss Everdeen." The words hang in the air, heavy as lead. Slowly, I rise to my feet, my legs unsteady beneath me, the heels of my shoes wobbling on the uneven floor. This is it—the end of one life, the forced beginning of another. A short walk down a sterile hallway, a curt ceremony in some echoing chamber, and then... a new last name whispered like a sentence. My entire world, reshaped in an instant.

I glance over my shoulder at Madge, who's right behind me as we form a single file line and begin shuffling forward down the dimly lit hallway. Her eyes meet mine, steady and reassuring, a silent anchor in the storm of nerves churning inside me. In that fleeting moment, the rigid lines that divide Merchant from Seam blur into nothing—we're no longer daughters of privilege or poverty, just two girls grasping for courage in a world that's stripped us of choice.

I come to a halt outside the imposing mahogany door, its polished surface gleaming under the Justice Building's cold lights, and anxiety pools heavy in my stomach like molten lead. My future husband waits on the other side—a stranger in name, perhaps, but one whose face will soon rewrite my life. The Peacekeeper stationed beside me shifts impatiently, his gloved hand rapping knuckles against the wood in a sharp, echoing rhythm that sets my teeth on edge. My heart lurches when a deep, muffled voice responds from within, granting permission to enter.

"Get moving, girl," the Peacekeeper growls, his tone laced with boredom and contempt as he gives me a rough shove between the shoulder blades. I swallow a sharp retort—words won't change a thing here—and instead draw in a steadying breath, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cool brass handle, gripping it like a lifeline.

The door creaks open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a small, stuffy office bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp. A plump, gray-haired man sits comfortably behind a massive oak desk cluttered with papers and official seals, his round face creased in what he probably thinks is a welcoming smile. Another man occupies one of the two sturdy wooden chairs facing the desk, his back to me, his posture straight but tense.

"Come in, dear—don't be shy! Have a seat right here," the older man calls out cheerfully, his Capitol accent thick and syrupy, grating against my raw nerves like sandpaper. He gestures to the empty chair with a flourish, as if this were a casual tea party and not the forced binding of two lives.

I step inside hesitantly, the door thudding shut behind me with a finality that echoes in my chest. As I approach the vacant seat beside my intended husband, I steal a quick, cautious glance at his profile, and my breath catches sharp in my throat. Ashy blond curls tumble carelessly across his forehead, the ends brushing against thick, expressive eyebrows that furrow slightly in concentration. His jaw is strong yet softened by a kindness I've glimpsed before, his broad shoulders held with a composed tension that speaks of quiet strength.

Peeta Mellark.

I know him—or rather, I know of him, from schoolyard glimpses and whispered stories among the Merchants. But one memory surges forward unbidden, pulling me back to a time when despair had me in its grip, sharper than any snare. It was mere months after the mine explosion stole my father, leaving our home a hollow shell of grief. Rain poured down in relentless sheets that day, soaking through my threadbare clothes and chilling my eleven-year-old bones to the marrow.

The thought of hunting—of stepping into the woods with my bow—hadn't yet taken root in my desperate mind. Instead, hunger drove me to scavenge the Merchant district's trash bins, my small hands rummaging through the refuse in a futile search for anything edible. But they'd all been emptied recently, leaving me empty-handed and hollow-hearted.

I stumbled upon the bakery's bins last, spotting a few meager scraps amid the soggy waste. Before I could hoist my tiny frame inside to grab them, the back door flew open. Peeta's mother—a wiry woman with a face twisted in perpetual scorn—came charging out, broom raised like a weapon. "You filthy Seam rat!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the downpour as she swung wildly, chasing me back into the mud. "Get away from here before I call the Peacekeepers!"

Humiliated and defeated, I retreated to the shelter of a nearby apple tree, collapsing against its trunk as numbness set in, hope draining away with the rain. From my vantage point, I heard raised voices erupting from inside the bakery—harsh shouts that made me flinch. Moments later, the door banged open again.

Peeta's mother stormed out, two loaves of bread tucked under one arm, her other hand clamped vise-like around Peeta's ear. He stumbled behind her, wincing, his face flushed as she yanked him forward. I recognized him then—a boy from my class at school, sturdy and quiet, with those same blond curls now plastered wet against his scalp.

She released his ear only to slap his cheek with a crack that echoed over the storm, the sound making my stomach twist.

"Useless boy!" she snarled, her words venomous. "Incompetent fool—burning the bread again! Throw it to the pigs, and make it quick!" With that, she shoved the loaves into his hands and retreated inside, slamming the door.

Peeta stood there in the rain, glancing between the muddy pigpen and me, his expression torn—blue eyes clouded with conflict, his cheek already blooming red and swelling into a bruise. He didn't cry, didn't whimper, just held my gaze for a heartbeat. Then, in a quiet act of defiance that could have cost him dearly, he tossed the two loaves not to the pigs, but straight at my feet, the bread landing with soft thuds in the muck. Our eyes locked again, brief and intense, before he turned and hurried back inside, leaving me stunned.

I crawled forward on hands and knees through the mud, snatching up the loaves and shoving them under my shirt, ignoring the way their lingering heat seared my chilled skin. I ran home that day, bursting through the door to share the miracle with Prim and my mother. That bread—dense, slightly charred, but warm and sustaining—restored a flicker of hope to our shattered lives, filling our bellies for the first time in weeks.

The next day at school, I wanted to thank him, to acknowledge the risk he'd taken. But when I caught sight of the fresh bruise purpling his cheek—a stark reminder of the price he'd paid—shame knotted my throat, and I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. It was then, staring at the ground, that I spotted it: a single dandelion pushing defiantly through the cracks in the pavement, its yellow petals bright against the gray.

That humble weed sparked something in me—a symbol of resilience, a reminder that survival bloomed even in the harshest places. Inspired, I gathered Prim after school and led her to the meadow, our small buckets in hand, where dandelions dotted the grass like stars. That night, we feasted on dandelion salad mixed with the leftover bread, our stomachs full for the first time since Father's death. It was the beginning of my path as a provider, the moment I realized I held the tools to keep us alive.

Ever since, I've carried an unspoken debt to Peeta Mellark—one deeper than words, woven into the fabric of who I've become. And now, here he sits, the boy who saved me once, about to become the man bound to me forever.

"Right, let's begin, shall we?" the official's voice cuts through my swirling thoughts like a dull knife, his eyes flicking expectantly between Peeta and me. I nod stiffly, my fingers digging into the worn arms of the wooden chair, the grain biting into my skin as if to anchor me to this unwelcome reality.

"On behalf of President Alma Coin and the great nation of Panem," he intones with pompous grandeur, puffing out his chest like a preening bird, "we extend our deepest gratitude to you both for your willing participation in this exciting journey toward rebuilding our future."

An involuntary scoff escapes my lips before I can clamp them shut—willing? Exciting? The words taste like bile, mocking the dread knotting my insides.

The official arches a skeptical eyebrow, his plump face creasing in mild annoyance. "Is there a problem, Miss Everdeen?"

Before I can muster a biting reply, Peeta leans forward slightly, his voice low and edged with quiet defiance. "'Willing' and 'exciting' might not be the first words that come to mind for either of us," he mutters, his tone steady but laced with the same frustration I feel bubbling up.

My lips twitch involuntarily, fighting back a reluctant smile. It's a small thing, but hearing Peeta echo my unspoken thoughts eases the isolation that's been pressing down on me since I stepped through that door. In this sterile room, with its echoing walls and the faint scent of polished wood and ink, he's already feeling like an unexpected ally.

"Mr. Mellark," the official warns lightly, though his eyes narrow in disapproval, "this is all for the greater good. Of all the candidates this year, you two have been assessed as the most compatible—physically, temperamentally, and yes, in terms of fertility. President Coin herself has taken a personal interest in pairings like yours; she believes they set the strongest foundation for Panem's repopulation."

Peeta's jaw tightens, a muscle flickering along his strong profile, but he dips his head in a curt nod, his blond curls shifting with the motion. "Understood," he says softly, his voice resigned yet holding a thread of unyielding steel. He doesn't push further, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

"Splendid!" the official exclaims, clapping his hands together as if we've just agreed to a pleasant outing rather than a lifelong sentence. He slides two plain gold bands across the desk toward us, their surfaces dull under the room's harsh light—no engravings, no flourish, just stark symbols of obligation. "Now, place these rings on each other's fingers and repeat after me: 'With these words, I bind myself to you, for the betterment of Panem. Let these rings stand as symbols of our eternal union and unwavering commitment to one another.' "

I pick up the bigger ring, my fingers trembling despite my best efforts to steady them—the metal cool and unyielding against my palm. As I slide it onto Peeta's finger, his hand warm and surprisingly gentle beneath mine, I murmur the words hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper. They feel foreign on my tongue, heavy with the weight of what they mean.

When it's his turn, Peeta takes my hand with care, his touch light but sure, slipping the band onto my finger. His blue eyes meet mine, steady and reassuring, like a calm lake reflecting the sky. A peculiar flutter stirs in my chest—unfamiliar, unsettling, but not entirely unwelcome in this moment of chaos.

"Adina here will act as your official witness," the official continues briskly, gesturing to a quiet young woman hovering at the room's edge. She steps forward, her footsteps soft on the tiled floor, and leans over the desk to scrawl her name on the witness line with a quick, efficient stroke.

"And I, of course, am Plutarch Heavensbee. As the overseer of this union, it's my duty to ensure its success—so do try not to disappoint me." He chuckles then, a soft, self-satisfied sound that echoes hollowly in the room, but neither Peeta nor I join in; our faces remain impassive, a shared silence speaking louder than any forced laughter.

With a theatrical flourish, Plutarch signs his own name at the bottom of the formal certificate—a crisp sheet of paper emblazoned with Panem's seal—then slides it across to us. I grip the pen firmly, my knuckles whitening, and sign my name beneath the neatly printed letters: Katniss Everdeen. The ink flows smooth and final, sealing my fate. I pass the document to Peeta, watching as he adds his signature with a steady hand, the pen scratching softly against the page.

And just like that, it's done. I'm married.

Married to Peeta Mellark—the boy whose quiet act of kindness once pulled my family back from the brink of starvation. My heart tightens with a fresh wave of anxiety as the reality settles over me like a heavy cloak. Peeta's gentleness, that unassuming courage he showed even as a child, his willingness to bridge the chasms of class and circumstance that divide the Seam from the Merchants... it all makes him dangerously easy to like, to trust. He's the kind of person who doesn't demand entry into your heart but finds a way to plant roots there anyway, growing steadily until you can't imagine them gone.

As we sit there, the certificate between us like a binding chain, a new fear coils deep inside me—sharper than the dread of the reaping itself. It's the fear of vulnerability, of letting down the walls I've built so carefully around myself after years of loss and hardship. Because now, Peeta isn't just a distant memory of compassion or a familiar face from school; he's my husband, woven into the fabric of my daily life, and that closeness leaves me exposed in ways I've always fought to avoid.

We stroll through the quiet streets of District 12, our footsteps echoing softly against the uneven cobblestones, the only sound breaking the hush of late afternoon. The sun hangs low on the horizon, bathing the weathered buildings in a warm golden glow as shopkeepers pull down their shutters with rhythmic clanks, signaling the end of another weary day.

We walk side by side in silence, our shoulders brushing occasionally—a fleeting contact that sends unexpected jolts through me, like sparks from a dying fire. The air carries the faint scent of coal dust and baked bread, a reminder of where we're headed, and my new reality weighs heavier with each step.

"I hope you're alright with living above the bakery," Peeta says at last, breaking the quiet, his voice tentative, as if he's testing fragile ground. "Now that we're married, my parents have been relocated to a small house just outside town. I've taken over the business officially—it's all ours now."

"That's fine," I murmur, my gaze fixed on my hands, where my fingers twist nervously together, avoiding his eyes. The words come out softer than I intend, laced with the exhaustion of the day.

I'm relieved when he doesn't push for more talk; I'm not sure I could manage it without unraveling. Peeta's kindness is evident in every glance, every considerate pause, but it does little to ease the suffocating sense of entrapment clawing at me. This marriage wasn't my choice—none of it was—and now the bakery looms as my new cage. I'll probably end up behind the counter, restocking shelves with loaves I can't even name, or worse, learning to bake.

Cooking has always been raw survival for me: skinning squirrels, stewing roots over an open flame. Baking, with its precise measurements and patient rising dough, feels alien, delicate in a way I've never been. I doubt I'll master it without frustration boiling over.

We reach the narrow wooden side door of the bakery, its paint chipped from years of use, and Peeta digs into his pocket for a ring of keys. He unlocks the handle first, then the heavy deadbolt with a solid click, swinging the door open and stepping aside with a polite gesture. "After you," he says, his tone gentle.

I step into a short, dimly lit hallway, the air thick with the lingering aroma of flour and sugar. Doors line the walls: a larger one at the far end, probably leading to the bakery's kitchen where ovens hum through the night; another labeled "Office" to my left, its wood scarred from constant comings and goings; and to my right, a steep staircase climbing upward toward what must be the living quarters.

Peeta locks the door behind us with a firm twist, the sound echoing like a seal on our fate, then nods toward the stairs. He offers a small, nervous smile, his blue eyes flickering with uncertainty. "Ladies first," he adds quietly, trying for lightness.

I return a faint smile, more out of reflex than feeling, and climb the steps slowly, each creak of the wood amplifying the heaviness in my chest. At the top, Peeta unlocks yet another door, pushing it open to reveal a modest but surprisingly cozy apartment—far more inviting than the stark utility of my old home in the Seam.

The main room opens up before me, spacious enough to feel like a luxury after years of cramped quarters. An aged couch, its fabric worn but clean, sits neatly in front of a real television—a rare sight I've only glimpsed in Madge's house, its screen dark and promising Capitol broadcasts I have no interest in watching.

The kitchen area is compact yet modern, with a polished wooden island at its center, gleaming under a hanging light, surrounded by appliances shinier and newer than anything my family ever owned: an oven with stove burners, a refrigerator that hums softly, cabinets stocked with who-knows-what. Off to the side, a simple rectangular dining table waits, adorned with a bowl of wax fruit arranged in unnatural perfection—apples and oranges that will never bruise or rot.

I wander through the space slowly, my heels clicking faintly on the hardwood floor, absorbing every detail while Peeta hangs back by the door, giving me room to breathe. Curiosity pulls me down a short hallway lined with more doors. I peek into the first two: empty rooms, bare except for faded wallpaper and dust motes dancing in the slanting light. My throat tightens as the implication hits me—these are meant for children, nurseries waiting to be filled under Coin's relentless decree. It's a stark, unspoken reminder of the expectations pressing down on us, the immediate future we're supposed to embrace without question.

Shaking off the chill, I turn to the other three doors across the hall. One reveals a small laundry room with a washer and dryer stacked neatly; another, a linen cupboard stuffed with folded sheets and towels that smell faintly of soap; and the third, a compact bathroom featuring a porcelain toilet, a sink topped with a speckled mirror that reflects my face back at me, and a bathtub-shower combo with its curtain drawn open, revealing clean tiles and a faint drip from the faucet.

Finally, I reach the door at the end of the hall, hesitating before pushing it open. My heart sinks as I step inside the bedroom—our bedroom. My few possessions have been meticulously arranged: my hunting jacket draped over a chair, a small wooden box of keepsakes on the bedside table, Prim's old hair ribbon folded neatly on the dresser.

But when I pull open the top drawer of the dresser, my cheeks burn with fierce embarrassment—my underwear lies folded right beside Peeta's boxers, the fabrics mingling in an intimacy that feels forced and invasive. My mother must have done this, packing up our lives while I was at the Justice Building, blending them without a thought for how it would land.

"I can sleep in one of the spare rooms if you want," Peeta offers suddenly from the doorway behind me, his voice laced with uncertainty, as if he's afraid of overstepping.

"Why?" I snap, the word sharper than I mean, whipping around to face him. A confusing rush of hurt and anger surges through me—does he find the idea of sharing a bed with me so repulsive? The thought stings more than it should.

His eyes widen in surprise, and he takes a half-step back. "I—I just thought it might make things easier for you," he stammers softly, his cheeks flushing. "More comfortable, you know? No pressure."

I sigh, shaking my head as the initial flare of defensiveness fades, leaving me weary. "It would feel... humiliating, having you sleep elsewhere," I admit, my voice dropping. "Like we're already failing at this. We're supposed to..." I trail off, the words sticking in my throat, but I force them out in a whisper. "We're expected to conceive right away. Coming in here together only for you to leave afterward—it would make everything feel even more wrong."

His face reddens deeper, and he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "We don't have to tonight," he says gently, his blue eyes filled with genuine concern, no hint of demand or expectation. "There's no rush. We can take our time."

"There's no point in waiting," I counter, shrugging despite the anxiety fluttering wildly in my stomach like trapped birds. "If we put it off, it might never happen at all, and then they'd reassign us. I'd rather not risk ending up with someone worse—someone I couldn't stand."

Peeta nods slowly, absorbing my words, his expression thoughtful. Then, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, lightening the air between us. "Fair enough. But fair warning: I don't know how to cook much beyond baking. So unless you're in the mood for cookies or cupcakes for dinner..."

My lips twitch despite myself, a faint smile breaking through. "What about cheese buns?" I ask quietly, the memory of their warm, cheesy goodness surfacing unbidden.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, a spark of pleasant surprise in his eyes. "You've tried our cheese buns?"

"Your father traded me one a few months back," I confess, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "In exchange for some wild strawberries. If you can whip up a batch, I could make a stew—I'm sure I traded your dad some roots and herbs the other day."

A wide grin spreads across his face, genuine and warm, easing the tension like sunlight piercing clouds. "Deal. Let's make it happen."

As I watch that easy smile transform his features, a cautious warmth blooms in my chest, tentative but real. Maybe being married to Peeta Mellark won't be the nightmare I've dreaded—his quiet strength, his unexpected humor, could make this bearable, even companionable. Yet, even as the thought settles, a small voice whispers from the depths of my mind, urging caution: Keep your distance, for your heart's sake. Don't let him in too deep, or the fall could break you.

We move through the kitchen in a quiet rhythm, each of us lost in our own tasks, the air gradually filling with the earthy aroma of simmering broth and the yeasty promise of rising dough. Peeta kneads the mixture for the cheese buns with practiced ease, his strong hands folding and pressing with a steady determination that speaks of years spent in this very space.

I focus on gathering ingredients for the stew—root vegetables scavenged from the market, a bit of dried herbs from the jars in the cupboards, and a precious scrap of meat I'd traded with earlier in the week. I'm grateful for the silence that settles between us; it's not awkward or strained, but rather a shared understanding, a rare pocket of peace in this whirlwind day. No forced small talk, no probing questions—just the soft clink of utensils and the occasional hiss of the stove, wrapping around us like a familiar blanket.

As I chop the carrots and potatoes with deliberate strokes of my knife, their crisp snaps echoing in the small room, I catch myself stealing glances at him. His brow furrows in concentration, those ashy blond curls falling over his forehead, and a fresh wave of guilt stirs in my chest, as persistent as the memory it drags along. No matter how companionable this moment feels, or how thoughtful his gestures have been since the ceremony, I can't shake the debt I owe him from that rainy day years ago—the warm loaves that saved us when hunger had nearly broken me. It's a shadow that lingers, unspoken, in the back of my mind.

The stew bubbles gently on the stove, nearly done, just as Peeta slides the tray of cheese buns from the oven. They're perfect: golden-brown tops glistening with melted cheese, steam curling upward in lazy tendrils, filling the kitchen with a scent so rich and inviting it makes my mouth water despite everything. He transfers them carefully to a waiting plate, his movements precise and almost reverent, then we carry our dishes to the simple dining table.

I ladle the stew into bowls, its hearty warmth rising in fragrant wisps, and grab two buns before settling across from him. There's a quiet comfort in this shared ritual, a simplicity that grounds me amid the chaos of our new life.

The stew turns out decent enough—nothing fancy, just the kind of practical meal I've made a hundred times in the Seam—but paired with Peeta's cheese buns, still hot and flaky, it feels like something more. The buns are soft inside, the cheese pulling in gooey strings with each bite, elevating the whole thing to a level of indulgence I rarely allow myself. I watch Peeta across the table, amused despite myself as he digs in with enthusiasm, spooning up the stew like a man starved.

"This is really good," he says between bites, his voice warm and genuine, the spoon pausing mid-air as he meets my eyes.

I tilt my head, curiosity piqued. "Didn't you have meals like this at home?" I ask softly, the question slipping out before I can second-guess it.

He hesitates for a beat, then shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Not really. It was usually thin broths or whatever lukewarm soup we could scrape together. My mother... she gets these 'headaches' a lot, and my father sticks to baking. She wouldn't let us touch the fresh bread from the shop—said it was only for customers who pay with coin, not for us wasting it."

I frown, the words not quite aligning with the image I've always held of Merchant life—plenty on the table, no hollow ache in the belly. Madge had described feasts with roasted meats and pies, nothing like this. "That doesn't sound very... Merchant," I admit quietly, stirring my stew as sympathy flickers through me.

Peeta chuckles, a low, self-deprecating sound, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Yeah, well, Mother's always been convinced we'd go broke if we ate like the customers. 'Save the ingredients for real profit,' she'd say. Never mind that the bakery's bustling every day—folks lining up for our loaves."

I shake my head, a pang of irritation mixing with the sympathy, thinking of that harsh woman who'd once chased me away like vermin. "I can't imagine not feeding my own family properly," I whisper, the words carrying the weight of my own struggles.

He pauses, his expression turning thoughtful as he sets down his spoon. "Take the leftovers home to your family tomorrow," he suggests softly, his blue eyes steady on mine. "I'll bake some cookies for Prim, too—maybe with a bit of chocolate if I can spare it."

Surprise washes over me, warm and unexpected. "You don't have to do that," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, though part of me aches at the kindness.

His face softens further, that gentle determination shining through. "They're my family now too, Katniss. Let me help."

The words hang between us, simple yet profound, like an arrow finding its mark. For so long, I've shouldered the burden of providing for Prim and my mother alone—the hunts at dawn, the trades at the Hob, the constant vigilance against another slip into despair. The idea of someone else stepping in, willingly sharing that load, feels foreign, almost suspicious in its generosity. Pride flares up, urging me to refuse, to cling to my independence like a shield. But then I picture Prim's face, her eyes lighting up at the sight of fresh cookies—crumbly edges, maybe dotted with rare bits of sweetness—and the warmth in my chest erodes the walls just a little.

I meet his gaze at last, a faint but genuine smile curving my lips. "Thank you," I whisper, the sincerity raw in my voice.

He returns the smile, small and gentle, with a quiet nod. In that moment, for the first time since the reaping thrust us together, a tentative sense of partnership takes root between us—fragile as a new shoot in spring, but holding the quiet promise of growth.

/

After dinner, we tidy up the kitchen in companionable silence, the clink of dishes and the soft splash of water in the sink the only sounds between us. But beneath it all, an undercurrent of awareness hums like the distant fence in the woods—what comes next hangs heavy in the air, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. My heartbeat quickens as we finish drying the last bowl, nerves twisting in my stomach like a poorly set snare. Without a word, we leave the warmth of the kitchen behind and make our way to the bedroom, the hallway feeling narrower than before, the door at the end looming like an inevitable threshold.

Once inside, I glance around the room uncertainly, the familiar-yet-unfamiliar space closing in around me. The bed dominates the center, its covers neatly tucked, mocking my unease. Peeta lingers near the closed door, his broad frame filling the doorway, his blue eyes gentle but cautious, as if he's navigating a minefield. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally breaks it, his voice soft and hesitant. "So... um, how do you want to...?"

I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself before interrupting his fumbling words. "Maybe you could help me with my dress? I can't reach the zipper on my own."

"Oh, sure—of course," he replies quickly, stepping forward with deliberate care, like he's afraid a sudden movement might spook me. His presence behind me is warm, solid, sending tiny shivers racing down my spine despite the mild evening air. I feel his fingers brush the nape of my neck as he grasps the zipper, pulling it down with agonizing slowness, the soft rasp of metal teeth parting the only sound in the room. I clutch the front of the dress tightly to my chest, holding it in place as the fabric loosens, cool air kissing my bare back.

I turn to face him slowly, my gaze fixed on the floor at first, vulnerability washing over me like a cold wave. When I finally look up, his cheeks are faintly flushed, his expression a mix of concern and quiet tenderness that tugs at something deep inside. My nerves bubble to the surface, and I whisper, barely audible, "I... I've heard from some of the other girls that it hurts. The first time."

Peeta's eyes soften immediately, his brows knitting together in genuine empathy. He reaches out, his hand gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch feather-light and reassuring. "I talked to my brothers about it," he admits quietly, his voice steady and warm, like a balm against my anxiety. "They gave me some advice—ways to make it easier, less painful for you. They said if I take it slow, with kissing and touching... it can help relax things. It might even feel good, if I do it right."

My heart pounds harder, a flush creeping up my neck, but there's something in his earnest tone that makes trusting him feel strangely natural, almost instinctive. Still, my voice quivers as I reply, "Just... do what you need to. Please, make sure it doesn't hurt too much."

He steps closer, his blue eyes locking onto mine with unwavering sincerity, the space between us charged with quiet intensity. "I promise, Katniss," he murmurs, his voice laced with determination. "I'll do everything I can to make this as painless as possible for you."

For a long moment, we stand frozen, the tension building like a storm gathering on the horizon—thick, electric, pulling us inexorably together. My pulse thunders in my ears, echoing through my chest as anticipation stretches the silence thin.

Peeta moves first, his fingers rising slowly to graze my chin in a touch so light it sends warmth blooming across my face. He tilts my head up gently, ensuring our eyes meet fully, searching my expression for any flicker of doubt. When he finds none, he leans in, his lips brushing mine in a tentative caress—soft, questioning, like the first drop of rain after a drought.

Instinctively, I press back, our kiss starting tender and exploratory, a careful dance of uncertainty. But as it deepens, something ignites within me—a deep, unfamiliar ache, a hunger that has nothing to do with empty bellies or survival. It's raw, insistent, pulling me under.

I hate that my mind wanders in that moment, comparing this to the kiss Gale stole in the woods earlier today. Gale's was familiar, comforting, like slipping into well-worn boots—but it never sparked this fire, this urgent flame that demands more. Peeta's kiss is different: embers flaring into a blaze, consuming and alive, drawing me closer without effort.

Lost in it, my grip on the dress falters, the fabric whispering to the floor in a soft pool at my feet. Peeta's breath hitches against my lips, but he doesn't pull away; instead, I press myself to him, my arms wrapping around his neck on impulse. He responds eagerly, his strong arms encircling my waist, pulling me flush against the warmth of his body, the solid planes of his chest seeping heat through my skin.

His tongue traces my lips gently, seeking permission, and I part them willingly, our tongues meeting in a teasing dance that sends shivers of desire cascading through me. My fingers, trembling with urgency, find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling to undo them one by one until the fabric hangs open. I slide it off his broad shoulders, letting it join my dress on the floor, my hands exploring the smooth, warm expanse of his back.

Peeta breaks the kiss reluctantly, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in uneven gasps. "Should we... get on the bed?" he whispers, his voice husky with strain, yet still gentle. "It might be more comfortable."

I nod quickly, a flush burning across my cheeks as I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of my near-nakedness. I move to the bed, slipping beneath the cool sheets, keeping my panties on as a thin layer of comfort, a final barrier against the unknown.

Peeta pauses at the bedside, his hands hesitating at his belt before unfastening it with deliberate slowness. My eyes follow despite myself, widening slightly as he lets his pants drop, the evident bulge in his boxers twisting fresh nervousness in my gut—a mix of anxiety and curious anticipation that makes my breath catch.

"Would you rather I... keep them on, or...?" he asks quietly, his tone uncertain, giving me the choice.

I swallow hard, my voice small but steady. "No, it's okay. Take them off."

He nods, slipping out of his boxers before joining me under the covers, his movements careful and unhurried. He positions himself beside me at first, turning to face me, his eyes warm and patient as they search mine. "I'm going to kiss you again," he says softly. "Is it alright if I... get on top? It might make things easier."

I nod once more, my heart racing like a cornered deer as he shifts, hovering over me, his weight balanced on his forearms to avoid crushing me. Our lips meet again, the spark reigniting in an instant, desire flooding back and drowning out the nerves. My thighs press together instinctively, seeking friction, but with Peeta settled between them, it only heightens the anticipation, building the ache into something undeniable.

He shifts his mouth from mine, trailing a path of soft, lingering kisses down the column of my neck, his breath warm and steady against my skin. His voice vibrates gently there, low and hesitant, laced with that same careful concern he's shown all evening. "Is it okay if I touch you? Like... more?"

"Yes," I breathe, my voice shaky, my pulse thundering in my throat like the roar of a distant arena crowd—unrelenting, inescapable.

His hand glides up my side, slow and deliberate, coming to rest at my breast. His palm cups it fully, squeezing with just enough pressure to draw an involuntary moan from my lips, one I bite back too late. His fingertips explore further, circling my nipple, teasing it until it hardens beneath his touch, sending jolts of unexpected heat racing through me. My body arches into his hand on instinct, seeking more of that unfamiliar fire.

Peeta's lips descend lower, capturing my other nipple in the wet warmth of his mouth. He sucks gently at first, then nibbles with his teeth—a light graze that borders on exquisite pain—igniting shocks of pleasure that ripple down to my core. My fingers tangle in his soft blond curls, gripping tightly, holding him closer as if to anchor myself against the rising tide. I urge him on without words, my breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

I'm so lost in the sensations swirling through me—the pull of his mouth, the heat building low in my belly—that I barely register his hand drifting southward until it slips beneath the thin fabric of my panties. My breath hitches sharply as his fingers part my folds with cautious curiosity, exploring the slick warmth there, tracing me with a tenderness that makes my thighs tremble.

A gasp tears from my throat when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves—my clit, the word foreign even in my thoughts, whispered in hushed tones by bolder girls in the Seam. He pauses, noting my reaction, then begins rubbing slow, tentative circles that grow bolder with each pass. Pleasure pools deep inside me, coiling tight like a bowstring drawn to its limit, an urgent ache that demands release.

"Oh..." The sound breaks from me in a moan, my fingers clenching harder in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

Encouraged, Peeta captures my lips again, deepening the kiss with a hunger that mirrors my own, his tongue tangling with mine as his fingers slide lower. He presses one inside me gently, then another, stretching me with careful strokes that sting at first—a tight burn that makes me tense—but soon morph into something deeper, more satisfying as my body adjusts. He adds a third, the fullness bordering on overwhelming, but the discomfort fades quickly into waves of building ecstasy.

His thumb returns to my clit, circling faster now, harder, syncing with the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside me. My hips buck against his hand instinctively, chasing the friction, the pleasure spiraling higher until my breaths come in desperate pants. His mouth leaves mine to latch onto my breast again, his tongue swirling expertly over the peaked nipple, sucking with just the right pressure to intensify every sensation, pushing me closer to the edge.

"Oh, Peeta... please, don't stop," I gasp, my voice urgent and broken, arching into his touch as if my life depends on it—echoing the survival instincts that have kept me alive in the woods, but twisted now into this raw, intimate need.

His movements quicken, skillful and attuned to my every gasp and shiver, coaxing me relentlessly toward the peak. My body trembles, the tension winding tighter and tighter until it shatters in a blinding wave of pleasure. A cry rips from my throat as I come undone beneath him, shuddering through the intense, blissful release, my inner walls clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses that leave me breathless and spent.

As the aftershocks fade, leaving me limp and sated in his arms, a profound realization settles over me amid the vulnerability—being here, like this, with Peeta feels inexplicably right. In this alternate world where rebellions have twisted into new tyrannies, where marriages are lotteries and futures are dictated, he's a quiet anchor, a kindness I never expected but might just need.

"You should be wet enough now," Peeta murmurs, his voice thick with restrained desire, yet still laced with that gentle reassurance that's become his hallmark tonight. "I can keep going, but tell me to stop if you don't want this—if anything feels wrong."

A fleeting thought flickers through my mind amid the haze of sensation: maybe this moment can finally erase the lingering debt I've carried like a shadow all these years, the one born from that rainy day and the bread that saved us. Giving myself to him now, willingly and completely, feels like a quiet reckoning—a way to balance the scales between us, to transform obligation into something shared and real.

"It's okay," I whisper, meeting his gaze steadily, my voice steadier than I feel. "Keep going. I want this."

Peeta nods slowly, drawing in a deep breath as if steeling himself, his eyes never leaving mine. With careful hands, he peels my soaked panties down my legs, the fabric clinging briefly before he discards them gently onto the floor. His touch is almost reverent, fingertips brushing my skin like whispers, as he nudges my thighs apart wider, pushing the covers aside to expose me fully to the cool air of the room. The vulnerability hits me like a gust from the woods—raw, exposed—but his gaze holds no judgment, only a mix of awe and tenderness that eases the knot in my chest.

"I, uh... can't quite see everything," he admits, his voice hesitant and a little sheepish, one hand gripping himself nervously as he adjusts. "I've never... done this before. Not with anyone."

My cheeks burn with a fierce flush, but I manage a small nod, offering what reassurance I can. His blue eyes drop to my center, studying me intently, absorbing every detail as he positions himself between my legs. The warmth of his body pressing close is both comforting and electrifying, his skin radiating heat that seeps into mine.

He pauses there, the blunt tip of his erection poised at my entrance, hard and insistent yet held back by his control. Then, he leans down, capturing my lips in a deep, distracting kiss, his mouth soft and inviting, pulling my focus away from the nerves clawing at my edges.

Our lips move together slowly, languidly, and I lose myself in the texture—the slight roughness of his stubble, the taste of him lingering from dinner, like faint traces of cheese and warmth. When he pushes forward gently, inching into me, I wince at the initial sting, a sharp burn that makes my muscles tense instinctively. He freezes immediately, pulling back from the kiss, worry etching lines across his forehead.

"Are you alright?" he asks quickly, his voice tight with concern, searching my face.

"I'm fine," I breathe out shakily, willing my body to relax around the unfamiliar fullness. "Just... keep kissing me. It helps."

He nods, relief flashing in his eyes, and leans back down, his lips finding mine with renewed intensity—deeper now, more urgent, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with mine. The kiss consumes me, effectively drowning out the discomfort as he continues easing forward, slow and deliberate, until he's fully sheathed inside me, our hips flush.

My body adjusts gradually, the initial tightness giving way to a strange, reassuring warmth, and relief floods through me as I realize the pain wasn't the agony I'd dreaded—just a mild, fleeting sting that fades into something almost pleasurable.

Peeta lifts his head slightly, breaking the kiss to look into my eyes, his breath mingling with mine in hot puffs. "Are you okay? Really?"

I nod softly, surprised by how the warmth spreads, blooming into something more. "Yes," I whisper, my hands sliding up his arms. "You can move now."

He withdraws slowly at first, pulling out just enough to create a delicious friction before pressing forward again, establishing a gentle rhythm that sends ripples of pleasure through my core. My fists clench the sheets beneath me, and I arch toward him instinctively, chasing the building sensation. "Peeta... that feeling... it's coming back," I moan softly, my voice breathless.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers urgently, his lips brushing mine in a feather-light tease, his hips never faltering.

"What you did before," I gasp, my body already winding tight. "With your fingers—touch me there again."

Without hesitation, his hand snakes down between us, his fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy. He rubs firm, deliberate circles, the pressure perfect, sending waves of ecstasy cascading through me, amplifying every thrust. My breath hitches, turning ragged as the dual sensations collide and intensify. "Yes... just like that," I groan, my head falling back against the pillow.

We fumble a bit at first—our movements awkward, unpracticed—Peeta slipping out a couple of times, prompting soft laughs that bubble up unexpectedly between us, followed by murmured reassurances as he guides himself back in. But soon, we find our stride, settling into a comfortable, steady rhythm. With each thrust, he stays deep, our bodies connecting more confidently, more passionately, the initial hesitation giving way to a shared urgency.

The pleasure coils tighter within me, building relentlessly until I'm breathless, my nails raking down his back in a desperate grip. He groans deep in his throat at the sensation, his hips jerking forward sharply in response, burying himself even deeper. I cry out, shocked by the sudden surge of bliss that radiates from the spot, stars bursting behind my eyelids.

Encouraged by my reaction, Peeta's fingers press harder on my clit, rubbing faster, his thrusts matching the pace—deep, insistent, driving me higher. My back arches off the bed, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer as I gasp desperately, clinging to him. Finally, the tension snaps, release crashing through me in powerful, shuddering waves, my inner walls clenching around him rhythmically, milking every drop of ecstasy from the moment.

Peeta thrusts a few more times, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic as his own climax builds. He groans deeply, a raw sound that vibrates through his chest, spilling hot and thick inside me before collapsing gently beside me, our sweat-slicked bodies tangled. He pulls the covers back over us with a trembling hand, cocooning us in warmth. Silence settles around us then, comfortable and sated, our breaths gradually evening out in the dim light of the room.

After several quiet moments wrapped in the afterglow, our breaths syncing in the dim room, Peeta's voice breaks the silence, soft and tentative, laced with genuine concern. "Did... did it hurt too much?" he asks, his words stumbling a little, as if he's afraid of the answer.

I turn my head on the pillow to meet his earnest gaze, those blue eyes searching mine with a vulnerability that tugs at my heart. I offer him a small, reassuring smile, the kind that's rare for me but feels right in this moment.

"Not really," I admit quietly, my voice still husky from the intensity of it all. "It stung at first, like a fresh bruise, but then it eased up. And after that... it felt good. Really good—better than I ever imagined it could."

A shy, proud grin spreads across his face, lighting up his features like dawn breaking through the trees, his eyes sparkling as he shifts his gaze to the ceiling, lost in thought. I bite my lip to hide my own budding smile and follow his lead, staring up at the shadowed beams above us. A newfound closeness settles over us like a warm blanket, gentle and comforting, bridging the gap that the reaping had forced between strangers.

My body begins to cool in the night air seeping through the cracks in the walls, and without overthinking it—something I'm usually so good at—I shift closer to him, seeking the solid warmth of his side. As sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, heavy and insistent after the day's emotional storm, I rest my head on his chest without a second thought, savoring the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear—like a lullaby from a world without worries.

He stiffens for a brief instant, drawing in a sharp breath that I feel more than hear, but then he relaxes, his muscles unwinding as he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in protectively. His presence envelops me in a cocoon of warmth, easing the lingering fears and anxieties that have haunted me since the marriage reaping was announced—the dread of the unknown, the weight of expectations under Coin's regime.

My eyes drift closed, heavy-lidded, as exhaustion pulls me under gently, and for once, my dreams are blissfully free of the nightmares that usually plague me: no explosions in the mines, no shadowed figures from the old Hunger Games tales.

Tonight, for the first time since my father's death shattered our world all those years ago, I sleep soundly—deep and undisturbed—wrapped in the comforting embrace of Peeta Mellark, feeling unexpectedly safe, cared for, and perhaps even a little hopeful in this twisted alternate Panem we've inherited.

KPKPKP

When I wake, the early morning sunlight filters gently through the thin curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room like the first rays piercing the canopy in the woods. Instinctively, I reach out to Peeta's side of the bed, expecting the warmth of his body, but my fingers meet only cool, empty sheets.

Confusion furrows my brow, and I sit up slowly, clutching the covers to my bare chest, a faint ache reminding me of the night before. My eyes scan the room, landing on a folded piece of paper resting on his pillow, stark against the rumpled fabric.

Curious, I pick it up, unfolding it to reveal Peeta's neat, deliberate handwriting:

Katniss,

I'm sorry if you woke up alone. I had to slip out early to start the morning bake and open the shop—dough waits for no one. You looked so peaceful sleeping there, like you hadn't a care in the world, and I couldn't bring myself to disturb that. So, a note it is.

Thank you for last night. It was... everything. The best night of my life, honestly.

I've left some cheese buns for your breakfast on the counter. And I put together that basket for your mom and Prim, like we talked about at dinner.

See you soon.

Peeta x

A warm smile tugs at my lips despite myself, and my heart gives a soft, unexpected flutter in my chest, like a bird stirring in its nest. I fold the note carefully, tracing the edges with my thumb before tucking it under the pillow for safekeeping. Memories of the night flood back unbidden—the tenderness in his touch, the way his eyes held mine with such quiet intensity, the shared vulnerability that felt raw and real in a world that's always demanded armor.

For a moment, I just sit there, knees drawn up, trying to reconcile this gentle warmth blooming inside me with the guarded walls I've built over years of loss and survival. It's unsettling, how easily he seems to slip past them.

Eventually, I force myself from the bed, the cool floorboards creaking under my feet as I pad to the small bathroom adjoining our bedroom. Everything here feels so different from home, so strangely modern and untouched by the grit of the Seam. A fluffy towel hangs on a polished silver rod beside the shower, its fabric soft and pristine—nothing like the threadbare rags we used back home.

Our baths there were sparse rituals: water heated in a basin by the flickering fireplace, shared among us to conserve every drop. Here, the fixtures gleam, the space feels almost luxurious, foreign in its cleanliness and convenience, a reminder of the Merchant divide I've always resented but now find myself navigating.

I fiddle with the shower controls for a moment, twisting knobs until the water runs hot and steady, steam rising in lazy curls. Stepping under the spray, I sigh deeply, the heat cascading over my skin like a soothing balm, easing the lingering soreness between my legs—a vivid echo of last night's intimacy. The way Peeta had touched me, kissed me, handled my body with such care, as if I were something precious rather than a survivor scarred by hardship. The sensations replay in my mind, etched into my skin, impossible to ignore or dismiss.

Unbidden, my thoughts drift to tonight—will it be a repeat? My cheeks heat under the water, a flush of embarrassment mingling with a surprising thread of anticipation. Why does the idea of not sharing that closeness again make my chest tighten with disappointment? I've always prided myself on independence, on needing no one, but here I am, wondering about a future laced with his presence.

After showering, I dry off and dress quietly, still lost in the tangle of my thoughts, slipping into my familiar clothes that feel grounding amid the unfamiliar surroundings. I make my way back to the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread lingering in the air like a promise. On the polished wooden island sits a plate with three cheese buns, carefully wrapped in a clean cloth, their golden tops still faintly warm.

My stomach growls in protest, reminding me how long it's been since a proper meal, and I devour them eagerly, savoring the flaky layers and the gooey cheese that pulls in satisfying strings—simple, but a far cry from the meager portions I've known.

Nearby, on the dining table, a large woven basket catches my eye, its lid slightly ajar. Curiosity draws me closer, and I lift it to peek inside. My eyes widen at the generous contents: neatly wrapped cookies dotted with what looks like rare bits of dried fruit, two fresh loaves of bread still steaming slightly, and half a dozen more cheese buns nestled beside them.

It's far more than he'd mentioned at dinner last night—extravagant, even, by District 12 standards. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar emotion: gratitude, yes, but something warmer, deeper, like the first stirrings of affection I don't quite know how to name.

I shake my head, trying to dismiss the feelings before they take root too deeply. He must have just baked extra, I tell myself, a practical excuse to ward off the vulnerability. It's nothing special, nothing meant just for me. Remembering the leftover stew from last night, I retrieve the pot from the refrigerator—another Merchant luxury, with its steady hum and chilled interior—and carefully transfer the contents into a sealed container, tucking it into the basket alongside the baked goods.

The keys hang neatly from a hook near the door, glinting in the morning light, and I grab them, the metal cool in my palm, my heart fluttering with a nervous mix of anticipation and something almost like happiness.

As I step out into the crisp morning air, basket in hand, the district stirring awake around me with the distant clang of shops opening and the murmur of early risers, a quiet thought settles in: maybe life with Peeta could be better than I ever dared to imagine—safer, warmer, a partnership in this broken world where alliances mean survival.

The walk through town feels strangely unfamiliar this morning, as if the familiar paths have shifted overnight, mirroring the upheaval in my own life. I keep my head ducked low, avoiding eye contact with the passersby who offer well-meaning congratulations on my marriage—smiles and nods from Merchants who've never spared me a glance before. Their words sting like barbs; don't they realize this wasn't my choice, that it's just another Capitol-mandated twist in our lives under Coin's regime?

I scowl silently, quickening my pace until I reach the outskirts of the Seam, where the air grows thicker with coal dust and the quiet settles over me like a comforting blanket. Here, life plods on in its raw simplicity: women bent over washbasins, men hauling tools to the medical facilities that replaced the mines, mothers calling after scampering children too busy with survival to fuss over someone else's forced union. My shoulders relax at last, the tension uncoiling as I take in the worn, familiar scenery—the sagging roofs, the patches of stubborn grass pushing through cracked earth—that's always felt more like home than any polished facade.

As I approach the small, weathered house where I've spent my life, my heart clenches unexpectedly, a sharp pang that stops me short. My hand reaches instinctively for the door handle, the wood smooth from years of use, but I hesitate, the realization hitting me like a cold gust: I no longer live here. This isn't my refuge anymore; it's a place I visit now, an outsider in my own past. The weight of it sits heavy in my chest, and instead of barging in as I've always done, I knock softly on the chipped door, the sound echoing oddly formal in the quiet morning.

It swings open almost immediately, revealing Prim's bright face, her blue eyes widening with joy. She squeals in delight, launching herself at me like a whirlwind, her small arms wrapping tightly around my waist. "Katniss! You're married! Who is he? Do I know him? Is he nice? Tell me everything!"

I can't help but laugh softly at her unbridled enthusiasm, the sound lightening the knot in my stomach as I gently pry myself from her embrace, careful not to drop the basket.

"Why don't you open this and see for yourself?" I tease, stepping inside the familiar dimness of the house—the scent of herbs and faint woodsmoke wrapping around me like an old friend. I move to the small dining table, scarred from countless meals scraped together, and set the basket down with a soft thud.

Prim flips open the lid eagerly, her gasp echoing through the room as she peers inside. "No way!" she exclaims, pulling out a neatly wrapped bundle of cookies, her face alight with wonder. Just then, our mother appears at the foot of the stairs, her steps quiet but steady, drawn by the commotion.

"What's all this excitement about?" she asks, her voice curious and warm, a far cry from the hollow tone that haunted us after Father's death. She steps closer, peering over Prim's shoulder.

"Katniss got matched with Peeta Mellark!" Prim announces triumphantly, bouncing on her toes like she's won a prize. "Look at all this—the cookies, the bread, the cheese buns! It's from the bakery!"

My mother's eyebrows arch in surprise, her gaze shifting to me with a thoughtful expression. "Peeta Mellark? The baker's youngest son?" she clarifies, her tone measured but approving.

Warmth floods my cheeks, a flush I can't hide, and I nod silently, unable to meet her probing eyes, my braid swinging against my back as I fidget.

"Well," she says gently, a small smile curving her lips, "you're luckier than most, Katniss. He's always struck me as a kind young man—steady, thoughtful. Not like some of the rougher sorts around here."

Before I can muster a response, my mother turns to Prim with a knowing glance. "Primrose, why don't you go feed Lady her breakfast? She's probably meowing up a storm by now."

My stomach knots instantly—I know exactly what's coming, the conversation I've dreaded but half-expected. Prim nods obediently, clutching a cookie as she darts out the back door toward her goat, Lady, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet kitchen.

My mother turns to face me fully, her expression cautious yet kind, the lines around her eyes softening with concern. "How was your wedding night, Katniss?" she asks softly, her voice laced with the quiet understanding of someone who's been through it herself.

Embarrassment surges through me, hot and unrelenting, and I stare intently at the chipped wood of the table, tracing its familiar grooves with my fingertip to avoid her gaze. "It was... good," I admit quietly, my words halting. "Peeta was gentle with me. He kept asking if I was alright, made sure I was comfortable. It felt strange at first—awkward, like stepping into unknown territory—but then... it wasn't so bad."

Her face softens further, relief flickering in her eyes like a candle in the dark. "I'm glad to hear that," she replies warmly, reaching out to squeeze my arm. "You deserve someone who treats you with care, after everything you've shouldered for us." She pauses, turning to unpack the basket's contents onto the table—the loaves, the buns, the stew—arranging them neatly with practiced hands. "And thank you for all of this. It's more than generous. You didn't have to bring so much."

I watch her for a moment, the worry that's always simmered beneath the surface rising again like bile. "Will you be okay, Mom?" I ask hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper. "With me not living here anymore? I mean... really okay?"

She looks up sharply, her eyes filling with a sadness that mirrors my own, but she holds my gaze steadily. "I promise you, Katniss, I won't slip away again," she says, her tone firm yet tender. "I'm doing better—truly. The work at the hospital helps, and I've been talking to the healers about the hard days. Some mornings are still a struggle, but I'm managing. Prim deserves a mother who's present, and so do you. I won't let you down this time."

My shoulders sag with a relief I hadn't realized I was holding so tightly, but I keep my eyes locked on hers, needing to see the truth there. "You have to mean that," I whisper urgently, my hand reaching out to cover hers. "Prim needs you more than ever now. I can't always be here to pick up the pieces anymore. I need to know she'll be safe, that you'll both be cared for without me hovering every day."

She steps closer, her hand turning to clasp mine firmly, her grip surprisingly strong. "I understand, sweetheart. You've carried this family long enough—it's time for me to step up. I promise, things will be different. We're in this together, even if you're starting a new chapter."

We share a quiet, meaningful moment, our hands clasped in a rare gesture of connection, the weight of past sorrows and fragile promises hanging between us like mist in the woods. But before I can say more, Prim bursts back into the room, her cheeks flushed from the crisp air outside, eyes sparkling with unbridled curiosity. "Tell me everything about Peeta!" she demands, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Is he nice? Did he bake all this himself? Can I come visit you at the bakery? Please, Katniss—say yes!"

I chuckle softly, the sound lighter than I expect, reaching out to ruffle her blonde hair affectionately, the strands soft and familiar under my fingers. "He's very nice, Prim—kinder than most," I reply, my voice warm despite the guarded edges I can't quite shed. "And yes, he baked them all himself, fresh this morning. You can visit anytime you want. I'm sure he'd love to show you around, maybe even let you help decorate some cookies."

She squeals in delight, clapping her hands together with a joy that's infectious, her small frame practically vibrating with excitement. "Really? Oh, I can't wait! I'll bring Lady's milk as a thank-you—do you think he'd like that? We could trade for more treats!"

Her innocent enthusiasm tugs painfully at my heart, amplifying the inner turmoil churning inside me like a storm on the horizon. How can I possibly keep my distance, guard my walls so fiercely, against someone who already inspires such adoration in Prim? She's always been my anchor, the reason I hunt at dawn and trade in the shadows, and seeing her light up like this—over Peeta, of all people—chips away at my resolve.

In this alternate Panem, where rebellions have given way to new tyrannies like the marriage reaping, hope has been a rare, fleeting thing, something I've hoarded like scraps of bread. But as Prim chatters on animatedly about her grand plans to visit the bakery, imagining frosting swirls and warm ovens, I can't deny the tiny glimmer flickering to life inside me—a hope I haven't allowed myself to feel in years, fragile as a dandelion seed on the wind.

After spending about an hour with Mom and Prim—sharing quiet stories, watching Prim's eyes light up over the treats, and lingering in the familiar comfort of our old home—I finally tear myself away, heading back toward town with a mind swirling in thoughts and unanswered questions about this new life thrust upon me. The district feels oddly hushed as I approach the bakery, the usual bustle of mid-morning trades muffled by the weight of my own introspection.

I slip in through the narrow side door, pausing at the foot of the stairs leading up to our apartment. But before I can ascend, raised voices filter down from the bakery's office—sharp, angry, and tense, slicing through the air like a poorly aimed arrow. My heart quickens as I recognize Mrs. Mellark's voice, laced with venom, her words biting and cruel.

The instinct to retreat upstairs, to hide away from the storm, tugs at me fiercely. But a stronger pull—a protective fire I've honed in the woods, defending what's mine—drives me toward the office door instead. I push it open without knocking, the hinges creaking in protest, and the sight inside makes my stomach clench like a fist. Mrs. Mellark towers over Peeta, her face twisted in rage as she hurls insults at him—"useless," "foolish," "a disgrace"—before her hand cracks across his cheek with a resounding slap. His head jerks to the side from the force, the skin reddening instantly, his expression a mask of raw pain and deep-seated humiliation that twists something deep inside me.

"Hey!" I shout, my voice sharp and unyielding, startling them both into frozen silence.

Mrs. Mellark's head whips around, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she glares at me, lips curling in disdain. "This is none of your business, girl," she spits, her tone dripping with contempt. "Seam trash like you has no place interfering in family matters."

I lift my chin defiantly, refusing to let her words pierce me, standing tall like I do when facing down a predator in the forest. "It absolutely is my business when you're laying hands on my husband," I retort, my voice steady despite the anger boiling beneath. "And that stops now—right this second."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes with exaggerated dismissal, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh, spare me the theatrics. This so-called marriage isn't real—it's just two foolish kids tossed together by Coin's absurd lottery. What do you know about marriage or love at your age? Nothing but naive dreams and forced obligations."

I step closer, unflinching, my gaze locked on hers. "You're right—we barely know each other, and this wasn't our choice. But that doesn't change the fact that Peeta is my family now, bound by the reaping whether we like it or not. I didn't ask for this life, but I'll fight every day to be a good wife, a good mother. And unlike you, I'll never raise a hand to my children." I gesture sharply at the blooming bruise on Peeta's cheek, my voice hardening. "As long as you keep acting like this, you'll never come near our family—future or otherwise. Now get out."

Mrs. Mellark sneers, her face contorting with bitterness as she turns back to Peeta, ignoring me. "I hope you rot in misery with her," she hisses, her words like poison darts.

Peeta's jaw tightens, his shoulders tense as coiled springs, and for the first time, he looks up, defiance flashing in his blue eyes. "It couldn't possibly be more miserable than the life I've had with you," he retorts, his voice cold and unyielding, cutting through the room like a blade.

Her hand twitches, her body stiffening as if she's about to strike again, rage simmering in her narrowed gaze. Without thinking, I surge forward, pressing myself protectively against Peeta's side, my hand gripping his arm tightly—a human shield against her fury. My presence seems to deflate her just enough; perhaps she realizes that attacking a poor Seam girl in broad daylight would finally expose her cruelty to the district, tarnishing the fragile Merchant facade she's clung to.

With one last hateful glare that could curdle milk, she storms past us, slamming the door behind her with a force that rattles the walls and sends a puff of dust from the shelves. Silence descends then, thick and suffocating, broken only by our uneven breaths. I release Peeta's arm gently, turning to face him fully, my fingers reaching up instinctively to caress his bruised cheek, the skin hot and swollen under my touch.

"Why did she do this?" I whisper, my voice heavy with concern, tracing the mark lightly as if I could erase it.

Peeta sighs deeply, his eyes dropping in shame, shoulders slumping as he leans against the desk. "I used some extra stock this morning to make those cookies and loaves for your mom and Prim," he explains quietly, his tone laced with regret. "She noticed during the inventory count and... lost it."

My heart squeezes painfully at his words, the kindness he'd shown now twisted into this ugly bruise. Tenderly, I lean up on my toes and press a gentle kiss to the injured skin, lingering for a moment. "She won't do that again," I promise softly, pulling back to meet his eyes, my resolve as firm as my bowstring. "Not while I'm around."

He offers a small, grateful smile, but it fades into sadness, his gaze distant. "Thank you for standing up to her like that," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "But... I'm still a coward."

I frown deeply, confusion and sorrow flooding me at his self-doubt. "What? Why would you say that?"

He sinks heavily onto the worn couch against the wall, staring down at his hands, twisting them in his lap. "Because I just stood there, letting her talk to me like that—letting her insult you—without fighting back. I've always been too afraid to stand up to her."

My heart aches at the raw shame in his voice, the way it echoes the burdens he's carried alone. Without hesitation, I move closer, gently straddling his lap to face him, cupping his face in my hands and tilting it up to meet my gaze. "You're not a coward, Peeta," I say firmly, my thumbs brushing his cheeks. "You've endured years of her abuse—survived it without letting it turn you bitter or cruel. That's strength, not weakness. It's a trauma that's shaped you, but it hasn't broken you. I'm honestly amazed you didn't become like her."

He closes his eyes briefly, drawing in a shaky breath, as if absorbing my words like balm on a wound. "My biggest fear has always been turning into a monster like her," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I stroke his cheek gently, my thumb grazing his lower lip in a soothing caress. "I can promise you, you're nothing like her," I murmur, my eyes locked on his. "You're kind, thoughtful—the opposite of everything she is. You deserve happiness, Peeta, real happiness."

His eyes soften, filling with a tender emotion that makes my chest tighten, his gaze holding mine like an anchor. "I'm starting to find it, Katniss," he replies softly, a small smile breaking through the sadness. "With you... I think I really will."

His words stir something deep inside me—a warmth and desire that echoes the intimacy of last night, igniting like dry tinder under a spark. Before I can second-guess it, I lean forward, capturing his lips in a heated kiss, pouring into it all the unspoken feelings swirling between us. Peeta's hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer with a gentle urgency, his touch sending fire through my veins. His tongue parts my lips, deepening the connection, and I gasp softly against his mouth, my fingers threading into his curls.

A sudden voice shatters the moment, playful and teasing. "Well, well—looks like you're enjoying married life a little too much, Peet."

I pull away abruptly, heat flooding my cheeks in a fierce blush as I spot Peeta's brother Rye leaning against the doorway, an amused smirk stretching across his face, his arms crossed casually. I scramble off Peeta's lap, shifting to sit beside him with a deliberate space between us, smoothing my shirt in a futile attempt to regain composure.

Peeta groans in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you want, Rye?" he asks, his tone laced with irritation.

Rye chuckles, clearly reveling in the awkwardness. "Dad needs you to show him those tweaks to the apple strudel recipe," he says, his grin widening. "But I'll let him know you're... occupied. Very occupied, from the looks of it."

Peeta rolls his eyes, gesturing toward his brother with a wave of dismissal. "Katniss, this is my middle brother, Rye—the one who lives to turn every situation into a nightmare," he mutters, shooting Rye a glare. I scowl at the older Mellark boy, not bothering with feigned politeness, my arms crossing defensively.

Rye's grin only broadens, unfazed by the tension. "You've snagged yourself a feisty one, little brother," he teases, laughing softly as he pushes off the doorframe. "Good for you—keeps things interesting."

"Shut up, Rye," Peeta snaps, his cheeks still tinged with red.

I stand quickly, my face burning with embarrassment, mumbling, "I'll... be upstairs." As I brush past Rye, I add quietly over my shoulder, "And thank you—for the basket this morning." Then I flee the room, rushing up the stairs, leaving Rye's lingering laughter and teasing echoes behind me.

/

I'd always assumed sex was mechanical, a grim obligation—something forced upon us by Coin's twisted repopulation decree, a cold duty to endure rather than enjoy. But as I watch Peeta enter the apartment after closing the bakery for the night, his forearms dusted with a fine layer of flour and his fingertips faintly stained with vibrant dyes from decorating cakes and cookies, something stirs deep inside me that's anything but clinical or detached.

It's a warm, insistent pull, a hunger that has nothing to do with empty bellies and everything to do with the way his presence fills the room, making my skin prickle with awareness.

Every small gesture he makes sets my body ablaze: the gentle press of his hand at the small of my back as he guides me aside to reach a cabinet, the heat of his touch lingering like an ember long after he's moved away; or the quiet spark in his blue eyes when I describe Prim's ecstatic reaction to his cookies, her squeals of delight echoing in my retelling. I've tried so hard to ignore the building pressure all day, the ache coiling low in my belly, but by the time night falls and the district quiets outside our windows, my resolve crumbles like dry bread underfoot.

Now, here I am, straddling Peeta on our bed, my heart pounding like a war drum as our lips meet in slow, passionate kisses that deepen with each breath. My fingers tangle in his soft blond curls, anchoring me as his warm hands grip my bare thighs, exposed beneath the short cotton nightdress that clings to my skin. The fabric rides up with every shift, but I don't care—his touch ignites trails of fire wherever it lands, making me arch into him instinctively.

I grind against him gently at first, desperate to ease the throbbing tension between my legs, feeling the hard length of him press back through his pants. Peeta groans softly, a low rumble in his chest, his hands tightening reflexively on my thighs, fingers digging in just enough to send a shiver racing up my spine. Impatient, I grab his wrists and guide his hands upward, sliding them under the hem of my nightdress until he's cupping my breasts through the thin fabric.

He responds immediately, his strong palms kneading me firmly, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden into peaks, pulling a startled squeal from my throat that echoes in the quiet room.

Tonight feels worlds apart from our first night together. That was tentative, almost hesitant—a careful exploration between two strangers bound by fate, fumbling through uncertainty with gentle reassurances. But now, we both know exactly what we want, and more importantly, how to give it. Just the thought of it has left me embarrassingly wet all evening, my arousal soaking through my panties, a slick heat that's impossible to ignore.

Our clothes vanish in a hurried, frantic blur of limbs and whispered breaths—my nightdress yanked over my head, his shirt tugged off to reveal the firm planes of his chest, pants discarded in a heap on the floor. I become almost feral in my need, wrapping my hand around his hardness, gripping him firmly as I marvel at the contrast: the skin so soft and silky beneath my fingers, yet rigid and pulsing with heat. My thumb grazes the tip, smearing the bead of precum there, and his stomach muscles tense instantly, his breath catching in a sharp hiss.

"Katniss... fuck," he groans through gritted teeth, his eyes darkening with raw desire, "I won't last if you keep that up. You're killing me here."

I bite my lip, a thrill shooting through me at the power in his reaction, but I don't stop. Instead, I shift my hips, positioning myself above him, and slowly lower down, guiding him inside me with a careful hand. There's a brief sting as he stretches me—a sharp reminder of my newness to this—but it fades quicker this time, giving way to an intense, pleasurable fullness that makes me gasp sharply, my walls clenching around him instinctively.

I begin rocking my hips experimentally, savoring the delicious friction as he fills me completely, each movement sending sparks of ecstasy radiating outward. Peeta's head sinks back into the pillows, a deep groan rumbling from his chest, his hands roaming my body with growing confidence. His gaze devours me—lingering on my flushed face, my bouncing breasts, and the intimate point where our bodies join, slick and heated.

"Touch me," I moan desperately, grinding down harder, chasing the building pressure. "Please, Peeta—need your hands on me."

"Where, Katniss?" he breathes roughly, his voice strained with restraint, hips bucking up to meet mine.

"Anywhere," I beg, my words breaking on a gasp, "everywhere—just don't stop."

Instantly, one of his hands moves to knead my breast, pinching the nipple with just the right pressure, while the other slides between us, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing firm, perfect circles that make my vision blur. "Yes—right there!" I cry out, my voice echoing off the walls, unrestrained in the privacy of our room.

He sits up abruptly then, his mouth latching onto my neglected breast, sucking and teasing the nipple with his tongue and teeth. The sensations overwhelm me completely—his lips hot and insistent, his hand working my clit with skillful precision, and the deep, powerful thrusts of his hips meeting my every grind. His cock hits that perfect spot inside me over and over, sending sparks of pleasure exploding through every nerve, building me higher until I'm teetering on the edge.

My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving red trails on his skin, a strangled cry escaping my throat as I throw my head back. My body shudders violently, the orgasm crashing through me in powerful waves, my inner walls pulsing around him in rhythmic clenches that draw out every last tremor.

I collapse forward, pressing my forehead against his, my lips capturing his in a deep, messy kiss, tasting the salt of sweat on his skin. Peeta groans into my mouth, and despite the sensitivity still buzzing through me, I rock my hips a few more times, urging him on until he stiffens beneath me, spilling hot and deep inside with a final, guttural moan.

Exhausted, we collapse back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, our sweat-slicked bodies still humming with the aftershocks. My leg hooks instinctively around his hip, holding him close as I feel his softening cock slip gently from inside me, leaving a lingering warmth and a faint ache that speaks of our shared intensity. We lie there quietly for a while, our breaths mingling in the dim light of the room, chests rising and falling in unison as we regain our composure, the world outside fading to nothing but the steady rhythm of our hearts.

Eventually, Peeta breaks the silence, his voice soft and hesitant, laced with a vulnerability that tugs at something deep inside me. "Katniss," he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my arm, "I know this isn't how you pictured your life turning out. You didn't choose this marriage—didn't choose me. But... could we at least try to be friends? Build something real out of this mess?"

I tilt my head to meet his gaze, surprised by the raw sincerity shining in his blue eyes, the quiet hope that makes my chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache. It's disarming, how easily he lays himself bare, especially after the walls I've spent years fortifying.

Before I can overthink it, the words tumble out, soft and uncertain, my cheeks warming as I gesture shyly between our naked bodies, still pressed intimately together. "Can we... keep doing this? Not just because we have to, but... because we want to?"

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, warm and genuine, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and deep affection that sends a flutter through my stomach. He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me securely. "Anytime you want, Katniss," he promises earnestly, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Night or day, here or anywhere—I'd love nothing more."

I hesitate for a beat, the rational part of me whispering warnings about the dangerous ground I'm treading, the risk of letting someone in too deep in a world that's already taken so much. Caution has been my shield, distance my survival. But the pull toward him—the desire for connection, for a true friendship amid the reaping's cruelty—outweighs the doubts, warming me from the inside out.

"Okay," I whisper, a slow, tentative smile curving my lips as I search his face. "Friends. Let's try that."

Peeta's smile blooms radiant and full, lighting up his features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, chasing away the shadows of the day. With a playful growl, he rolls us over, drawing a surprised giggle from my throat—me, giggling like some carefree girl from the Capitol. But his warm mouth quickly transforms the laughter into breathless sighs, his hands roaming with renewed tenderness. Moments later, he's moving inside me again, our bodies locking into a perfect, unhurried rhythm, as if we've known each other far longer than a single day.

As I wrap my legs tighter around him, arching to meet each thrust, two simple words echo powerfully in my mind, drowning out the doubts:

Worth it.

Chapter Text

"Katniss, will you please relax?" Peeta chuckles softly, watching me hurry around the kitchen like a whirlwind.

"I can't relax," I snap anxiously, glancing nervously into the oven again. "If this turkey burns, dinner will be ruined—and I still haven't even changed."

He steps closer, his expression softening, amusement evident in his blue eyes. "I promise, I'll watch it closely. You go change and take a moment to breathe."

I scowl at him, scepticism clear on my face. "You told me yourself that you can't cook."

Peeta rolls his eyes playfully, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I think I can manage watching a turkey roast. Now go," he insists, flicking the tea towel at me teasingly.

"Fine," I huff, pointing a finger accusingly at him. "But if it burns, you owe me two dozen cheese buns and a cupcake."

He grins mischievously. "Careful, Katniss. A threat like that might tempt me to burn it on purpose."

I give him a mock glare, unable to fully suppress the smile threatening my lips. "Very funny, Peeta Mellark. But I mean it—if you burn that turkey, there'll be hell to pay," I warn as I turn and stride towards our bedroom, his laughter trailing softly after me.

When I reach our bedroom, I pause before the full-length mirror, surprised to see a genuine smile reflected back at me. It quickly fades into a look of quiet confusion. Four days ago, I'd been adamant about maintaining distance in this forced marriage. Yet here I am, finding joy in playful banter and tender moments. Damn, Peeta and his easy smiles and his annoyingly perfect way of breaking down all my defences.

Since the marriage reaping, I haven't set foot in the forest, haven't hunted even once. My life has quickly transformed into learning bakery routines and waking up before dawn alongside Peeta. Our mornings have become something I secretly cherish: his lips brushing softly against my neck as he pulls me close, his strong arms wrapping around me, holding me securely against him. A simple brush of my hips against him is enough to spark something irresistible between us—each time ends the same, in gasps, groans, and shuddering pleasure.

If I'm honest, there's no shame in how much I crave these moments with Peeta. It's different now, our movements fluid and familiar, his touch expertly coaxing pleasure from my body within minutes. Being with him is rapidly becoming second nature, something my body instinctively yearns for.

The bakery work itself has come naturally to me. Peeta patiently guides me through each step—preparing dough that rises overnight, expertly scoring patterns into sourdough loaves, and learning the delicate balance of flavours in pastries and cookies. Just this morning, I'd successfully baked coconut oat cookies, suggesting chocolate chips to balance the sweetness. Peeta had eagerly tasted the first batch, eyes widening in surprise before immediately asking if I could make twenty dozen before opening. The sense of pride and accomplishment from his reaction was dizzying—I'd never considered myself good at anything beyond hunting, and yet here I am, mastering new skills with ease.

But the true triumph had come later in the morning. Standing at the front counter beside Mrs. Mellark, biting my lip to suppress a triumphant smile each time someone specifically asked for my cookies, savouring her barely concealed frustration as we sold out completely before midday. She ignored me after that, her bitterness palpable. I didn't mind; in fact, I preferred it.

I finally pull my gaze from the mirror, shaking my head gently at myself. Despite every initial hesitation and internal warning, the reality of this forced marriage is turning out far differently than I expected. And perhaps, if I'm truly honest with myself, far better.

My fingers brush down the front of my simple dress and for a brief, dangerous moment... I wonder if Peeta's already picturing peeling it off of me tonight.

I shake my head quickly, huffing out a breath. Focus, Katniss. Get your shit together.

But even as I start getting ready, smoothing my hair and adding tiny touches to my appearance, I know the truth deep down:

I'm not sure I want to.

Once I'm dressed and ready, I walk back into the kitchen, immediately overwhelmed by the delicious scent filling the air. Peeta has the turkey out of the oven, carefully brushing a maple butter glaze over its golden-brown skin. My mouth practically waters just watching him.

"That smells incredible," I say softly, stepping closer. Peeta doesn't lift his gaze, but a small, teasing grin appears on his lips.

"Told you I wouldn't burn it," he remarks smugly, finally looking up with a playful twinkle in his deep blue eyes.

Oh, damn. That look in his eyes—warm, mischievous, inviting—is my undoing every single time. I can't resist the pull, the heat pooling low in my belly instantly. Without another thought, I stride purposefully towards him, my breath already catching in anticipation.

Peeta's arms open readily, waiting to embrace me as I press my body against his. Our lips collide fiercely, a passionate clash filled with urgency. My fingers fumble hastily at his belt, managing to undo it and yank down his pants and boxers in record time. Simultaneously, he gathers the skirt of my dress, lifting it hurriedly to slip his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear, pulling them down until they fall around my ankles.

He kicks his pants aside as he hooks one of my legs firmly around his hip, positioning himself between my thighs. In one fluid, desperate movement, he's inside me, deep and filling. I cry out loudly, gripping the counter behind me for support as Peeta immediately sets a rapid, relentless rhythm, each thrust driving deeper and faster.

"Peeta! Wait—Mom and Prim will be here in like... oh fuck—ten minutes," I gasp breathlessly, even as I push my hips eagerly to meet his.

"That's plenty of time," he murmurs huskily into my ear, his voice thick with desire, causing my entire body to shiver deliciously.

"O-okay," I stutter, completely surrendering to his pace, my mind already clouding over with pleasure. Peeta adjusts the angle slightly, thrusting upward, hitting that perfect, devastating spot inside me. My knees buckle instantly, and Peeta tightens his hold, keeping me steady and pinned securely against him.

"Right there," I moan breathlessly, tangling my free hand into his blonde curls, gripping firmly.

Peeta smirks wickedly, pulling the top of my dress and bra down swiftly, freeing one of my breasts. Without hesitation, he covers my sensitive nipple with his mouth, sucking greedily. A sharp gasp tears from my throat, and I bite down on my lower lip to silence myself.

"Stop holding back," he growls softly around my nipple, grazing it teasingly with his teeth while thrusting sharply once more, sending a fresh wave of pleasure rocketing through my body.

"Oh, Peeta!" I cry out loudly, unable to hold back any longer. His chuckle vibrates against my skin, only heightening my pleasure.

"Don't," I moan desperately, arching my back as he continues the delicious torture, "get all smug on me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he whispers teasingly, leaning in to nip playfully at my bottom lip. His hand slips between our joined bodies, fingertips finding my clit easily, rubbing firm, demanding circles that send me spiralling quickly towards the edge.

"Yes! Just like that," I pant, throwing my head back, losing myself completely. My entire body tightens and shudders violently as my orgasm crashes through me. My muscles squeeze tightly around him, coaxing a low, guttural groan from deep in Peeta's throat as he thrusts a final few times before spilling inside me, his warmth filling me completely.

We lean against each other, breathing heavily, hearts racing in sync. Peeta slowly lifts his head, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to my lips before pulling back with a satisfied smile. I quickly straighten my dress and smooth down my hair, a blush spreading across my cheeks as reality returns.

Slowly, he leans his forehead against mine, his eyes still dark and glassy. "We... might need to... do a quick cleanup before your mom and Prim get here," he murmurs breathlessly, a lazy smile curving his lips.

I laugh, still breathless, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You think?"

He kisses me back, slow and sweet this time, before finally stepping back, helping me smooth down my dress and tugging up his pants.

As I bend down to pick up my discarded underwear, I smirk over my shoulder. "You're still making me those cheese buns and a cupcake."

Peeta chuckles, tucking his shirt back in and winking at me. "Katniss, after that? I'll make you anything you want."

/

We manage to quickly clean ourselves up, laughing softly as we adjust each other's dishevelled clothes. Peeta's hair is sticking up wildly, and I try to smooth it down, unable to resist teasing him as he playfully swats my hand away, chuckling warmly. We carefully air out the room, trying to erase any lingering evidence of our earlier passion.

"How do I look?" he asks nervously, smoothing the front of his shirt.

"Ridiculously handsome," I reply with a smirk, gently adjusting his collar one last time.

Peeta smiles softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're biased."

"Maybe just a little," I admit, biting my lip and smiling.

Suddenly, there's a delicate knock at the door, and a surge of panic flashes through me. I hurriedly brush invisible creases from Peeta's shirt one last time before he gently grabs my wrists with a laugh and pushes me lightly toward the door.

"Relax, everything's perfect," he assures me softly, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

I sigh and smooth my skirt nervously as I approach the door, taking a calming breath before twisting the knob. The moment the door swings open, warmth fills me at the sight of Prim standing beside our mother, bouncing excitedly on her heels.

"Katniss!" Prim squeals happily, lunging forward to wrap her arms tightly around me.

I chuckle softly, my eyes catching the untucked edge of her blouse sticking out messily from her skirt. "Thirteen and your tail is still hanging out, Little Duck," I tease affectionately, gently tucking the fabric back into place.

Prim grins mischievously, imitating a duck. "Quack! Quack!"

I laugh warmly, bending down slightly to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "I missed you," I whisper sincerely.

Her eyes soften as she hugs me tightly again, burying her face in my shoulder. "Missed you too. Every single day," she murmurs softly.

My fingers gently comb through her soft blonde hair, savouring the comfort of her presence. I lift my eyes to meet my mother's cautious gaze, offering her a gentle nod of acknowledgment. The tension between us has eased slightly, but the lingering uncertainty remains. Trust needs time, and I can't yet offer her the full warmth I know she wants.

Gently releasing Prim, I put an arm around her shoulders and guide her into the apartment. Peeta is standing a few steps away, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his expression open and hopeful. I smile slightly, pulling Prim closer.

"Prim, this is Peeta," I introduce softly.

Peeta immediately steps forward, extending a friendly hand. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Prim. Katniss talks about you every day—I feel like I've known you forever."

Instead of shaking his hand, Prim surprises us all by stepping forward and throwing her arms around Peeta, hugging him tightly. Peeta stiffens briefly in surprise before quickly relaxing and returning her embrace warmly.

"Thank you for the cookies," she whispers sincerely. "And thank you for marrying my sister."

Peeta chuckles warmly, eyes twinkling as he glances playfully over Prim's shoulder at me. I roll my eyes, hiding my smile.

"Alright, enough ego-boosting," I joke lightly, crossing my arms with a mock scowl. "He's already impossible to live with, always reminding me how lucky I am."

Peeta snorts dramatically, placing a hand over his heart in exaggerated offence. "Lucky? You practically swooned. 'Oh, Peeta! I'm so happy we're married! You're the greatest baker and the best husband in Panem!' Swoon!" His voice is a comically exaggerated imitation of mine.

Prim bursts into delighted laughter, making my scowl falter. "Don't listen to him, Prim. I absolutely did not say that," I insist, rolling my eyes again and nudging Peeta lightly with my elbow as I walk past him.

He grins cheekily, sticking his tongue out playfully as he introduces himself politely to my mother, who greets him warmly, clearly amused by our exchange.

Prim follows me to the dining area to help set the table, chatting excitedly about everything she's done since I moved out. As we lay out the plates and silverware, she gives me a playful smirk.

"You must've really panicked getting dinner ready—I bet you were rushing around all nervous."

I try to hide my blush, biting my lip to suppress a smile. She couldn't be more wrong. The warmth and relaxation from earlier with Peeta linger pleasantly within me, a comforting ache still present between my thighs. If only she knew how relaxed I'd actually been.

"Not at all," I say, attempting to sound casual. "Everything was very under control."

Prim giggles softly, clearly not believing me as she finishes arranging the silverware. I smile to myself, glancing back toward Peeta, who's engaged in friendly conversation with my mom. Watching them together, an unfamiliar but comforting warmth spreads through my chest. He catches my eye from across the room and gives me a secret little smirk—the kind of look that says he's thinking the exact same thing.

And just like that, my heart starts to race all over again.

Dinner turns out to be surprisingly pleasant. Peeta effortlessly guides the conversation, though Prim gives him a spirited challenge, her energy and curiosity matching his warmth perfectly. Watching them, it's almost as if they've known each other forever. Prim chatters excitedly about her medical studies, new terms and herbal remedies learned under my mother's careful watch, and I feel a surge of pride and love so fierce it nearly overwhelms me. Her cheeks are rosy and full, eyes bright and happy—because of me. Everything I endured was worth it just to see her thriving like this, to hear her speak excitedly about a future that once felt impossible.

"Would you like some cherry pie, Mrs. Everdeen?" Peeta asks politely, reaching toward the dessert plate.

"Call me Asterid, please," she gently corrects, smiling warmly. "We're family now. And I would love a piece."

Peeta nods and smiles back genuinely, carefully cutting her a generous slice. When he turns to serve mine, he adds a generous dollop of whipped cream on the side, remembering it's my newfound favourite combination. He sets the plate gently before me, leans in, and kisses my temple tenderly before settling next to me. It's a gesture I've grown surprisingly comfortable within these short days, but the look on my mother's face unsettles me. It's nostalgic, wistful, filled with memories she doesn't speak of, and it makes my stomach tighten uneasily.

/

At the sink, Prim laughs loudly at something Peeta whispers dramatically, pretending to be scandalized as she playfully flicks soap bubbles at him. He feigns shock, flicking water droplets back, sending her into fits of giggles as she tries to dodge the attack. Watching them together makes my heart ache, yet fills me with warmth all at once.

"He's really good with her," my mother murmurs softly from beside me, breaking my thoughtful silence.

"He is," I agree quietly, my gaze lingering affectionately on Peeta and Prim.

"You've found yourself a good life here, Katniss," my mother says gently, her eyes filled with genuine sincerity.

"A good life?" I sigh softly, my voice heavy with quiet worry. "Every day I worry about her—whether she's eating enough, doing well in school, if she's happy." I glance toward Prim again, feeling an ache deep within me. She's mine—I raised her, soothed her fears, cooked her meals, and sang softly until nightmares fled. Now, suddenly, my mother gets all those precious moments.

My mother places a comforting hand on mine, squeezing gently. "I understand how hard this is for you. Prim loves you dearly, Katniss. She looks up to you as a mother. I promise you, she's safe, well-fed, and loved. I won't disappoint you again."

I stiffen slightly, looking directly at her, my voice firm yet quiet. "Good. Because the moment you neglect or fail her again, she's coming to live with me. Without hesitation."

My mother's gaze softens further, filled with admiration and sadness. "You're strong, Katniss. Stronger than I ever was. You'll make a wonderful mother yourself soon enough."

Her words strike me like ice, sharp and numbing. Reality rushes back to me, the weight of my forced future suddenly unbearable. I'm expected to conceive a child within mere months. Yes, I raised Prim and loved her like my own daughter, but the thought of carrying my own child—sharing life, blood, and breath—is terrifying in its vulnerability. Prim, as fiercely as I love her, is different. She didn't grow beneath my heart, wasn't created from pieces of me and another. She wasn't placed in my arms moments after her birth, fragile and new.

The thought of losing Prim already slices through my heart, but the idea of losing a child that I created, who once lived within me, is unthinkable, and devastating beyond comprehension. My mother's innocent remark echoes painfully inside me, stirring fears I desperately try to suppress.

Long after my mother and Prim leave with arms full of leftovers, the thought continues to torment me. It stays as Peeta gently kisses my neck, sensing my distraction but choosing to soothe rather than question. It remains as I allow him to undress me slowly, his hands tender and reassuring against my skin.

Our lovemaking is gentle and intimate, a deep contrast to the turmoil in my heart. As I find my release with a quiet gasp, Peeta soon follows, grunting softly as he spills himself inside me. Tears sting sharply in my eyes, the reality of my fate sinking deeper, harder. Not only am I trapped in marriage—I am forced into motherhood.

As Peeta's seed runs down my thigh, I close my eyes tightly, turning away slightly. His arms come around me instinctively, holding me securely against his chest. I press myself closer, seeking comfort, desperately needing something solid and warm to hold onto, silently praying that somehow, I will survive this.

And as Peeta presses a kiss to my shoulder and mumbles something soft in his sleep, I squeeze my eyes shut tight, willing myself not to break.

Because ready or not... it's coming.

KPKPKP

The moment the fridge door opens and the pungent smell of bacon hits me, my stomach churns violently. The bacon slips from my hands onto the floor as I dash to the sink, my stomach heaving painfully. My knuckles turn white from gripping the countertop as last night's dinner leaves me, bitter and acidic.

Immediately, Peeta is beside me, gently pulling my hair back and murmuring comforting words. "Katniss, are you okay?"

I nod weakly, trying to steady my breathing as he hands me a glass of water. "Yeah," I whisper hoarsely, taking slow sips. "The bacon—it smelled horrible."

He frowns, puzzled, as he picks up the fallen bacon and sniffs it curiously. "It smells fine to me."

My body goes rigid, a wave of realization washing over me. I knew this moment would come, had been prepared for it—or at least thought I was. But now that it's here, my mind reels with anxiety. There's only one explanation: I'm pregnant. This is supposed to be a good thing, a reason for relief because it means Peeta and I will stay together. But relief isn't what floods me now—it's fear, a choking sense of dread. I can't be a mother; I'm not ready.

"Katniss?" Peeta's gentle voice snaps me back.

"Huh?" I blink rapidly, trying to refocus on his concerned face.

"I asked if you're feeling sick again. Should I get some crackers or lemonade?" He brushes the back of his hand against my forehead, worry creasing his brow.

"No," I reply softly, my voice shaking slightly. "I think—I think I might be pregnant."

Peeta's eyes widen, his mouth slightly open in shock. "Pregnant?"

"There's only one way to find out for sure," I say quietly, looking down. "I'll understand if you can't come—the bakery needs—"

"The bakery can wait," he interrupts firmly, taking my hand. His voice softens. "We're a team, remember? Friends stick together."

Over the past three weeks, we've forged something genuine, something stronger than I ever expected. Despite the forced circumstances and constant expectations, Peeta has become more than just my husband; he's my friend. A real, honest friend who listens and cares. My heart tightens painfully at the thought that this new reality—a baby—might change everything between us.

The hospital room feels sterile and cold. Lying back on the examination bed, I stare at the stark white ceiling, waiting anxiously. Peeta sits next to me, his leg bouncing nervously, hands folded tightly together. The quiet tension between us is almost tangible as we wait for the doctor to appear, ready to deliver news that could change everything.

The door finally opens, revealing a woman in a pristine white coat over pale blue scrubs. She offers a professional but friendly smile. "Hello, I understand you're here hoping for some good news," she says warmly.

I bite back a bitter retort—"good news" is relative when you're eighteen and living a life you never chose. Instead, I nod mutely, picking anxiously at my fingernails.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" She wheels a small station toward the bed, explaining gently as she applies a cold gel to my abdomen. I shiver slightly from the sensation, my eyes glued apprehensively to the screen as it flickers to life.

"Before the war, technology like this wasn't available to most," she explains softly. "President Coin believes we need the best equipment to ensure our population grows. We can detect pregnancy as early as a week now."

A wave of resentment bubbles within me. "Population growth," I mumble darkly. "They're not women—just girls barely out of childhood."

The doctor's smile falters slightly, her eyes sympathetic. "I understand it's difficult. Unfortunately, the president's orders outweigh all else."

I tense my jaw, reminding myself this isn't her fault. She's just doing her job, a cog in the larger machine controlled by Coin's iron fist. But anger simmers inside me nonetheless—anger at a system that steals choice, autonomy, and freedom under the guise of progress.

My thoughts halt abruptly as a small flicker appears on the screen, a tiny shape taking form.

"You see here?" the doctor says gently, tracing the outline. "That's your baby. And that flicker right there is its heartbeat—strong and healthy."

My breath catches, heart hammering painfully. I glance at Peeta, finding his eyes fixed on the screen, wide and bright with unshed tears. The sheer awe and love reflected in his expression twists painfully in my chest.

I search myself desperately for that feeling, that overwhelming joy new mothers always speak of—but find nothing. Only fear, uncertainty, and a powerful instinct to protect. I want to shield this innocent life from the harshness of our world, but that thought only deepens my dread.

I already feel like a failure. A mother should feel joy at seeing her baby's heartbeat for the first time, shouldn't she? But all I see is another lock fastening around me, another step into a life that was chosen for me rather than by me.

Peeta's fingers gently squeeze mine, pulling me back from my spiralling thoughts. "Katniss," he whispers softly, his voice thick with emotion. "We're going to be okay. You and me—together. We'll figure this out."

His reassurance both comforts and terrifies me. As I squeeze his hand back, I realise with painful clarity that my fate is sealed tighter now than ever before. Yet somewhere deep inside, beneath the layers of fear, there's a glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, somehow, Peeta and I can truly make this work. That maybe I can find my way to loving this child the way it deserves, even if right now, all I feel is lost.

/

"They're so little," Peeta says softly, holding up the small ultrasound picture as we lie side-by-side on our bed, a gentle space lingering between us. My gaze drifts to the tiny, grainy shape on the paper, a mix of awe and dread swirling inside me. Despite the fear that threatens to consume me, Peeta's presence offers comfort, reminding me I'm not alone in this.

"Terrifyingly little," I whisper, my voice barely audible as anxiety grips my chest. Peeta lowers his arm and turns his head toward me, his deep blue eyes searching mine thoughtfully.

"You're not happy," he observes gently, his tone free of judgment, filled only with quiet understanding.

I close my eyes briefly, struggling to articulate my chaotic emotions. "I... I don't know how to feel," I admit softly. "Right now, all I can feel is scared. There's no room for anything else."

Peeta reaches over, gently taking my hand in his and interlocking our fingers, grounding me in the warmth of his touch. "You're not alone, Katniss," he says softly. "I'm scared too. Your feelings are completely valid and important, no matter what they are. Just tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help make this easier for you."

His words wrap around my heart, soothing yet terrifying. This is precisely why I tried so hard to keep some emotional distance initially. Peeta has always had an innate way of making my feelings seem normal, acceptable, even when they frighten me. I don't want to need him as much as I do. I don't want to crave his comfort or companionship this desperately. But living with someone as gentle and understanding as Peeta makes it nearly impossible to avoid developing these complicated feelings.

I take a shaky breath, pushing down the turbulent emotions that threaten to overwhelm me. "Just hold me," I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with vulnerability. Even to my own ears, the fear is unmistakable.

Without hesitation, Peeta shifts closer, pulling me securely into his embrace. My face presses against his chest, the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek finally breaking down the fragile barrier I've struggled to maintain. Tears flood my eyes, spilling freely as my shoulders shake from silent sobs.

Peeta's arms tighten protectively around me, one hand gently stroking my hair, whispering soft, reassuring words into my ear. "It's okay, Katniss. I'm right here. We'll figure this out together."

I cling to him tightly, letting all my pent-up fear, doubt, and confusion pour out.

I don't know how long I stay wrapped in Peeta's arms, sobbing until exhaustion finally pulls me into sleep. When I wake, the room is cloaked in darkness, the faintest hint of moonlight filtering through the curtains. I rub my eyes wearily and slowly sit up, noticing I'm now comfortably tucked beneath the covers—Peeta must have laid them over me after I fell asleep. With a heavy sigh, I reach over to flick on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a comforting orange glow.

Dragging myself out of bed, I head into our small bathroom and step under the warm spray of the shower, washing away the residue of dried tears and the lingering anxiety from earlier. I scowl at myself, feeling embarrassment creep up my spine at the memory of losing control in Peeta's presence. Vulnerability isn't something I planned to include in our arrangement—I don't want him to see me as weak or in need of constant reassurance. I keep trying to convince myself that my breakdown was merely hormonal, even though a small, persistent voice insists otherwise.

Once out of the shower, I pull on a comfortable pair of long pyjama pants and one of Peeta's oversized shirts, finding strange comfort in its warmth and lingering scent. I make my way down the softly lit hallway, fingers combing through my damp hair, and enter the living room. Peeta sits quietly on the couch, his sketchpad balanced carefully in his lap as his hand moves gracefully, capturing something on paper.

"What are you drawing?" I ask softly, causing him to jump slightly in surprise.

He turns his head toward me, a gentle smile spreading across his face. "Hey," he greets warmly as I sit beside him.

He hesitates briefly before holding up the sketchpad. My breath catches at the detailed drawing—it's the bakery kitchen counter, his strong hands depicted carefully kneading dough, alongside smaller hands beginning to take form. My chest tightens painfully as I recognise the image of our future child's tiny hands.

"Sorry," he whispers, his voice uncertain. "I couldn't get this image out of my mind."

I offer him a faint smile, hoping to reassure him. "Don't apologize, Peeta. Just because I have… complicated feelings doesn't mean you need to hide your happiness. I'm still trying to make sense of it all."

His expression softens with concern. "Are you sure? I don't want to make things harder for you."

I sigh gently. "It's going to be difficult regardless. Honestly, it'll be worse if you pretend not to feel happy for my sake. Just… maybe warn me when you want to talk about or experience these moments?"

Surprise brightens his eyes, mixed with cautious hope. "You're okay with me doing that?"

"Of course," I answer firmly. "I don't want to take those moments away from you. Our circumstances may have been forced upon us, but our child deserves for us to at least try finding joy in the situation."

Peeta nods slowly, relief evident in his gentle gaze. "Alright. Just promise to tell me if it gets too overwhelming."

I lean my head onto his shoulder, savouring the simple comfort his presence provides. "I promise."

We sit quietly for a few moments, the silence is warm rather than uncomfortable. Peeta eventually breaks it, his voice soft and tentative. "Are you hungry? I made chicken broth earlier. The book Dr. Aurelius gave us said it might help with morning sickness."

My heart warms at his thoughtful gesture. After everything I've faced recently—my spiralling fears, the uncertainty looming over us—I decide to embrace a familiar, comforting impulse. Without giving myself time to second-guess, I gently turn his face toward mine and press a soft, tender kiss to his lips.

He startles briefly, a surprised sound escaping him, but quickly recovers, his hands finding a respectful resting place on my hips. I slowly break away, resting my forehead against his, fingertips idly playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

"Why did you do that?" he whispers softly, curiosity colouring his voice.

"Because," I respond quietly, my voice thick with emotion, "you make me feel less afraid. You're just… you."

Peeta's face lights up in a gentle smile, his eyes warm and filled with sincerity. "I'd do anything for you, Katniss."

I can't help but smile in return, the weight in my chest lifting slightly. "Then kiss me again, dork."

He laughs softly, a sweet, genuine sound that fills me with warmth as he gently lowers me onto the couch, his body pressing comfortably against mine. Despite the complicated emotions swirling inside me—fear, confusion, even guilt—I let myself sink into the comforting distraction of Peeta's touch, feeling, for a brief moment, completely safe and cherished.

KPKPKP

"I can't believe I'm going to be an auntie!" Prim giggles excitedly, holding the ultrasound picture carefully in her hands, her eyes bright with joy and wonder.

I laugh softly, my hand unconsciously drifting to rest on my still-flat belly. A nervous frown appears on my face as reality hits me again. "I can't believe I'm going to be a mom. I don't know the first thing about what I'm doing."

Prim gives me a gentle shrug, her smile reassuring. "I don't know about that," she says gently, nudging my shoulder playfully. "You did just fine raising me."

A tender smile slowly forms on my lips as memories flood through me—late nights comforting Prim when she had nightmares, teaching her how to braid her hair, making meals from scratch on the days we barely had anything. "I guess I did," I concede softly.

Prim sighs contentedly, leaning her head affectionately on my shoulder. "So," she continues softly, her voice filled with genuine curiosity, "how has Peeta been? With everything that's going on?"

I bite my lip, attempting to suppress the smile that inevitably forms whenever I think of him. "He's been… well, he's been incredible," I confess quietly. "He always has broth ready for me when I'm too sick to eat anything else. He runs warm baths for me when my body feels sore and exhausted. He's just made this past week feel safer, easier."

Prim lifts her head, studying me with a knowing look. "Sounds like he's really good for you, Katniss. Honestly, I'm glad. You've spent your whole life taking care of others; it's nice that someone is finally looking after you for a change."

A heaviness settles in my chest, and I look down at my hands nervously. "It's difficult, though. I don't want to need him. The only person I ever wanted to rely on is you."

Prim reaches out, gently squeezing my hand. Her gaze is tender yet firm. "Katniss, I understand why you feel that way, but what kind of life would you have if you kept pushing people away? It's okay to let others in, to admit you care about someone. Wouldn't your life be better if you accepted your feelings for Peeta?"

"But what if I get hurt, Prim? Or worse, what if I end up hurting him?" My voice lowers to a vulnerable whisper, "What if I become like Mom?"

Prim's expression softens even further, her blue eyes filled with compassion. "Katniss, you can't live in fear of becoming like Mom. Life is full of risks, and sometimes people get hurt, but you're the strongest, most caring person I know. You would never let yourself become someone who would intentionally hurt the people you love."

She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing, "And you know what? It's okay that I won't always be the main person in your life. You're allowed to have other people you rely on. You deserve that."

My eyes fill with tears at her words, a mixture of gratitude and sadness. "You'll always be the most important person in my life, Prim. Nothing will change that."

Prim smiles softly, squeezing my hand again. "I know, Katniss. But it's okay if Peeta becomes important to you, too. You deserve happiness, more than anyone else I know."

I let her words sink in, slowly nodding as they settle around my heart. Maybe Prim is right—maybe it's time I allow myself to be vulnerable and fully embrace the comfort and strength Peeta offers. After all, it's not just about me anymore; it's about our baby, about building a life together that's genuinely worth living.

/

"I want to teach you all my secret recipes," Peeta murmurs tenderly, his lips pressed softly against my belly. "Especially my malted rye bread—best in District 12, guaranteed."

I smile warmly, lying comfortably against the pillows as my fingers gently thread through his soft, ashy blonde curls. It's soothing to feel him so close, talking softly to the tiny bump that's barely noticeable unless pointed out. Despite the constant nausea and tenderness, these quiet moments with Peeta make the pregnancy feel almost okay.

Peeta continues to speak softly to my stomach, sharing his gentle dreams and promises with our unborn child. His genuine excitement and tenderness are contagious, warming something inside me that I've kept guarded.

"How were you feeling today?" Peeta finally asks, turning his head to look up at me, concern mingling with affection in his gaze.

"Alright, I suppose," I reply softly with a slight shrug. "A bit nauseous after Prim left, but I had some ginger tea, and it seemed to help. Then I took a nap."

He chuckles warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sounds like someone decided to give you a break today."

Peeta shifts to lie beside me, and I turn onto my side to face him fully. His eyes are gentle, searching mine patiently.

"Can I ask you something?" I whisper hesitantly, biting my lower lip.

"Anything," Peeta assures me immediately, his voice calm and steady.

"Why did you throw me the bread that day?" My voice is quiet, almost uncertain.

Surprise briefly flashes across his features, quickly replaced by tenderness. "You remember that?"

I nod softly. "It's hard to forget the person who saved your life."

Peeta's gaze softens, even more, his expression earnest and slightly shy. "I threw you the bread because… I couldn't stand the thought of you starving. I've—I think I've loved you since I was five."

My eyes widen in surprise, disbelief colouring my voice. "Five?"

"Yeah," he laughs gently, his cheeks turning a faint pink. "It was our first day of kindergarten. You had on this red plaid dress, and your hair was in two braids instead of one, tied neatly at the ends. My dad pointed you out to me."

"Why your dad?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Peeta smiles softly at the memory. "Because he said, 'Peeta, see that girl? I once wanted to marry her mother, but she was matched with her father and fell deeply in love with him.' And when I asked him why she fell in love despite the marriage reaping, he told me, 'Because when he sings, even the birds stop to listen.' That very afternoon during music assembly, the teacher asked if anyone knew the Valley Song, and yours was the only hand that shot straight up. When you started singing, Katniss, I knew right then I was in trouble. Just like your mom, I was already a goner."

His confession reaches deep into my chest, touching places I hadn't realized existed. It's as though a wall inside me is crumbling, allowing his words to reach deeper than I'd expected. Slowly, I bring my hand up, caressing his jaw gently, my thumb brushing softly over his cheek.

"I don't want to just be friends anymore," I whisper, vulnerability evident in my voice.

For a moment, hurt flickers across his expression before I quickly continue. "No, Peeta, I mean—I want more. I want to try this marriage for real, as something deeper. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what I'm feeling, but… I want to give us a real chance. I'm just scared."

A bright smile breaks across Peeta's face, lighting up his eyes. "Really? If it makes you feel any better, I'm terrified too. I don't want to mess this up."

I scoff softly, shaking my head with a small laugh. "Believe me, I'm more likely to mess things up than you."

He gently pulls me closer, his hand warm on my hip. "How about we just promise to try our best not to mess it up together?"

"I think I can manage that," I reply softly, my heart fluttering gently in my chest.

Slowly, I lean into him, closing the gap between us to press my lips tenderly against his, savouring the sweetness and warmth of his kiss—a promise and a beginning rolled into one perfect moment.

For the first time, it doesn't feel like I'm surrendering something.

It feels like I'm choosing it.

/

"I think… this might be my favourite stage of your pregnancy," Peeta gasps beneath me, his voice thick with desire as I move slowly on top of him.

I bite my lower lip hard, trying to suppress the loud moan that escapes anyway. "Me too," I groan softly, gripping his chest tightly. "Fuck, it feels amazing."

Peeta chuckles breathlessly before his laughter transforms into a moan when I rock my hips forward, my sensitive clit rubbing perfectly against his pelvis. The sharp jolt of pleasure races up my spine, intensifying the feeling of him buried deep within me. I repeat the motion, my hips instinctively finding their rhythm.

His hands grip my hips tighter, guiding me as he thrusts upwards gently to match my pace. "You're telling me," he gasps softly, eyes heavy with pleasure.

I feel his hands slide upward, warm and gentle, capturing my swollen, sensitive breasts. He kneads them softly, occasionally teasing my nipples with a pinch that sends shockwaves of pleasure throughout my body.

"Oh god, Peeta," I whimper, arching my back slightly to deepen the sensation. "Keep doing that, please."

He obeys, continuing his slow torture until the pressure inside me snaps sharply. My head falls back as a loud cry escapes, my body trembling uncontrollably as the intense waves of my release ripple through me.

Still breathing heavily and recovering, I barely register Peeta flipping us over smoothly, still buried inside me. He wastes no time, immediately thrusting deeply and steadily. I gasp loudly, tangling my fingers through his hair and pulling him down to meet my lips in a heated, messy kiss. Our tongues meet hungrily, tasting each other's moans and gasps as he thrusts harder.

With one final, sharp thrust, Peeta throws his head back with a deep, guttural groan, spilling himself inside me. He collapses next to me, pulling my body against his, my back flush against his chest. His hand softly strokes over the small, noticeable swell of my belly, the gentle movement sending warmth spreading through me.

My legs feel heavy and sore, but I don't care. Wrapped in Peeta's embrace, I feel safe and content. "What do you think the baby will be?" Peeta murmurs softly, his voice gentle and curious.

I sigh softly, hugging his arm tighter around my waist. "I'm not sure. Right now, I just want to keep them safe," I whisper truthfully.

Peeta hums thoughtfully, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my belly. "I wouldn't mind either way," he admits softly, a dreamy note in his voice. "Though, I think I'd love having a girl."

I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze with a teasing smile. "Why am I not surprised? You give off such strong 'girl dad' vibes," I tease, gently poking his chest.

Peeta chuckles lightly, raising a playful eyebrow. "Joke's on you—I take that as a compliment. Imagine a mini version of you running around."

I shiver dramatically. "Honestly, I don't think I want to imagine that. I've not exactly been the nicest daughter to my mom until recently," I say softly, a slight frown forming.

Peeta's gaze softens immediately, his thumb brushing gently over my cheek. "With good reason. Trust me, this baby is going to love you deeply."

"They'll love you even more," I reply quietly, sincerity thick in my voice.

"How can you be so sure?" Peeta asks softly, his expression tender.

I shrug slightly, my eyes meeting his earnestly. "It's just this feeling I get whenever I'm near you. Since being pregnant, the urge to be close to you has become overwhelming. More than ever before."

Peeta grins playfully, eyes sparkling. "I could definitely get used to hearing that."

I roll my eyes, trying and failing to suppress my smile. "Stop being so annoying," I tease lightly.

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest in mock offence. "Annoying? You didn't seem to find me annoying this morning after breakfast when I was eating you out on the table," he retorts, smirking mischievously.

"Peeta!" I gasp, laughing despite myself. "Don't be so crude!"

He chuckles, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Crude? You're adorable, Katniss. Always so pure."

I scowl at him playfully, fighting a blush. "I am not pure," I grumble.

"Oh really?" Peeta grins, eyebrows raised challengingly. "Then why do you blush every time I say words like 'cock' or 'pussy'?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "What happened to the innocent Peeta Mellark?"

He smirks confidently, shifting smoothly to hover over me. "Apologies, but innocent Peeta is temporarily unavailable. You'll have to make do with this version for now."

My laughter quiets as he leans in closer, his lips brushing softly against my ear, his voice low and seductive. "Now, if you wouldn't mind lying back, relaxing, and letting me eat your pussy until you can't form a coherent thought, I'd greatly appreciate it."

A warm shiver runs down my spine as he disappears beneath the covers, a soft giggle escaping my lips as I see the lump that is Peeta shifting beneath the sheets. I tense slightly, anticipation already flooding me. The second his tongue touches my overly sensitive clit, I nearly fall apart then and there, biting my lip to stifle an embarrassingly loud moan.

Determined not to finish too soon, I hold onto the sheets tightly, trying to steady my breath. But Peeta has other plans, working me expertly with his mouth, clearly eager to see me unravel quickly and completely.

This man — this boy I never meant to fall for — is going to wreck me.

And God help me, I'm going to let him.

/

None of my old pants or shorts fit. None. Which means I've resorted to wearing the few dresses I own. The biggest issue with them? They make my bump look bigger than it really is. My slender, straight frame exaggerates it, and although my mother insists it's perfectly normal to show early, I wish my body had waited just a bit longer before announcing to the entire district that I've sealed my fate permanently with Peeta Mellark.

It's been a whole month since I confessed to Peeta that I wanted our marriage to be real—not just as friends, but as true partners. The shift in him is like night and day. Before, he kept a respectful distance, waiting patiently for my invitation to come closer. Now, it's effortless. He'll slide his arms around me from behind while I'm cooking, gently kissing the back of my neck, or appear suddenly at the bakery counter just to plant a quick, tender kiss on my lips. Initially, I'd blush and avert my eyes, but now I find myself leaning into him, welcoming his touch. And the best part? How much it annoys his mother.

My family has become a regular presence at our dinners, enjoying the warmth of consistent meals. Prim glows brighter with each visit, and even my mom seems more stable and genuinely happier. Watching her interact with Peeta—soft, casual touches on his arm, gentle encouragements—makes my heart soften. It's not much, but for Peeta, who grew up under harsh words and harsher hands, it means everything.

Tonight, though, we're hosting Peeta's family. He's avoided this dinner for as long as possible, using my pregnancy symptoms as an excuse. But now that I'm visibly healthier, his father has grown persistent, gently but consistently dropping hints until I finally gave Peeta the nod to set the date and get it over with.

And now, here I am, anxiously straightening already spotless shelves, rearranging perfectly positioned pillows, and making sure the apartment is flawless—an impossible feat, but I can't stop trying. Our home above the bakery has transformed dramatically since I moved in. The sterile white walls now boast vibrant paintings crafted lovingly by Peeta, and there are potted plants everywhere. He'd brought them home one day, explaining softly that if I couldn't visit the woods as often, he'd bring a little piece of them here for me. I never jumped him so quickly in my life.

Our new couch replaced the old, worn-out one, and I've already claimed it as my favourite napping spot. The apartment feels alive now, warm and comforting—a place where I can imagine us raising our baby. It finally feels like home, and I refuse to let Peeta's mother take that away.

When the anticipated knock finally echoes through our space, I nervously smooth Peeta's shirt collar and gently tame his hair. "Remember, don't let her ruin this for us. You're strong, Peeta."

His eyes soften with reassurance. "With you beside me, I've never felt stronger," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead before moving towards the door.

His father greets him warmly, a hearty chuckle filling the air. "Peet! It's good to see you, son."

"Hey, Dad," Peeta responds, returning the hug warmly. "Come in, everyone."

His mother breezes past without acknowledgment, and my jaw tightens slightly, but Peeta's brothers offer hearty greetings, their wives exchanging friendly hugs and greetings. The children flock to Peeta immediately, tugging at his legs and giggling as he lifts a toddler into his arms effortlessly.

"Katniss," Peeta calls, walking toward me with the toddler nestled comfortably against his chest. "You already know Rye, and this is my oldest brother, Wheatley."

Wheatley nods politely, his quiet demeanour reminding me of their father, while Rye offers a familiar, cocky smirk. "Ah, Katniss. Last time we spoke, you and Peet were busy working on those baby-making skills," Rye teases, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

I scowl at him, though it's softened by familiarity. "Careful, Rye, or I'll toss you out before dinner's even served."

He laughs heartily, undeterred. "Come on, you know you adore my charming presence."

"You mispronounced 'irritating,'" I retort.

Peeta sighs dramatically, slipping an arm around my waist. "Do you always have to annoy my wife, Rye?"

"Absolutely. It's my duty," Rye grins. "Besides, my niece or nephew needs exposure to their favourite uncle as early as possible."

"Favorite uncle?" Wheatley interjects, playfully shoving Rye into a playful headlock. "Please, give it a rest."

Peeta chuckles softly as his brothers tumble into playful banter, turning his attention back to me and the toddler nestled sleepily against his shoulder. "Who's this sweet little one?" I ask softly, tickling the child's side lightly and earning a sleepy giggle.

"This little cupcake is Sage, Rye's youngest," Peeta says warmly, affection clear in his voice. I study Sage carefully, with his soft blonde curls and bright blue eyes. He looks like a miniature version of Peeta, and suddenly, a flutter of excitement courses through me at the thought of our child resembling him.

But that warmth quickly gives way to a familiar wave of anxiety. The immense responsibility of caring for such a tiny, dependent being feels overwhelming. I squeeze Peeta's hand gently, anchoring myself in his steady presence.

Peeta notices my brief hesitation, squeezing my waist gently in reassurance. "You're going to be amazing, Katniss," he whispers, his eyes full of warmth and conviction.

I lean into him, breathing in his comforting scent, letting it ground me as I push away the lingering fears. "We'll be amazing—together," I whisper back, finding comfort and strength in the certainty reflected in his eyes.

Dinner begins quietly, the room filled with cautious glances and hesitant attempts at small talk. The tension is palpable, and I find myself nervously picking at my food until Wheatley's wife, Hannah, breaks the silence with a gentle smile.

"You're looking really healthy, Katniss," she says warmly, sincerity radiating from her voice. It's a refreshing change from the usual insensitive remarks about my growing belly, and I offer her a grateful smile in return.

"Thank you," I reply softly, rubbing my belly instinctively. "Dr. Aurelius mentioned our baby is very strong."

Peeta grins proudly, gently placing his hand over mine. "Definitely takes after their mom."

I roll my eyes playfully, but I can't hide the small smile tugging at my lips. "Don't even start, Peeta," I tease softly, nudging him lightly with my shoulder.

Across the table, Rye's wife Clara leans forward curiously. "Do you two have any names picked out yet?"

I shrug, glancing at Peeta. "We like traditions. So, we're considering either plant names or something bakery-related. We'll decide when we see which suits the baby best."

"That's a wonderful idea," Mr. Mellark nods approvingly, his eyes twinkling warmly.

But the pleasant atmosphere shifts abruptly when Mrs. Mellark scoffs, swirling her glass of wine with an air of disdain. I feel a wave of apprehension tighten in my chest as I slowly turn my attention towards her.

"A wonderful idea? Really? You honestly think she can be a mother?" she sneers coldly.

Her words hit harder than I'd like to admit. Anxiety coils tighter within me, deepening the insecurities that constantly gnaw at the edges of my mind. How could I possibly handle being a mother when I'm barely managing my own fears and doubts?

Peeta's voice, strong and unwavering, breaks through my thoughts. "She already has been."

Surprised, I look at Peeta to find him glaring fiercely at his mother, his jaw tight with quiet anger.

"Oh? And how exactly?" Mrs. Mellark challenges, eyebrows raised mockingly.

"Katniss cared for Prim single-handedly for years," Peeta replies firmly. "She fed her family, kept them alive, gave Prim everything a mother would, even when their own mother couldn't. If she can show that much strength and dedication for her sister, I have no doubt she'll be an incredible mother to our child."

Mrs. Mellark opens her mouth, ready to retort, but Peeta continues with determination I've rarely seen from him. "And honestly, Mother, what have you ever done to make your children feel safe or loved? We've had enough. Katniss and I may be young, but we are fully capable of caring for our child. If you can't respect that, if you can't be supportive, you can leave and not return. I'm done letting you make me feel worthless when Katniss has shown me exactly how much I'm worth."

A stunned silence falls over the table, everyone staring wide-eyed at Peeta—especially his mother. It's as if he's drawn strength directly from me, from us, the bond we've built slowly but surely. A fierce pride swells within me.

After a tense pause, dinner resumes quietly. Mrs. Mellark remains silent, clearly shaken by Peeta's declaration. The conversation gradually picks up again among the others, warm and genuine, laughter softly returning to fill the spaces between bites of food.

Throughout the rest of the meal, Peeta's hand remains intertwined with mine under the table, his thumb softly brushing over my knuckles. At one point, I lean closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," I whisper softly in his ear, gratitude and affection mingling together.

Peeta smiles warmly, his eyes soft and full of unspoken promises as he turns to kiss me tenderly. In that quiet moment, everything clicks firmly into place, reassuring me that together we truly are a team. This marriage—our marriage—can be real, supportive, and enduring. And for the first time, I fully believe it.

Once everyone leaves, Peeta starts filling the bath for me. I sit quietly on the closed toilet lid, listening to the comforting sound of water running, my nerves finally beginning to settle after the tense evening. The apartment feels peaceful again, warm and safe.

When Peeta turns off the taps, he moves to leave the bathroom, giving me my privacy. But something in me stirs, a need to be close to him, to thank him in a way words never could. Before he can step away, I gently grab his hand, halting him in place.

He looks back at me, confusion flickering across his features. Without saying a word, I slowly untie my robe and let it slip from my shoulders, pooling softly at my feet. His breath hitches slightly, eyes darkening.

"Join me?" I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper, vulnerability and invitation clear in my tone.

Peeta visibly swallows, his eyes travelling slowly down my body before returning to meet mine. "Um… yeah. Definitely," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire as he quickly sheds his clothes, discarding them on the floor.

Stepping carefully into the warm water, he settles against the back of the tub, and I follow him in, positioning myself comfortably between his legs. His strong arms wrap securely around me, his hands resting tenderly on my belly. We sit quietly for a moment, just breathing, just being together.

"We haven't really talked about names," he finally murmurs, his lips brushing softly against my bare shoulder.

I smile gently, tilting my head back to rest against his chest. "I suppose we've had other things occupying our minds."

He chuckles softly, the vibrations reverberating pleasantly against my back. "That's true. But we probably should start thinking about it."

"I've always liked the name Azalea," I admit softly, feeling slightly shy. "They're my favourite flower."

"Yeah, I know," he responds warmly, and I feel the curve of his lips into a smile against my skin.

I shift gently in the water, turning so that I'm straddling his lap, water sloshing quietly around us. My hands slide through his damp curls, my fingers tracing lightly along his scalp. "You know that, huh?"

He grins playfully, eyes sparkling. "Yep. I also know you mumble adorable things in your sleep, bite your lip when you're nervous, hum softly whenever you're cooking, and you'd eat cheese buns every single day if you could."

I laugh softly, warmth blossoming in my chest. "Is that all?"

His hands move slowly, tantalizingly, over my skin. "Oh, there's more," he whispers huskily. "Like how you completely lose your train of thought whenever I kiss you here." His lips find the sensitive spot at the base of my neck, and I sigh heavily, my eyelids fluttering closed.

"Or when I touch you here," he continues, his hands moving to cup my breasts, gently kneading them, teasingly rolling my nipples between his fingers. My back arches instinctively, pressing my body firmly against his, causing him to groan softly as our bodies make contact.

"What else?" I gasp, my breath hitching as my hand slips beneath the water, wrapping around him, stroking him slowly.

"Fuck," he murmurs roughly, head falling back slightly. "Or when… when you do that."

"Keep going," I whisper teasingly, my lips brushing his ear as I guide myself onto him, sinking down with a breathless moan.

He groans deeply, fingers gripping my hips tightly as I begin to move, setting a steady rhythm that sends sparks dancing through my body. "You… you wrap yourself around me when you're cold," he pants softly, barely managing to form the words.

"Anything else?" I whisper breathlessly, pressing my lips against his neck, feeling his pulse racing beneath my tongue.

"Yeah," he grunts, thrusting up suddenly, deeply into me, causing me to cry out, gripping his hair tightly. "When I do this…"

I bite my lip, eyes squeezing shut as my hips meet his movements eagerly, sensations building quickly. "Peeta," I moan desperately, my voice trembling as the pleasure intensifies, my nails digging into his shoulders.

His mouth finds mine urgently, tongues tangling together as our pace quickens, the water splashing around us, unnoticed. My body tightens, heat building unbearably until I shudder around him, crying out his name as I come undone.

But he's still hard inside me, and despite my oversensitivity, I keep moving, determined to give him the release he deserves. "Only you," I whisper urgently into his ear, repeating it between desperate kisses. "Only you make me feel this way."

His grip tightens on my hips, his breathing ragged and uneven. "Katniss," he gasps, thrusting up one final time as he spills himself deep within me, his body shuddering powerfully.

Exhausted, I slump forward against him, breathing heavily as he softly strokes his fingertips up and down my back, calming the rapid beating of my heart.

"I love you," he murmurs quietly, pressing gentle kisses along my shoulder.

I lift my head slowly, eyes meeting his, vulnerable yet certain. "I love you too, Peeta."

Wrapped securely in his arms, our bodies intertwined in the soothing warmth of the bath, I'm filled with a profound sense of peace and belonging—a feeling I've longed for but never truly believed I'd find. Now, here with Peeta, I'm finally home.

KPKPKP

I'm working at the front counter when the soft chime above the door signals a customer. It's late Friday afternoon, and the usual rush has finally quieted down, leaving the bakery peaceful. I look up and smile warmly when I recognise Madge, her belly rounding out her dress noticeably as she carefully unbuttons her coat. A few weeks ago, my mom mentioned Madge had been matched with Gale. Hazelle Hawthorne was absolutely thrilled that her son was stepping into such an important role.

The thought of Gale as the future mayor still makes me smile, picturing his permanent scowl and rough edges navigating the polished halls of the Justice Building. Despite his gruff exterior, though, I know Gale is a good person, fiercely protective and loyal, with a strong sense of family and responsibility.

"Hey, Katniss," Madge greets me warmly, gently rubbing her swollen belly as she approaches the counter. "It's been way too long."

"It really has," I reply with genuine warmth. "How've you been feeling?"

She shrugs lightly, offering a small, amused smile. "I'm alright, just exhausted mostly. Gale seems to require all the help I can offer. Turns out, being the mayor's apprentice is a lot more involved than he anticipated."

I snort softly, shaking my head. "That sounds exactly like Gale. At least you're not stuck just standing around looking pretty like you feared. Gale will definitely need all the guidance he can get."

Madge laughs gently, nodding. "True enough." Her eyes sparkle with playful curiosity. "And you ended up with Peeta Mellark. You know, I heard more than a few girls were crossing their fingers for him."

I roll my eyes dramatically, though my cheeks flush warmly. "Well, I suppose it sucks for them," I mutter, unable to hide my own quiet satisfaction.

As if on cue, Peeta emerges from the kitchen, his face lighting up when he sees me. He moves beside me effortlessly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to my cheek. "Hey, you want to close up early today?" he asks softly, pressing another kiss to my temple.

"Yeah," I agree softly, glancing up at him fondly. "Let me finish serving Madge first."

He nods, turning toward Madge with a polite, genuine smile. "Good to see you, Madge. Congratulations on the baby."

"Thanks, Peeta," Madge replies warmly, her gaze shifting between the two of us knowingly. "Congratulations to you both as well. Honestly, you two seem perfect for each other."

Peeta flashes me a playful, knowing grin, and I gently elbow him. "Stop being annoying while I'm trying to serve a customer," I whisper, trying—and failing—to suppress my smile.

Peeta chuckles softly, kissing my cheek once more before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving me slightly flustered but undeniably happy.

I turn my attention back to Madge, gathering her order and carefully packing it into a neat bag. She watches me with a content sigh. "Seems like the odds were finally in our favour after all," she says softly, her voice warm and reflective.

"Yeah," I agree quietly, meeting her eyes with a gentle smile. "It's about time."

She nods warmly, accepting her bag. "I hope we'll see each other around more often. And, seriously—congratulations on the baby. You're going to make an incredible mother, Katniss."

My throat tightens slightly at her words, and I give her a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Madge. You too. Motherhood really suits you."

Madge offers one final gentle smile before leaving the bakery, the bell chiming softly behind her. I lean against the counter for a moment, warmth spreading through my chest at her kind words. Peeta returns quietly, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

"Ready to close up?" he whispers softly into my hair.

I turn in his arms, meeting his eyes and smiling warmly. "More than ready," I say, leaning up to press a tender kiss to his lips. In moments like these, I'm reminded just how lucky we truly are, despite how complicated our journey has been.

/

The past three weeks had been surprisingly good. Each day felt manageable, even pleasant. The gentle flutters I'd occasionally feel were easy to brush off as mere gas, allowing me to remain safely cocooned in denial—a familiar comfort I had grown accustomed to.

But tonight, something different happens. Something unmistakable.

I'm jolted awake by a distinct, firm thump from within my belly. It's not gentle like the previous flutters—it feels purposeful, a tiny hand or foot pressing firmly against me from inside. I freeze, my entire body rigid in Peeta's comforting embrace, his steady breaths brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of my neck.

For a moment, I try desperately to convince myself it's nothing, that perhaps I'm dreaming or imagining things. I close my eyes, taking deep breaths, willing my body to relax again. But then I feel it once more. Again. And again. Each movement more undeniable than the last, each small kick reverberating inside me like a terrifying reality check.

The tidal wave of anxiety crashes over me, suffocating in its intensity. There's a life growing within me—a tiny, dependent being that I'll soon have to birth, nurture, and protect. A million questions and doubts race through my mind, drowning me in a flood of panic and dread.

I need an escape, a distraction—anything to relieve this overwhelming fear. My mind grasps for something tangible, and instinctively, I begin softly pressing my hips back against Peeta's sleeping form. His groan of sleep-induced pleasure encourages me, and I feel his body responding, growing harder against me. It momentarily shifts my focus from my fear to the familiar comfort of his touch.

His grip tightens gently around my hip, his groggy voice thick with sleep as he mumbles into my neck, "Katniss… what are you doing?"

"Nothing," I whisper breathlessly, guiding his hand beneath my nightgown and into my panties. "I just need you to touch me."

Peeta groans deeply, clearly waking up more fully at my request. His fingers immediately find my clit, rubbing firm, reassuring circles, and my head drops back against his shoulder. His lips trail softly along my neck, and a moan escapes my lips, the relief instantaneous yet fleeting. I know it's temporary, but right now, it's enough.

Urgently, I push his hand away just long enough to remove my soaked panties, kicking them off under the sheets. Turning quickly, I straddle him, impatiently tugging his pajamas down enough to free him, feeling his warmth pulse in my grasp. I stroke him gently, briefly, before sinking down onto him with a trembling sigh. My eyes flutter closed at the intense pleasure as he fills me completely, a welcome distraction from my inner turmoil.

"Katniss," he gasps beneath me, his sleepy eyes blinking open, darkened with desire and confusion. I almost falter at his vulnerable expression, feeling a pang of guilt for using him this way, as a distraction. But the desperation is too strong, and I begin rocking slowly, savoring each movement, each sensation.

The baby continues kicking intermittently, a gentle reminder of reality, but the sensation of Peeta moving inside me pulls my focus away. His hands grip my hips firmly, grounding me as I quicken my pace. Our breaths mingle, heavy and uneven.

"Peeta," I gasp, leaning forward, pressing my forehead against his, seeking closeness as his fingers return to my sensitive clit. My hips move faster instinctively, the familiar heat building rapidly inside me.

"I've got you," he murmurs softly, thrusting upward gently to meet my rhythm, sensing my desperate urgency.

My back arches sharply as I cry out, the pleasure washing over me intensely, momentarily banishing all fears and worries. Still sensitive from my release, I continue to move, determined to bring him the same relief. A few more thrusts, and he groans deeply, hips bucking upwards as he spills himself inside me.

For a brief moment, there's silence. I'm breathing heavily, my heart racing, emotions surging once more as reality returns. I climb off him slowly, curling up on my side, facing away from him, tears stinging my eyes. The baby kicks again, strong and persistent, prompting a quiet, fearful whimper to escape my lips.

"Katniss…" Peeta whispers softly, reaching out to wrap his arms around me. As his arm settles across my belly, the baby kicks again, right beneath his touch. Peeta immediately stiffens behind me, the realization clear in his sharp inhale.

That's when my sobs finally break free, raw and uncontrollable. The sheer weight of fear and vulnerability overwhelms me completely, and I cry openly, desperately.

Peeta tightens his embrace, holding me securely, anchoring me as he whispers soothingly into my hair. "It's okay, Katniss. I'm here. I've got you."

I cling to his words, desperately hoping they're true, desperately needing them to be. His steady presence gradually calms me, slowing my tears until exhaustion finally begins to take hold.

"We'll get through this together," he promises softly, pressing gentle kisses against my shoulder, his voice filled with unwavering certainty.

My breathing slows, steadying under his comforting touch. His reassurance helps quiet my fears, at least temporarily, and I find myself drifting back into sleep, cradled safely in Peeta's strong arms, the echo of his promise easing the lingering dread that remains within me.

When I wake up the next morning, the memories of last night flood back, making my stomach churn with shame and anxiety. The way I woke Peeta up, the way I used him to escape my fears—I feel sick just thinking about it. I wince slightly as I rise from the bed, the familiar ache between my legs an unmistakable reminder of how real it was.

The baby stirs suddenly inside me, kicking with surprising strength, stopping me mid-step on my way to the shower. I pause, placing a hesitant hand against my belly, trying to calm myself as much as the child. For a brief second, I'm mesmerized by the small ripples moving beneath my skin. Fascinating, yes, but terrifyingly real.

"Please, settle down," I whisper shakily, but it only seems to encourage another firm kick. A fresh wave of panic rises inside me, mingling with the guilt and shame already eating at my heart. Tears well in my eyes, but I force myself to breathe deeply, pulling myself together enough to make it to the shower.

After a long shower, I dress slowly, deliberately taking my time, hoping Peeta will already be at the bakery, busy and distant enough to give me space. But as I step into the main room, my heart plummets when I see him sitting quietly at the table, eyes fixed on his hands, lost in thought. My stomach twists anxiously, and I consider retreating back into the bedroom, but it's too late. He looks up, and our eyes meet.

"I thought you'd already be at the bakery," I say quietly, avoiding his intense gaze.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "I was there earlier. I baked… a lot. Had plenty on my mind." He hesitates, eyes briefly darting down to my belly before quickly returning to my face.

The silence stretches between us painfully. Finally, he speaks again, softer this time, but firm. "Katniss, we need to talk about last night."

My defenses immediately go up, guilt morphing quickly into anger. "I don't know what you want me to say, Peeta. You didn't seem to mind it much at the time."

Peeta takes a deep breath, clearly fighting to stay calm. "It's hard to object when my wife wakes me up like that. But it's not the sex itself that bothers me, Katniss. It's knowing that you're using it to avoid dealing with your fears. It's seeing you break down right afterward that hurts me."

I glare at him defensively. "Fine, then. If it bothers you so much, it won't happen again. Happy?"

His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening with frustration. He stands abruptly, clearly upset. "That's not what this is about! You keep acting like you're alone in this, like you have to hide everything from me. How many times do I need to tell you that I'm here for you? You have to trust me enough to talk to me, Katniss."

"Talk to you?" I snap, my voice rising despite myself. "You'll never understand what I'm going through, Peeta. You can't possibly know how terrifying it is to feel another human being move inside you, reminding you every second of the responsibility you're about to have."

His voice rises to match mine. "Don't tell me how I feel or what I understand! Just because I don't carry this baby doesn't mean I don't worry every damn day about what kind of father I'll be, or if I'll even be enough for you both. My fears are just as real as yours."

"You?" I almost laugh bitterly, throwing my hands up in frustration. "You're always excited, always talking to my belly, always telling me how great it's going to be. You don't know what real fear feels like, Peeta. You didn't have to give someone your body just because you owed them something!"

The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them deeply. The hurt in Peeta's eyes is immediate and raw. His face goes pale, and he steps back as if I've physically struck him.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice is quiet, almost dangerous in its calmness.

I swallow painfully, tears stinging my eyes, but the words spill out anyway. "It means exactly what I said. I slept with you on our wedding night because I felt I owed you for the bread. It wasn't because I wanted to—it was to repay a debt."

He stares at me, hurt and disbelief clear in his expression. The tension hangs thickly in the air, choking both of us.

"Thank you for finally showing me how you really feel," he says coldly. Without another word, he turns on his heel, storming out and slamming the door behind him with such force the walls shake.

I stand there, frozen, my heart shattering. Turning toward the kitchen counter, my eyes land on a plate of three cheesebuns, freshly made and wrapped carefully. The gesture breaks something inside me, and a strangled sob escapes my throat.

Instead of running after him or even eating the food he prepared, I retreat numbly to our room, burying my face in the pillow. Tears flow uncontrollably, soaking the fabric beneath me. Guilt consumes me entirely, far stronger and sharper than the fear of the baby moving ever was.

This is exactly why I was afraid of letting Peeta in, of loving him. Because hurting him was inevitable, and right now, knowing I caused him pain is a hundred times worse than any fear I've ever felt.

/

Peeta stays in the back of the bakery, deliberately keeping his distance. Usually, even on slow days like today—when customers trickle in slowly due to the relentless cold and steady snowfall—he checks on me regularly, smiling warmly or sneaking gentle touches as he passes. Today, his absence feels palpable. I never imagined myself missing someone who's physically so near, but each passing minute makes the ache in my chest grow. Yet, I can't muster the courage to bridge the gap between us.

The bakery is unusually quiet, amplifying my anxious thoughts. I find myself watching the kitchen door more often than usual, hoping he'll come through with his usual warmth and reassurance. Instead, I'm met with silence and empty space, intensifying the heavy feeling in my heart.

"Why do you look so glum?" Prim asks gently, approaching the counter and interrupting my spiraling thoughts.

I hesitate, not meeting her eyes. "I don't want to talk about it," I mumble quietly. But as if to punctuate my statement, Peeta emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly baked loaves, the comforting scent of bread drifting toward us. My heart stutters with a foolish hope that he might offer me even a small gesture—a look, a touch, anything—but he doesn't. Instead, he walks straight past me without a glance, places the tray on the cooling rack, and silently returns to the kitchen. No smile, no quick kiss on my cheek, no affectionate hand brushing against my waist. Absolutely nothing.

"Oh..." Prim murmurs softly, instantly understanding.

I fight back tears, swallowing down the lump that forms in my throat. Before I can crumble entirely, a gentle hand touches my shoulder, grounding me. I look up, startled, to see Mr. Mellark standing there, his expression soft and kind.

"Katniss, why don't you take a break? I'll handle things here for a bit," he offers gently.

I open my mouth to protest, but the genuine concern in his eyes silences me. Nodding gratefully, I quickly step away, letting Prim follow me upstairs to the apartment.

Upstairs, I collapse onto the couch with a heavy sigh, burying my face in my hands. Prim settles quietly beside me, waiting patiently for me to speak.

After a long silence, I finally confide in her. "I got scared last night. The baby moved, really moved, and I panicked. Instead of talking to Peeta about it, I… used him to distract myself from the fear. This morning he confronted me about it, and I said things that hurt him. Terrible things. Now he won't even look at me." Tears slip quietly down my cheeks, my heart aching at the memory of Peeta's hurt expression.

Prim gently rubs my back, listening carefully before she speaks softly. "I don't know everything about relationships or boys yet, Katniss. But one thing I do know for certain is that Peeta loves you. Everyone can see it clear as day. You don't just walk away after one fight. He probably just needs to know you really love him too."

"He knows I love him," I argue defensively, frowning deeply. "I kiss him. I let him kiss me. I hug him, sleep in his arms. I'm carrying his baby, Prim. That has to count for something."

Prim's expression grows serious, mature beyond her years. "How often do you actually tell him you love him? How often do you confide in him? You always come to me, Katniss, and I love being your best friend—but Peeta needs to know these things too. Actions mean a lot, sure, but sometimes words mean even more. You've always found it easier to show rather than say, but he might need to hear it from you clearly."

"It's just… so hard," I whisper, more tears blurring my vision.

"Did you think it would be easy?" Prim asks gently but firmly. "Peeta's kind, caring, patient—but that doesn't mean he doesn't have insecurities or fears. He's human too. He's not perfect, but he's perfect for you. Don't give up just because things got hard."

A small, sad smile tugs at my lips. "When did you get so wise, Little Duck?" I ask softly, pulling her into a comforting side-hug.

She giggles softly, resting her head against my shoulder. "I guess I just had a really good teacher," she replies with a playful nudge. "But seriously, Katniss—Peeta's worth fighting for."

I sigh deeply, letting her words sink in. "What would I do without you, Prim?"

"Probably fall apart," she teases lightly. "But you're stronger than you think. You'll figure this out."

Her faith in me warms my heart, and I squeeze her gently in appreciation. "Enough about my drama," I say, wiping the lingering tears from my face. "Tell me about school."

Prim's face immediately brightens, launching eagerly into a detailed story about her classmates, rolling her eyes dramatically as she describes how some of them seem more interested in boys than their studies. I chuckle softly, marveling at how mature and focused she is. Prim talks excitedly about plants she's been studying, their healing properties, and her dreams of becoming a doctor. Listening to her is comforting, a welcome distraction from the pain and confusion swirling inside me.

As Prim continues her stories, I steal glances toward the door leading back down to the bakery, hoping for Peeta to walk in, wishing I could find the strength to fix what I've broken. But right now, as Prim's enthusiastic chatter fills the room, I'm simply grateful for her presence, her insight, and her unwavering support.

After speaking with Prim, the heaviness pressing on my shoulders feels lighter. I return to my spot behind the bakery counter, watching as our employees slowly leave for the day, bundled up tightly against the falling snow outside. The shop grows quieter with each departure, leaving only the faint hum of the ovens and the occasional clink of trays from the kitchen.

Mr. Mellark steps out from the kitchen, removing his apron, his fingertips still tinted with food coloring, flour dusting his forearms. His gentle, comforting presence has always brought a sense of calm to the bakery, and right now, I'm grateful for it.

"I'm heading out now," he says softly, pulling on his thick coat.

I nod, walking him toward the door. "Thank you for covering earlier."

He turns to face me at the threshold, eyes filled with understanding. "You both share a love I've only witnessed once before in my life. I know it's difficult sometimes—loving someone so deeply and knowing you might hurt them. It can almost break you too." His eyes soften even further. "If I can offer one piece of advice? Lean on each other, Katniss. There's no shame or weakness in needing someone. I've found it makes you fight even harder to keep them."

A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips, genuinely comforted by his words. "Thank you, Otho."

He nods warmly and steps out into the cold. I shut and lock the door behind him, closing the wooden shutters and turning out the front lights. I pause, taking a deep breath, gathering my courage before turning towards the kitchen, where Peeta has kept himself isolated most of the day.

When I enter, Peeta is hunched over the worktable, meticulously painting a fondant flower, focused intensely on his work. He doesn't look up.

"I closed up the front," I say softly.

Peeta's head snaps up at my voice, his eyes guarded, distant. He says nothing, merely nodding and returning to his task.

My chest tightens with frustration and hurt. "What, you're just going to ignore me now?" I scowl, unable to hide the pain lacing my words.

He sets his brush down gently, sighing deeply before finally meeting my gaze. "Honestly, Katniss, I don't know what you expect me to say right now. I'm all out of words. I just... need some space."

I fold my arms protectively across my chest, feeling a pang of rejection that I quickly mask. "No, you don't. And I don't want to be alone right now. I know this morning was my fault, but you've ignored me all day. You haven't even tried to kiss me or feel the baby move. It hurts, Peeta. Did you know I haven't felt the baby kick since this morning? Do you have any idea how scary that is?"

Peeta's eyes widen, and his face instantly softens with guilt and concern. "Katniss, I..." He shakes his head slowly. "You really hurt me this morning. I needed some time."

"I know," I whisper, my voice cracking slightly. "I know it's unfair of me to expect things from you right now after what I said. But, Peeta, you know better than anyone how hard words are for me. I say things wrong or not at all. But I need you to know that I love you. I really do."

His gaze softens further, his defenses slowly melting as he listens intently. Encouraged by his expression, I step closer.

"I won't lie; at first, yes, I slept with you because I felt like I owed you something. But that's not why I'm still here. What I feel now—it's terrifying because it's real, and it's deep. And seeing how losing my dad changed my mom... that's always been my biggest fear. Loving someone so completely, then losing them. I pushed you away because I was scared of exactly this moment—hurting you."

Peeta gently pushes away from the counter, closing the gap between us until he's close enough to lift my chin softly, making me look into his eyes.

"I love you too, Katniss," he whispers, his voice full of emotion. "You just have to promise me you'll talk to me from now on. Don't push me away. Let me help you."

"I promise I'll try," I reply earnestly.

His smile finally breaks through, warming me instantly. He leans down slowly, brushing his lips against mine in a gentle, healing kiss. Just as we pull apart, a sudden, strong kick jolts through my belly, making me gasp sharply, my hand immediately pressing against the spot.

"Katniss?" Peeta's voice is panicked, worry filling his eyes.

"The baby kicked," I whisper with relief, tears welling quickly in my eyes. I grab his hand, pressing it against the spot where our child had just moved. Almost immediately, the baby kicks again, firmly against Peeta's palm.

Peeta's eyes fill with unshed tears, his smile radiant with awe. "That's our baby," he murmurs, his voice choked with emotion.

I smile through my own tears, nodding. "Yes, it is."

He gently pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine, his thumb softly rubbing circles on my stomach. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

"We are," I whisper, conviction in my voice, feeling more certain than I ever have. "Together."

He kisses me again, tenderly, lingering longer this time, washing away the lingering hurt and fear. I melt into him, allowing myself to trust, to lean fully into the safety and warmth of his embrace. Right now, nothing else matters but this moment, and knowing we have each other to lean on.

Chapter Text

It's a monumental event when President Coin is finally forced from office, her iron grip on Panem pried loose after years of simmering resentment. She doesn't go quietly, of course—broadcasting a dramatic farewell where she warns that we'll all regret this, that we'll come crawling back begging for her return. I scoff at the screen as I watch the replay, the bitterness rising like bile. As if anyone who's endured her oppressive marriage reapings would ever want her back. It's deeply satisfying to see her escorted from the presidential mansion, her power stripped away, reduced to just another face in the crowd.

Now, Peeta and I sit on our cozy couch in the apartment above the bakery, his sketchpad open on his lap as he doodles absentmindedly. We're anxiously waiting for the announcement of the new president—the first free election since the Rebellion's end, where every citizen in the districts and the Capitol was required to vote. Three candidates ran, but to us, the choice was clear.

"Do you think Paylor pulled it off?" I ask, shifting to face him, my hand resting instinctively on the swell of my belly.

He looks up from his drawing, thoughtful. "I'm not sure. People can surprise you—sometimes for the better, sometimes not. But she had the strongest platform, the clearest vision. If anyone's going to fix this mess, it's her."

"Let's hope she actually delivers," I mutter, and he hums in agreement, his thumb brushing mine in quiet solidarity.

Our attention snaps to the television as the newscaster, Fuchsia Ingram, appears on screen, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "And here it is, citizens of Panem! Your new president—President Paylor!" The crowd erupts in cheers as Paylor strides confidently onto the balcony, waving warmly to the throng below.

"Thank you all so much," she begins, her voice firm yet compassionate, carrying the weight of someone who's fought in the trenches. "Your trust means everything to me. I promise to honor the responsibilities of this office with integrity and dedication. My first act as president will be to abolish the marriage reapings once and for all. No more forcing our young people into unions they're not ready for. Additionally, starting tomorrow, anyone from past reapings who wishes to dissolve their marriage can do so—just visit your local Justice Building to begin the process. Thank you, Panem. Together, we'll build a future worth fighting for."

The feed cuts back to Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith, their animated commentary buzzing in the background. I turn to Peeta, surprised to find him already watching me intently, his expression serious, almost guarded.

"What?" I ask cautiously, sensing the shift in him.

He shrugs, looking away briefly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the sketchpad. "You have an out now," he says quietly. "If this isn't what you want—if I'm not what you want—there's no reason to stay. I'll still be here for you, for the baby, whatever you need—"

Before he can finish, I pinch his arm sharply, cutting him off. "Ow! What the fuck, Katniss?" he yelps, rubbing the spot with a bewildered look.

"You deserved that," I retort firmly, scowling at him. "You should know by now how I feel. Unless... you're the one who wants out?"

Peeta's eyes widen, shaking his head vigorously. "Of course not. Never."

"Good," I say, my voice steady despite the emotion swelling in my chest. "Then we understand each other. Don't ever suggest that again."

A teasing grin spreads across his face, chasing away the shadows. "I'm flattered. Guess I must be doing something right after all."

I roll my eyes but can't hide my smile. "The only reason I'm staying is for your cheese buns," I tease, though we both know it's a lie.

He chuckles, and I push his sketchpad off his lap, the pencil clattering lightly on the wooden floor. Before he can protest, I straddle his lap, feeling his hands settle naturally on my hips.

I cup his face gently, meeting his eyes earnestly. "I love you, Peeta. I want this—us—forever. I'll always need you."

Peeta's smile turns tender, his gaze full of that quiet depth I've come to cherish. "I love you too, Katniss. More than you'll ever know. I couldn't imagine my life without you."

Leaning down, I press my lips softly against his. "I think I have some idea," I whisper playfully.

His laughter vibrates against my chest, and suddenly he flips us over, pinning me gently beneath him on the couch. His lips trail down my neck, eliciting a soft sigh from me as I run my fingers through his hair. Yes, there's no way I'm leaving this marriage—not today, not ever.

I recline against the pillows on our bed, gazing down at my belly as it shifts with rhythmic little thumps, like a distant drumbeat echoing from within. It's both surreal and strangely comforting, this tangible proof of life growing inside me. Peeta emerges from the bathroom, fresh from his shower, his damp curls slightly tousled and catching the lamplight. He smiles warmly as he joins me, sliding onto the mattress and propping himself up on one elbow, his eyes drawn to the gentle movements beneath my skin.

"She has the hiccups," I tell him softly, a small, amused smile tugging at my lips.

Peeta raises an eyebrow, his grin broadening with curiosity. "She?"

"Just a feeling," I shrug lightly, placing my hand over the spot where our baby is stirring, the sensation both wondrous and unnerving.

His expression softens, filled with that quiet affection I've come to rely on. "I trust your instincts on this," he murmurs, reaching out to trace a tender path along my belly. "And a girl... that sounds pretty perfect to me."

I meet his gaze, a wave of warmth mingling with the undercurrent of anxiety that's never far away. "Can you believe we'll have a baby here with us in three months? It feels like... too much, sometimes."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes as he presses a gentle kiss to my temple. "It does feel unreal at times. But amazing too. How have you been feeling about it lately? Really?"

"Scared," I admit quietly, my voice barely above a whisper as I look away. "It seems to get more intense the closer we get— like the reality is closing in."

Peeta leans in closer, his hand cupping my cheek to turn my face back to his. "I know it's terrifying, Katniss," he says softly, his thumb brushing my skin. "But remember, you're not facing any of this alone. I'll be right there, every step."

His words wrap around me like a shield, easing the knot in my chest just enough to breathe. "That's the only thing keeping me grounded right now," I whisper, lacing my fingers with his. "Knowing you'll be by my side."

He smiles faintly, then asks, "Does it help that it'll just be your mom and Prim there to help? A little less overwhelming that way?"

I sigh, considering it. "Yeah, it does. I couldn't handle strangers in the room—someone else holding our baby first. I wouldn't trust anyone but family."

Peeta chuckles softly, and I glance at him, scowling playfully at the mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What?" I ask, nudging him with my elbow.

"Nothing," he laughs, eyes sparkling. "It's just—you're so worried about being a good mom, but here you are, already fiercely protective about who gets to hold our baby first. It's... endearing."

I roll my eyes, though his words stir a reluctant warmth in me, and shove his elbow lightly, sending him collapsing back onto the pillow with a laugh. "You're annoying," I tease, trying to keep a stern face but failing as his grin widens.

Peeta shifts his weight, hovering lightly above me now, his blue eyes locking onto mine with that intense, playful heat. "Annoying, huh?" His voice drops to a low murmur, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. My fingers instinctively thread through his curls.

"Maybe," I challenge, my breath quickening. "But you could change my mind."

He raises an eyebrow, lips brushing my neck. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

I tilt my head, giving him better access, my pulse racing. "Just... keep doing what you're doing. Slowly."

His quiet chuckle vibrates against my skin as he trails kisses lower, his hands sliding beneath my nightshirt, fingertips tracing tantalizing patterns that make me arch into him. "Now, if you wouldn't mind lying back and relaxing," he whispers, his voice husky, "I'll see what I can do."

I sigh as his mouth finds my collarbone, nipping gently before moving down, the anticipation building like a slow fire. He peels my nightshirt up and over my head, discarding it, his eyes dark with desire as they roam over me. His lips capture a nipple, sucking firmly, his tongue swirling in ways that make me gasp, my hands fisting in his hair.

"Peeta," I moan, the ache between my legs growing insistent.

He continues his descent, settling between my thighs, his breath hot against my core. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, then his tongue flicks out, lapping at my clit with expert precision.

I buck against him, a cry escaping as pleasure surges through me. His hands hold my hips steady, his mouth relentless—sucking, licking, teasing until I'm writhing, the world narrowing to the heat of his touch. Fingers join his tongue, sliding inside me, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

"Yes—right there," I pant, my body tensing as the climax builds fast and fierce.

He doesn't let up, and I shatter with a loud moan, waves of ecstasy crashing over me, my thighs trembling around him.

Peeta crawls back up, kissing me deeply, tasting of me, as I catch my breath. "Mind changed?" he teases, voice rough.

"Completely," I whisper, pulling him closer, ready for more.

In these moments, the fears fade, and all that matters is us.

/

It happens in the dead of night—a sharp, shooting pain ripping through my lower back, jolting me awake like a snare snapping tight. My eyes fly open, and I sit up with a gasp, my hand clutching Peeta's thigh hard enough to make him groan, stirring beside me in the dark.

"Katniss?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and instant concern. He fumbles for the bedside lamp, flicking it on to flood the room with a soft, golden glow that chases away the shadows but not the fear clawing at me.

Another wave of pain surges through, sharper this time, and I grit my teeth, stifling a moan. Peeta is fully awake now, shifting closer, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back, trying to ease the tension.

"Are you okay? What's going on?" he asks urgently, his blue eyes wide with worry as they search my face.

I manage to catch my breath as the contraction eases, leaning into his touch. "The pains—they're worse," I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of agony and fear. "Much worse than before."

"Shit," he mutters, panic flashing across his features before he reins it in, forcing calm into his expression for my sake. "What do we do? Do you want me to get your mom? Prim?"

I nod, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled hands. "Yes—I need them. But please, don't leave me alone. I'm scared, Peeta. Really scared."

He cups my face gently, his thumb brushing my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, voice steady despite the worry in his eyes. "I'll call my dad—he can run and get them. It'll only take a minute, okay?"

I take a shaky breath and nod, my grip on his arm easing slightly as the pain fades for now. He kisses my forehead quickly and slips from the bed, rushing from the room.

He's gone only briefly, but it feels like an eternity, the seconds stretching as another contraction builds, more intense than the last. I clutch my belly, a sharp cry escaping despite my efforts to hold it in.

Peeta returns just as the pain peaks, climbing back onto the bed without hesitation. He pulls me toward him until we're facing each other, my legs stretched past his hips, his strong arms wrapping firmly around my waist, drawing me as close as my swollen belly allows. He presses his forehead to mine, his blue eyes locking onto mine, steady and unyielding.

"Look at me, Katniss," he says softly but firmly, his breath mingling with mine. "Breathe with me, okay? In... and out. We've got this."

I try to match his rhythm, drawing in slow, deep breaths through the haze of pain, focusing on his face, his voice. "It hurts so much," I whimper, eyes squeezing shut as I lean heavily against him.

"I know, love," he whispers, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. "But you're the strongest person I know. We're going to get through this—together, like always."

My fists curl into his shirt, clinging desperately as the contraction crests. "Peeta—I can't—"

"You can," he interrupts gently, holding me tighter. "Squeeze me if you need to, hold on as hard as you want. I'm right here—I'm not letting go."

I do as he says, gripping his shoulders, burying my face in his neck as the pain ebbs. He murmurs quiet reassurances the whole time, his voice a lifeline in the storm, grounding me even as panic threatens to pull me under.

Eventually, the contraction fades, leaving me trembling and spent in his arms. "I don't know if I can do this," I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks.

Peeta brushes them away tenderly, lifting my chin so our eyes meet again. "You absolutely can," he says, his conviction unwavering. "You're not alone in this—you have me, your mom, Prim. Everyone who loves you is here. We'll get through it together."

I manage a small, watery smile, nodding weakly. "Thank you—for being here. I couldn't do this without you."

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. "Always, Katniss. No matter what."

Just as I start to relax in the brief reprieve, another contraction builds, stealing my breath. I gasp, gripping his arms tighter, but Peeta is ready—resuming his steady rhythm, helping me breathe through each wave, whispering encouragements, reminding me we're in this as one. His presence is my anchor, holding me steady as the night unfolds into the unknown.

I endure another five contractions, each one cresting stronger and more intense than the last, like waves building to a storm, until finally, the faint sound of footsteps echoes through the apartment, followed by the gentle creak of the front door opening. Relief surges through me as our bedroom door swings wide, revealing my mom and Prim framed in the dim hallway light.

My mom clutches her worn leather medical bag by the handles, her expression calm and focused amid the chaos, while Prim surveys the room with wide blue eyes, determined and ready.

"Prim, grab some towels—at least six," my mother instructs gently but firmly, taking charge with the quiet authority of someone who's birthed two daughters herself. Prim nods swiftly, vanishing down the hallway toward the linen closet.

My mom sets her bag on the bedside table and turns to me, her voice steady and reassuring, cutting through my haze of pain. "Katniss, sweetheart, I need you to lie back and prop your legs up so I can check how far along you are."

Her composed demeanor eases some of the knots in my chest. With Peeta's careful guidance—his hands steady on my back—I shift onto my back, wincing as another contraction begins to build, coiling tight in my core. I reach out instinctively for his hand, and he intertwines his fingers with mine, squeezing with a comforting strength.

"Just breathe, Katniss," he whispers softly in my ear, his free hand brushing damp strands from my forehead. "I'm right here. You're doing incredible."

As my mom examines me, her touch professional yet gentle, Peeta strokes my hair, the rhythmic motion a small distraction from the discomfort and vulnerability. His presence is my anchor, keeping me from drifting too far into the fear.

"Can you believe we're about to meet her?" he murmurs, his voice filled with awe, trying to lighten the moment.

"Yeah," I manage through gritted teeth, my voice strained as the contraction peaks. "I just want her out already."

He smiles gently, pressing a kiss to my temple. "She'll be here before you know it. And she'll be perfect—in our arms, safe and sound."

I nod, gripping his hand tighter. Ever since I confided my intuition that the baby is a girl, Peeta's been convinced, embracing it with that quiet certainty of his. Dr. Aurelius offered to confirm it weeks ago, but we both wanted the surprise. Now, as the reality draws nearer—the actual moment of holding our child—it's both thrilling and utterly terrifying, a whirlwind of emotions that leaves me breathless.

"Okay, you're about six centimeters dilated," my mother announces calmly after finishing, pulling back with a nod. "You're progressing well, Katniss—you're already through the toughest part."

I release a shaky breath, a mix of relief and nervous anticipation flooding me. "So... how long now?"

"Hard to say for sure," she replies, adjusting the blankets around me with care. "Every birth is unique, but you're moving along quickly—that's a good sign."

Prim reenters just then, her arms laden with fluffy towels, eyes wide with a blend of excitement and nerves as she sets them on a nearby chair. "Here they are. Anything else?"

"Not yet, sweetie," my mom answers, flashing her an encouraging smile. "But stay close—we might need you soon."

Prim nods eagerly, dragging a chair nearer to the bed. Her presence grounds me further, a reminder of all the times I held her through her fears; now, she's here for mine, steady and unafraid.

"What do we do until she's ready to push?" Peeta asks, his voice steady but threaded with concern.

My mother glances at him warmly, her tone gentle and reassuring. "Focus on keeping her comfortable. Walking can help things along if she's up for it, or a warm shower to ease the tension. The key is relaxing as much as possible between contractions—breathe, rest, whatever feels right."

Peeta nods, turning back to me with those clear blue eyes. "What do you think, Katniss? What sounds good?"

"Maybe walking," I suggest hesitantly, the idea of movement appealing despite the ache. "But not too far—I don't want to overdo it."

He smiles, offering his hand once more. "Alright, let's give it a try. Tell me the second you need to stop, okay?"

"I promise," I say, trying to match his calm as he helps me ease out of bed. Once upright, I lean heavily on him, my arm wrapped tightly around his waist as we begin a slow pace around the room. Prim hovers nearby, ready to assist, while my mom unpacks more from her bag, laying out supplies with efficient care.

"Remember when we first found out?" Peeta asks softly, his voice a welcome distraction as we shuffle along. "Feels like a lifetime ago now."

"Yeah," I reply, breathing through a milder contraction that builds and fades. "I was terrified then. Still am, if I'm honest."

"Me too," he admits, giving me a gentle smile. "But look how far we've come—stronger every day."

"I'm glad it's you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I meet his warm gaze. "I couldn't do this with anyone else."

He kisses my forehead lightly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on my back. "Same here, Katniss. You're my everything—there's no one else I'd want by my side."

My mom finishes her preparations and gives us both a reassuring nod. "You're both going to be wonderful parents," she says gently, her words carrying the weight of experience. "Just focus on each other and the baby—we'll take it one step at a time."

I squeeze Peeta's hand tighter, drawing strength from his unwavering presence as we continue our careful circuit around the room. No matter what lies ahead—the pain, the uncertainty—at least we're facing it together, step by labored step.

We spend the next few hours in a restless cycle, my body dictating the rhythm as contractions come and go like unrelenting waves. When a surge of energy hits between the pains, I cling to Peeta's arm, letting him guide me slowly around the room, his steady steps matching mine as he murmurs soft encouragements that help me focus on something beyond the ache.

But when my legs protest, trembling with exhaustion, he helps me back to the bed without a word, rubbing soothing circles into my lower back, his touch momentarily easing the fire there.

Eventually, even lying down becomes unbearable, the pressure building until I can't find a comfortable position. Peeta suggests a bath, and I nod weakly. He runs the water warm, not too hot, adding a handful of soothing salts my mother recommended.

As I sink into the tub, the heat envelops me like a cocoon, dulling the edges of the contractions and allowing me to breathe a little easier, the steam rising in lazy curls around us. Peeta sits on the edge, his hand clasped in mine, fingers intertwined as if he could absorb some of the pain through sheer will.

"What do you think she'll look like?" he asks quietly, his voice a gentle distraction, hope lighting his eyes despite the late hour.

Despite my weariness, a small smile tugs at my lips. "I don't know," I admit softly, my hand resting on the swell of my belly peeking through the mountain of bubbles. "But I hope she has your blue eyes—the kind that make everything feel a little less scary."

Peeta chuckles warmly, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the back of my hand. "Maybe. But the rest? All you—her strength, her bravery, that stubborn streak that'll drive me crazy in the best way."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. "You say that now, but wait until she inherits my temper. All that backtalk you'll have to deal with."

"Oh, I'm prepared," he teases lightly, his grin mischievous. "After dealing with your stubbornness, I think I've earned a medal—or at least a lifetime supply of patience."

I flick a handful of bubbles at him, watching them cling to his shirt like tiny snowflakes, drawing another soft laugh from him. "You're supposed to be distracting me, not teasing me," I pretend to scold, though my voice lacks any real bite.

Peeta's eyes sparkle with amusement. "Seems like it's working, though, doesn't it? Mission accomplished."

"Unfortunately," I sigh dramatically, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in acknowledgment, grateful for the lightness he brings to these heavy hours.

Eventually, the bathwater loses its soothing warmth, the magic fading as another sharp contraction builds, fiercer than before. My water breaks in a sudden gush, and I gasp loudly, gripping the edge of the tub with white-knuckled hands, the world narrowing to the shock of it.

"It's happening," I choke out, my voice laced with panic, eyes wide as I look to Peeta.

He stands immediately, his calm cutting through my fear like a steady hand in the dark. "Okay, let's get you out and back to bed," he says firmly but gently, helping me rise with careful arms. "You've got this, Katniss—I'm right here with you."

The contractions turn relentless after that, crashing over me with barely a breath between them, each one feeling like my body is being torn from the inside out. Tears of frustration and agony streak down my cheeks as I writhe on the bed, clutching the sheets.

"Mom, please," I plead weakly, my voice breaking as she checks my progress again, her hands efficient and sure.

"You're almost there, Katniss," she reassures gently, brushing damp strands of hair from my forehead. "Just one more centimeter, and we can start pushing. You're doing so well."

"I don't know if I can," I sob, the pain overwhelming, doubt flooding in with every wave.

Peeta's hands cup my cheeks tenderly, his thumbs wiping away the tears as he leans close, his blue eyes locking onto mine. "You've faced worse than this, Katniss," he whispers, his voice steady and full of conviction. "You're the strongest person I know—braver than anyone. Just a little longer, okay? We've got you."

I nod weakly, drawing a shuddering breath as he shifts to lie beside me, pulling me against him. My head finds his chest, and I inhale deeply, his natural scent filling my senses, grounding me. My racing heart slows to a steadier rhythm, my body relaxing into his as much as the pain allows, his presence a lifeline in the storm.

"We're in this together," he murmurs, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back. "You and me—and soon, our little one. Just hold on."

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of relentless waves, my mother announces the moment I've both dreaded and longed for. "Okay, Katniss, it's time to push."

My heart pounds frantically in my chest, a wild drumbeat echoing the chaos inside me. Peeta shifts carefully behind me, propping me up against his broad chest, his arms hooking under my knees to hold my legs in position, bent and open. His steady warmth seeps into my back, calming my frayed nerves just enough to focus amid the fear.

"When the next contraction comes, push with everything you've got," my mother instructs, her voice calm and guiding, a lifeline in the storm.

The pain surges again, white-hot and overwhelming, tearing through me like nothing I've ever known. I grip Peeta's forearms tightly—his hands steady on my shins—and bear down with a raw, guttural scream, channeling every ounce of strength into it. When my mother tells me to stop, I collapse back against him, gasping for air, sweat beading on my skin.

"You're doing amazing, Katniss," he whispers urgently, his lips brushing my ear, his voice a steady anchor. "Just keep breathing. I'm right here—I've got you."

"I can do this, right?" I ask weakly, my body trembling, seeking his reassurance like a parched throat craves water.

"Yes, you can," he replies, his tone fierce with belief. "You've carried her this far—you're the strongest person I know. Just a little more."

Bolstered by his words, I nod shakily and brace for the next wave. I push again and again, each effort draining me but fueled by determination, by the thought of holding our child.

Just when I feel like I have nothing left, like the pain will break me, I give one final, desperate push, a scream ripping from my throat that leaves it raw and aching. Suddenly, my body sags in relief as Peeta releases my legs, letting me straighten them, and a loud, piercing cry fills the room—the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"It's a girl!" my mother announces joyfully, her voice thick with emotion as she lifts our daughter, placing her slick, warm body on my bare chest.

Relief and awe crash over me in powerful waves, drowning out the exhaustion. The fear that gripped me for months vanishes, replaced by an overwhelming love for this tiny, squirming miracle, her cries a fierce declaration of life.

Peeta gently touches her small, gooey hand, tears streaming down his face unchecked. "She's perfect," he whispers, voice trembling with raw emotion.

I smile through my own tears, looking up at him. "She really is."

My mother approaches quietly, holding clamps and scissors. "Peeta, would you like to cut the cord?" she asks softly.

He nods quickly, adoration shining in his eyes for our daughter. "Yes—please."

I suddenly grip his arm, a flicker of fear returning. "Will it hurt her?"

My mother shakes her head reassuringly, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Not at all, sweetheart. She won't feel a thing—it's completely safe."

Trusting her, I watch as Peeta carefully follows her instructions, his hands steady despite the emotion, officially separating our daughter from me. The moment is bittersweet; though the physical tie is cut, the bond between us feels unbreakable, woven deeper than flesh.

Prim brings warm towels, her eyes wide with wonder as she helps wrap the baby. "She's so beautiful, Katniss," she whispers. "She looks like you—with Peeta's curls, maybe."

"She has your nose," I murmur to Peeta, brushing a gentle fingertip over her tiny, rosy cheek, marveling at this perfect blend of us.

Peeta leans in, pressing a tender kiss to my temple. "Thank you," he murmurs, voice choked. "For her—for everything."

Exhausted yet utterly content, I smile softly up at him. "We did it together."

He smiles back, wrapping his arm around us both as my mother tends to the afterbirth, her movements efficient and caring. In this quiet, sacred space, surrounded by the people I love most, I close my eyes briefly, knowing that every moment of pain, every shadow of uncertainty, was undeniably worth it. Our daughter is here, safe in my arms, and the world feels a little less daunting.

Prim stays with our daughter while Peeta helps me into the shower. My body aches with an exhaustion that sinks into my bones, every muscle protesting the slightest movement, so Peeta takes over—scrubbing away the blood and fluids between my thighs with careful hands, massaging my sore shoulders and back, even washing my hair with a gentleness that borders on reverence. His touch is nurturing, intimate in a way that's far from sexual, as if he's afraid the slightest pressure might shatter me. When he's done, he wraps me in a fluffy towel, drying me off with tender pats, his focus solely on my comfort.

"You're being extra careful," I tease quietly, managing a soft smile despite the fatigue weighing me down.

He smiles back, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You just brought our daughter into the world," he replies, his voice low and full of awe. "The least I can do is treat you like the incredible woman you are."

Warmth spreads through my chest, and I laugh softly, leaning into him for a moment. Instead of bothering with a shirt, I opt for one of Peeta's soft sweatpants and my nursing bra—ultimate comfort is all I crave right now, my body demanding it after the ordeal.

When we return to the bedroom, Prim enters, cradling our daughter who's beginning to whimper softly, her tiny face scrunching in that adorable way newborns do. "I think she's hungry," Prim says gently, laying her carefully against my chest.

I nod, adjusting her position as she roots instinctively. "Thanks for watching her," I say, catching Prim's wrist before she can slip away. "You were amazing today, Little Duck. I couldn't have done this without you."

Prim's eyes shine with pride, her smile wide and genuine. "You were the incredible one, Katniss," she replies softly. "I knew you could do it—I never doubted you for a second."

She leaves with a quiet squeeze of my hand, and my mother enters, her presence steady and reassuring. She guides me through various nursing techniques, helping position the baby until she latches on properly after a few fumbling attempts. Relief floods me at the sound of her gentle, rhythmic suckling, the tug both strange and right.

"Prim and I will stay the night," my mother says softly, her hand resting on my shoulder. "Just to lend a hand if you need it. You did so well today, Katniss—I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Mom," I whisper, surprised by the depth of my gratitude, the way it feels genuine after so many years of distance.

She smiles softly, squeezing my shoulder before slipping out, leaving Peeta and me alone with our daughter.

Peeta lies beside me on his side, gazing down at her with unfiltered awe, his finger lightly brushing her dark, wispy hair. "She's really here," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

I run my fingertips gently over her tiny back, overwhelmed by her warmth, her fragility. "Sore, exhausted... but so in love with her already," I reply to his unspoken question. "Still a little scared, but the love—it's stronger than the fear now."

Peeta smiles, his eyes glistening. "I knew it would be. She's perfect."

"She is," I agree, my own tears blurring the sight of her. "Do we still like Azalea Willow?"

"Yes," he answers firmly, leaning closer. "It's perfect for her."

I nod, a soft smile breaking through. "Azalea Willow Mellark. Our girl." He smiles back, wrapping his arm around us both.

/

We spend the next day enveloped in the blissful haze of new parenthood, time blurring as Azalea mostly sleeps, stirring only briefly to feed, her deep blue eyes blinking lazily before drifting shut again. Peeta's dad reassures us that he and the brothers will handle the bakery for as long as we need, easing the knot of anxiety in my chest—knowing Peeta can stay close, right where I want him.

My mom and Prim check in regularly, their presence a steady comfort amid the whirlwind. Mom guides us through Azalea's first bath, her hands sure as she shows Peeta how to support her tiny head. He cradles her carefully in the shallow water, laughing softly when she kicks her legs and lets out a gentle coo, clearly delighting in the sensation.

"She's already a water baby," Peeta chuckles, his voice warm with affection as he gently dries her afterward, patting her soft skin with the towel like she's made of glass. Watching him with our daughter—his tenderness, his joy—fills my chest with a warmth that blossoms deeper, rooting itself in my heart.

After Mom and Prim leave, promising to return soon, the apartment settles into a peaceful quiet. Peeta and I lie on our bed, Azalea nestled against his bare chest, her tiny breaths rising and falling in perfect rhythm. My head rests on his shoulder, my fingers lightly tracing patterns over her small hand.

"Is it strange to miss her being inside me?" I ask quietly, my thumb brushing her knuckles gently. "It was simpler then—just ours, safe from the world."

Peeta hums thoughtfully, his fingers stroking Azalea's back in slow, soothing circles. "I get that," he replies softly. "But this part—getting to hold her, see her little face, hear her breathe—it's my favorite. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"I thought I'd hate being a mother," I admit quietly, lifting my eyes to his. "But now... it feels like something I was meant for all along."

Peeta's smile widens, warm and full of belief. "I never doubted it for a second," he murmurs. "Look at her—she already knows it too. She adores you."

I lean up slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, pouring into it all the words I can't quite say. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine.

"Here's to the rest of our lives," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

"I couldn't think of anyone better to share it with," I reply quietly, settling back against his chest, the weight of happiness pressing gently on my heart.

We lie there quietly, watching Azalea sleep, her tiny breaths deep and peaceful, a rhythm that lulls us both. After several minutes of contented silence, Peeta chuckles softly.

"What's so funny?" I murmur drowsily, my eyes heavy.

"Just picturing her first steps, her first words," he muses quietly, his fingers still tracing gentle circles on her back. "Our life is going to be so different now. But better—infinitely better."

I smile, shifting closer to him as exhaustion pulls me under. "Yeah," I whisper. "For the better."

As sleep begins to claim me, Peeta's voice drifts through the haze, soft and gentle. "Thank you, Katniss—for her, for everything. I love you."

My heart squeezes with quiet joy. "I love you too, Peeta."

We drift into a peaceful sleep, Azalea nestled safely between us, the room filled with the quiet glow of unconditional love.

KPKPKP

"She's so tiny—and adorable," Rye says with a teasing smirk, rocking Azalea gently in his arms. "Definitely didn't get that from you, Peet."

Peeta chuckles beside me on the couch, our fingers loosely entwined. "Shut up, you idiot," he retorts good-naturedly, nudging Rye with his foot. "She's beautiful—like her mother." His voice softens as he leans in to brush a kiss against my temple, warmth blooming in my cheeks.

Rye wrinkles his nose dramatically. "Ugh, get a room, you two."

Clara, perched on the armrest beside him, swats his shoulder with an affectionate eye-roll. "Leave them be. And don't act like you didn't bawl your eyes out when Sage was born."

Rye groans, sinking lower into the cushions. "Clara, you swore you'd never mention that!"

"That's what you get for teasing," she says, patting his knee with a grin.

I can't help the broad smile spreading across my face as Rye pouts. Wheatley rises from his chair, hands already extended. "All right, hog—my turn."

Rye tightens his hold protectively, scowling. "No way. It's still my turn."

"You've had her for twenty minutes," Wheatley argues, amused but firm. "Older brother privileges. Hand her over."

"You're only older by three years!" Rye protests, then turns pleading eyes on me. "Katniss, back me up—tell him Azalea's clearly happier with her coolest, most handsome uncle."

I laugh softly, shaking my head. "I think Azalea deserves a chance to meet her other uncles before she gets spoiled rotten by you."

Wheatley grins triumphantly as Rye reluctantly passes her over. "I like her already, Peet."

"Good," Peeta says instantly, squeezing my hand. "'Cause I love her."

"Stop," I mutter under my breath, cheeks warming again. He just pulls me closer, that smug little smile telling me he has no intention of stopping.

Wheatley settles back into his armchair, cradling Azalea with quiet reverence, his face lighting up as she blinks up at him. Rye flops back with an exaggerated sigh, only to have Clara slide onto his lap, whispering something that instantly wipes the pout from his face.

"First Mellark girl in two generations," Mr. Mellark says warmly from across the room, pride shining in his eyes. "Nice work, Peet."

Peeta shrugs modestly, but his smile is radiant. "Just makes Azalea that much more special."

"Any thoughts on giving her a sibling soon?" Wheatley asks lightly, still gazing at the baby.

Clara laughs before Peeta or I can answer. "Give them a minute, Wheatley—they're still figuring out diapers."

Mr. Mellark chuckles, reaching over to squeeze Peeta's shoulder. "They're naturals already. Look at them."

"Thanks, Dad," Peeta says softly, sincerity thick in his voice.

Just then Azalea lets out a small, insistent whimper, her face scrunching in that telltale way. Wheatley looks up sheepishly. "Think someone's hungry again."

"Looks like she takes after you after all, Peeta," Rye quips, earning a gentle elbow from Clara and laughter from around the room.

I reach out, carefully taking Azalea into my arms and soothing her with a soft rock. "I'll be back in a bit," I murmur, excusing myself and retreating to the nursery. I sink into the rocking chair, settling her to nurse as the muffled sound of easy laughter drifts through the wall. For the first time in a long time, the apartment above the bakery feels full—not just of people, but of family. Real family.

And for once, I don't mind the noise at all.

As I nurse her, I gaze down into her impossibly bright blue eyes, marveling once more at how perfectly they mirror Peeta's—clear and deep, like the sky after a storm. I gently brush my thumb across her soft cheek, a wave of overwhelming love washing over me, fierce and unyielding.

"Hey," Peeta says softly, appearing in the doorway a few moments later, his voice a quiet anchor. "You alright?"

I nod, a soft smile curving my lips. "Yeah. Just needed a moment alone with her. Sometimes it's all a bit much—the noise, the company."

He steps into the room, kneeling beside the rocking chair to stroke Azalea's tiny hand with a feather-light touch. "I get it," he murmurs, glancing up at me with those gentle eyes that always see right through my walls. "But you're doing an incredible job, Katniss. I'm so proud of you—every day."

My throat tightens, his words touching something deep and raw inside me. "Thank you," I whisper, leaning toward him slightly. "I know I don't say this enough... but I really do love you, Peeta. I'm so grateful you're in my life, even if we were thrown together by that damn reaping. Just... thank you." By the end, tears blur my vision, but I blink them back and smile to show him I'm okay, that I mean every word.

He returns the smile, warm and steady, rising just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. "I love you so much, Katniss," he replies, his voice thick with emotion. "There's no one else I'd want to build this life with—or share a child with—than you."

We sit there quietly for another peaceful minute, simply basking in the presence of our tiny daughter nestled between us, the world feeling perfectly complete in our shared silence.

/

It feels good to hunt again.

After months away from the woods—months swallowed by the whirlwind of becoming a young wife and mother, mastering the bakery's rhythms, and navigating this new life—I'd almost forgotten the solace of being alone in the wilderness. Now, with Azalea nestled against my chest in a soft sling, her tiny head tucked gently beneath my chin, the crisp early spring air brushes my face, and the memories rush back.

I remember why I loved it here, before everything changed.

The sun is just cresting the horizon, casting long golden shadows through the trees, painting the forest in hues of amber and green. The ground, still slick with morning dew, cushions my steps as I tread softly along familiar paths. Peeta rose before dawn to open the bakery, leaving me with a lingering kiss on my forehead and a whispered encouragement to take some time for myself. But it's not just for me—it's for Azalea too.

As I venture deeper into the terrain I know like my own heartbeat, the earthy scent of pine and damp leaves envelops me, comforting and invigorating. Late March has awakened the forest; shy wildflowers peek from the underbrush, and the trees don fresh coats of vibrant green. I draw in a deep breath, peace settling over me like a well-worn cloak, a feeling I haven't savored in far too long.

Azalea sleeps soundly against me, her rhythmic breathing a reassuring lullaby. I keep an arrow nocked loosely on my bowstring—not my usual habit when tracking game, but now, with her here, caution is second nature. I'm different now. Life is different. With Azalea, there's no room for recklessness; every step is measured, every sense heightened.

My protective instincts surged to life faster and stronger than I ever imagined. At barely two weeks old, Azalea rarely leaves my arms, and when she does, anxiety twists in my gut like a poorly set snare. Peeta is the same—perhaps even more vigilant.

Whenever Rye, Wheatley, or even his father holds her, Peeta hovers subtly, his eyes never straying far. The slightest fuss from her draws him like a magnet, ready to soothe. Others might call it overprotective, but I understand him completely.

I know what Peeta endured as a child. His father is gentle and kind, a quiet pillar, but his mother... her "affection" was always conditional, laced with harsh words and harsher hands. A month before Azalea's birth, Peeta revealed a vulnerability he'd kept hidden, even from me. He'd accidentally burned a batch of bread—a minor slip, insignificant in the grand scheme—but his mother's glare sent him spiraling.

I followed him upstairs to our apartment and found him lying on the nursery floor, staring blankly at the stars and moon he'd painted on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark paint, his breathing ragged and uneven. Kneeling beside him, I asked quietly what was wrong. His reply shattered my heart.

"I don't ever want our child to feel alone or afraid," he whispered, voice breaking. "I don't want her to grow up in the dark like I did. I want... the stars and moon to watch over her, to make her feel safe when I can't."

I pressed my forehead to his, guiding his trembling hand to my swollen belly until Azalea kicked softly against his palm. "You'll never be like her, Peeta," I told him firmly. "Your fear already makes you a better parent than she ever was."

He clung to those words, his breaths steadying, fear giving way to quiet determination. We returned to the bakery together, and as we passed his mother, I stood tall by his side, daring her to say a word. She didn't. From that day, Peeta seemed stronger, more resolute in his role as a father.

Now, in the gentle hush of the woods, Azalea stirs against my chest, her tiny fists flexing in sleep. I pause, leaning against the sturdy trunk of an oak, and adjust her knitted hat more securely over her ears. Her breathing evens out again, her little body relaxing into mine, and I exhale softly, the world feeling right in this stolen moment.

It's times like these, where past and present intertwine, that the full weight of my new role settles over me. I'm a mother now. A protector. A wife. But I'm still Katniss—the girl who finds solace in the silent woods, whose hands know the curve of a bow, whose heart beats fiercest for those she loves.

A soft rustling draws my attention, and I tense briefly before spotting a rabbit darting through the underbrush. I smile faintly, watching it vanish into the shadows.

"I guess it's just you and me out here, little one," I whisper to Azalea, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She shifts slightly, her lips parting in a soft, contented sigh.

And as I stand there, bathed in the pale light of the rising sun, I realize the woods will always be my sanctuary—but now, they're hers too.

I sit quietly on the familiar rock overlooking the lake, the gentle lapping of water against the shore a soothing rhythm that eases the lingering tensions of motherhood. Azalea nurses contentedly in my arms, her tiny fingers flexing against my skin as I glance down at her, a tender smile curving my lips. I brush a gentle hand over her soft, dark hair, marveling at how peaceful she looks, her impossibly bright blue eyes half-closed in bliss.

The lake's rippling surface draws me back to childhood memories, filling my mind with echoes of laughter, the splash of water, and my father's warm voice guiding me through my first swimming lessons. A sharp ache blooms in my chest, longing for what was lost—the way he would have adored being a grandfather, spoiling Azalea with stories and songs, teaching her to appreciate the wild beauty around us. He would have loved Peeta too, I think, bonding over quiet conversations about baking or the simple joys of family, seeing in him the steady partner I never knew I needed.

The thought of Peeta softens the ache, warmth spreading through me like sunlight breaking through clouds. I look down again as Azalea finishes feeding, her eyelids heavy but fighting sleep, her little sighs like music.

"Guess we should head back to Daddy now, huh?" I whisper softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, inhaling her sweet, milky scent.

She lets out a contented sigh in response, and I carefully adjust her to burp her before settling her snugly into the wrap against my chest, ensuring she's secure and warm. With my bow slung over my shoulder, arrows at the ready, and the game bag heavy with three squirrels and a plump grouse, I turn toward home. The sky above is washed in soft oranges and golds as the early morning sun fully crests the horizon, painting the forest in a glow that feels like a promise.

As I enter the outskirts of town, the quiet streets begin to stir with the first hints of morning activity. Shopkeepers unlock doors with jangling keys, stalls creak open under weathered awnings, and I nod politely at familiar faces offering sleepy greetings and warm congratulations on the baby. Their voices carry a genuine kindness that's become more common since Azalea's birth, a small shift in the district's rhythm that still surprises me.

The bakery remains closed from the front, its sign dark and shutters drawn, so I slip in through the back entrance. The comforting scent of flour, yeast, and sugar envelops me immediately, wrapping around me like an old friend. I head through the narrow hallway to the door leading directly into the kitchen, and my breath catches slightly as I pause in the doorway.

Peeta stands at the counter, deeply focused as he kneads a mound of dough, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour. He's so absorbed in the task—hands pressing and folding with rhythmic precision—that he doesn't notice me, which amuses me. He used to joke that I was too quiet, too stealthy, that it was too easy for me to sneak up and scare him, something I did often in the early days of our marriage. But that changed with the pregnancy; his teasing about my "stealth belly" usually earned him extra cheese-bun duty as penance.

"Hey," I call softly, breaking his concentration.

Peeta jumps, startled, and spins around, flour puffing into the air like a small cloud. "Katniss!" he exclaims, wiping his hands on his apron with a grin. "You scared the hell out of me—again."

I step closer with a teasing smile, careful not to squeeze Azalea too tightly between us as I wrap my arms around his neck. His hands rest gently on my waist, familiar and reassuring, pulling me in.

"Sorry," I murmur playfully, though I'm not really.

He chuckles lightly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Azalea's hair. "Apology accepted. How were the woods?"

"Peaceful," I answer, relaxing into his embrace. "Got three squirrels and a decent-sized grouse. We'll have fresh meat for a bit."

"Sounds perfect," Peeta replies warmly, his eyes lighting up. "And how did our little adventurer hold up?"

"Slept most of the time," I admit, brushing a floury curl from his forehead. "But we missed you."

Peeta's grin turns mischievous, his hands giving my waist a gentle squeeze. "You missed me, huh? I thought you only kept me around for the cheese buns—especially when you were pregnant."

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. "Don't make me take that back, Peeta Mellark. I can practically see your ego inflating from here."

His lips hover teasingly over mine, his voice dropping low. "It's okay—I missed you too. And you should head to the woods more often. You smell like pine and morning dew... it's incredibly sexy."

"Peeta," I warn, my voice lowering as warmth floods my cheeks, "my mom said no for at least another month."

His grin widens, playful and suggestive. "Who said anything about that? Doesn't mean we can't enjoy... other things."

I open my mouth to respond, but Rye's voice interrupts from the doorway. "Why am I getting déjà vu?"

We break apart, though I keep one hand lightly on Peeta's chest, reluctant to let go completely. Rye smirks knowingly as he steps into the kitchen, tying on an apron with exaggerated flair.

"Seriously?" I grumble, crossing my arms.

"Getting a head start on baby number two already?" Rye teases, waggling his eyebrows.

Peeta sighs dramatically, his hands falling from my waist. I scowl at Rye, refusing to let him get the upper hand. "Maybe not yet," I retort, "but if you're feeling so helpful, why don't you open the front for us?"

Rye shakes his head with mock disdain. "Absolutely not. You two own this place now—your responsibility."

"Fine," I say sweetly, my tone dripping with faux innocence. "Maybe I'll just mention to Clara about how Sage got sick last week because you snuck him too many cookies—after she explicitly told you not to."

Rye's smirk falters, his eyes widening. "That's cold, Katniss. No loyalty at all. Can't believe I'm getting blackmailed just so my little brother can get lucky."

"Your sacrifice is appreciated," I reply smugly, tugging Peeta toward the stairs.

"Try to keep it down," Rye calls after us, fighting a grin. "Don't need the whole bakery hearing you two."

Once upstairs, Peeta closes the door behind us, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "You enjoy torturing my brother way too much."

"Only because he makes it so easy," I grin, gently laying Azalea in her bassinet. Her tiny mouth twitches briefly before she drifts back to sleep.

Peeta watches me quietly, his eyes softening. "You know, seeing you with her... it makes me fall in love with you even more every day."

I raise an eyebrow playfully. "Only now? I've been doing that since the day we got married."

He laughs softly, stepping closer to wrap his arms around my waist. "I love you, Katniss. Thank you for being exactly who you are."

My heart swells, and I rise onto my toes, brushing my lips tenderly against his. "I love you too. Now, show me what these 'other things' were."

He laughs again, deeper this time, and captures my lips in a kiss full of warmth and promise. As we move toward the bed, all thoughts of teasing siblings and bakery duties fade away, leaving only the warmth of Peeta's embrace and the quiet promise of our future together.

I can handle Rye. What I can't handle is Peeta's hand sliding between my thighs again, making my body arch in anticipation, leaving me breathless and utterly at his mercy.

/

"Oh, isn't she just gorgeous!" a middle-aged woman gushes, her eyes fixed on Azalea nestled snugly against my chest, completely ignoring my outstretched hand holding her wrapped loaves of bread. Her voice carries that overly familiar lilt that sets my teeth on edge. I don't mind people admiring Azalea—who wouldn't, with her cherub face and those bright blue eyes?—but when they lean in like they have a right to touch her, my protective instincts kick in like a bowstring snapping taut.

"That'll be $9.30," I say firmly, forcing a polite smile while curling my arm more securely around her.

She fumbles in her purse, still distracted. "Being a mother is such a blessing! I have six of my own, you know. Practically an expert." Her eyes sparkle with that unnerving gleam as she edges closer. "Do you mind if I hold her? Just for a second?"

I stiffen instantly, muscles tightening like I'm facing down a threat in the woods. "I'm sorry, but I don't let strangers hold her," I reply, my smile tight, not reaching my eyes.

Her expression shifts to mild offense, lips pursing. "Oh, but you're so young. I could give you some tips—"

Before I can respond, Rye strides out from the kitchen, tray of fresh sugar cookies in hand. His voice cuts through the tension like a knife. "Hey, lady—how about you pay for your bread and leave my sister-in-law and niece alone?"

She bristles, thrusting the payment into my hand with a huff. I count out her change and hand it back wordlessly, watching as she stalks out, indignation rolling off her in waves.

I exhale heavily, turning to Rye with a grateful smile. "Thanks. She was... a lot."

Rye shrugs, setting the tray down and snagging a cookie for himself. "No problem. Gotta protect my niece and her mom," he says with a wink, grinning playfully before heading back to the kitchen.

The bell chimes again, and I brace myself, but relief washes over me when Madge walks in, her own baby snug against her chest, sleeping soundly beneath her coat.

"Madge," I greet her warmly, genuinely happy to see a friendly face. "Perfect timing."

She laughs softly, stepping closer. "I heard that woman outside complaining to her husband about how rude the Mellarks are. What happened?"

"Just another self-proclaimed expert on parenting," I mutter dryly, adjusting Azalea in her wrap. "But forget her. Let me see River."

Madge proudly shifts her newborn slightly, revealing his peaceful face—already a miniature Gale, right down to the faint crease between his brows. I chuckle softly.

"He's got Gale's famous scowl," I tease, grinning up at her.

Madge sighs dramatically but with clear affection. "Yes, the poor thing. But he's surprisingly sweet underneath it all. How's Azalea been?"

"Small but feisty," I reply fondly, stroking her soft hair. "Peeta's completely wrapped around her little finger."

"Of course he is," Madge says knowingly. "You two seem so natural at this. I'm glad things worked out for you."

"Me too," I admit softly. "At first, it was just about Azalea, but... somewhere along the way, we became something more."

Madge nods thoughtfully. "I know what you mean. Gale and I were the same—River's the one who really brought us together. Now we're building something real."

"I'm glad," I tell her sincerely. "You deserve that happiness, Madge. And Gale needs someone like you—who won't take his nonsense."

She laughs gently. "That's definitely me."

"Talking about me?" Peeta's voice interrupts playfully as he emerges from the kitchen, dusted in flour. He steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. "Hope it's all good things."

"Your cooking, actually," I tease, leaning back into his warmth.

"Oh no—are you spilling about my burned dinner disaster?" he groans dramatically.

"It was pretty memorable," I laugh softly.

"One time!" he protests, squeezing me gently. "Cut a guy some slack—I was wiped out from baby duty."

Madge chuckles warmly. "You two are adorable. We should do dinner soon—catch up properly."

Peeta nods enthusiastically. "Absolutely. We'd love that."

"Great. I'll talk to Gale and let you know." She smiles as I ring up her order. "You're both doing great. Azalea's lucky to have parents like you."

"Thanks, Madge," I reply softly, warmth blooming in my chest. "River's pretty lucky too."

She waves goodbye, and I lean slightly into Peeta's embrace, sighing contentedly.

"You okay after that customer?" he murmurs in my ear.

"Better now," I admit softly. "Rye came to the rescue."

Peeta grins, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. "Good. At least he's good for something."

From the kitchen, Rye's voice echoes indignantly. "I heard that!"

I snort softly, shaking my head. "Thanks, Rye!" I call back sweetly.

"Yeah, yeah—you both owe me," he mutters, drawing quiet laughter from Peeta and me.

Peeta brushes a finger gently over Azalea's cheek. "We'll protect her," he whispers, his tone shifting to quiet seriousness.

"Always," I reply firmly, meeting his gaze with the same determination. Because they're mine—Peeta and Azalea—and I'll keep them safe, no matter what.

/

I gently settle Azalea in her bassinet, my fingertip tracing her delicate cheek as she drifts back to sleep. She fell asleep mid-feed again, her tiny lips parted, breaths soft and even. I lean down to kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment before straightening, my gaze shifting to the bed where Peeta sits sketching, shirtless, his tousled hair catching the dim lamplight like spun gold.

The sight stirs a warmth in me, exhaustion giving way to a familiar ache. He's utterly focused on his sketchpad, broad shoulders relaxed but strong, muscles rippling subtly with each stroke of the pencil. The quiet intimacy pulls me in like a current.

I cross the room slowly, my steps silent on the floorboards. Peeta glances up, surprise flickering in his eyes as I gently take the pencil and pad from him, setting them aside on the nightstand.

"What are you doing?" he asks softly, a playful glint in his voice.

Without a word, I climb onto the bed, straddling his lap, my hands resting on his shoulders. His eyes darken, a warm smile tugging at his lips.

"Hey," he murmurs, hands settling lightly on my hips.

I lean in, pressing my lips to his, my fingers weaving into his hair. He groans quietly into the kiss, his grip tightening as desire flares between us. "I missed you," I whisper against his mouth.

He chuckles softly, his breath mingling with mine. "Missed me? You've seen me all day."

"Not like this," I reply, rolling my hips deliberately against him, smiling at his sharp inhale.

"Katniss..." he groans, voice deepening with want. "Are you sure? It's only been a month since Azalea..."

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "I talked to the doctor, remember? The shot covers me—it doesn't affect breastfeeding, and it'll last for months. Now, are you going to keep questioning me, or are you going to make love to your wife?"

Peeta's gaze heats, a slow grin spreading. "Far be it from me to argue."

His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the silky nightgown higher until he peels it off over my head, letting it fall away, exposing my fuller breasts. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, eyes darkening as he cups them gently, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak, sending sparks through me. I arch into him, breath hitching as he lowers his mouth to one, sucking softly, his tongue swirling in ways that draw a quiet moan from my lips.

Needing more, I reach down, tugging at his boxers until he's free, warm and hard in my palm. I stroke him firmly, pumping with increasing speed. Peeta groans, his head thudding lightly against the headboard. Soon, he's throbbing, hot and ready.

His hand dives between us, slipping into my panties to rub fast, hard circles on my clit. Our lips crash together, the kiss all tongue and heat as we battle for dominance, but when I tug the hair at the back of his head, he grunts and yields, letting me take control.

Our movements turn frantic as we shed the last barriers—my panties, his boxers—clothes discarded in a heap. Naked now, I take hold of him, guiding him to my entrance. He groans as I sink down slowly, the stretch exquisite after so long, pleasure eclipsing any twinge of discomfort.

"You okay?" he whispers against my neck, concern threading through his husky tone.

"Perfect," I murmur, rocking my hips experimentally, building the rhythm. He matches me effortlessly, our bodies syncing as each thrust sends heat coiling tighter.

His mouth trails hot kisses along my jaw, down to my throat, each one spiking my pulse. His free hand grips my hip firmly, guiding me as we chase the edge together.

My breath quickens, tension winding like a bowstring. "Peeta, I'm close," I gasp, biting my lip to muffle a cry, mindful of Azalea in her bassinet nearby.

"Come for me," he rasps, his fingers intensifying between us until I shatter around him, body trembling, waves of ecstasy crashing through me. He groans low, thrusting deep once more before spilling hot inside, his grip tightening as he follows me into release.

We collapse together, breathless and flushed, his forehead pressed to mine as we come down from the high.

After a moment, Peeta chuckles quietly, brushing my damp hair from my face with a gentle touch. "I think we both needed that," he says, his voice low and satisfied.

I smile softly, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw, savoring the stubble against my lips. "Definitely."

"You up for a shower?" I tease, a mischievous grin pulling at my mouth as I sit up and stretch languidly, still straddling him, feeling the warmth of his body beneath me.

Peeta chuckles, the sound rich and husky, sending a fresh spark through me. "Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking for round two?" He raises an eyebrow, his hands rubbing slow circles on my thighs, eyes glinting playfully.

I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me. "Depends. You think you can turn me on again that quickly?"

He snorts, confidence radiating from him as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, rising to his feet with me still wrapped around his waist. "Oh, please. I can turn you on just by looking at you."

"Care to test that theory?" I challenge, arching an eyebrow as he carries me to the bathroom.

"Oh, I plan to," he grins wickedly. "Although, we might need a couple of test runs—just to be thorough."

I shake my head, laughter bubbling up as he sets me down gently, the echo of it mingling with the sound of running water. "Fine, Dough Boy. Impress me."

Peeta gasps dramatically, clutching his heart as if wounded while turning on the shower. "Dough Boy? That's low, Kitty. Really low."

I give him a playful glare as I push him under the warm spray, water cascading over his broad shoulders and down his chest. "I swear, you're begging to get yourself banned from my panties."

"Whoa," he laughs, pulling me in with him, droplets bouncing off our skin. "No more cat nicknames then—duly noted."

"Or any nicknames," I say, failing to sound serious as laughter escapes me, the steam filling the space around us.

He leans closer, water dripping from his hair, plastering it adorably to his forehead. His lips hover near mine. "Sure, sure. My love," he murmurs, capturing my mouth in a gentle, lingering kiss.

I grin against his lips before flicking water at his face. He splutters, eyes widening in mock outrage, his laughter dancing in the air. "Okay, now you're definitely getting punished," he warns with a teasing growl, capturing my wrists and pinning them against the cool tile wall above my head.

My breath hitches, excitement surging through me. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?" I whisper, meeting his intense gaze boldly.

He smirks, dipping his head to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of my neck. "I was thinking I'd start right here," he murmurs, nipping softly at the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, making me gasp and arch into him. "And then... work my way down until you're begging for mercy."

I shiver, desire pooling sharply in my core. "You think you're that good?" I challenge breathlessly.

His laughter vibrates against my skin as he continues his descent. "Oh, I know I am."

"Shut up and prove it," I pant, my hands free now to tangle in his wet hair as he kneels, his mouth finding my core, tongue teasing with expert precision until I'm writhing, breathless and utterly at his mercy.

God, this man knows exactly what he's doing.

/

Peeta's mom still hasn't officially met Azalea. To be honest, I would've been fine keeping it that way forever, but Otho insisted on a family dinner. We haven't had one since I was pregnant—and that evening was a complete disaster. This time, though, I'm not walking into it with a storm of pregnancy hormones raging inside me. If things go south, I'll speak up without hesitation.

Peeta trails after me as I bustle through the kitchen, his brows furrowed like he's scheming an escape route. "What if we called and said you broke your leg?" he suggests hopefully.

I stop mid-step and turn to give him a look. "Really? And how are we supposed to sell that when I'm walking around fine tomorrow?"

He lifts his hands in surrender. "Okay, bad idea. What if we say Azalea has colic? That's a thing, right?"

I snort, shaking my head as I slide the chicken back into the oven after brushing it with seasoning. "We're not using our two-month-old daughter as an excuse to skip dinner with your family."

"Oh, so you hate me, then?" He frowns, leaning against the counter. "That hurts, Katniss."

I roll my eyes but can't hide the grin tugging at my lips. "If you stop whining and get through this dinner like I know you can, maybe I'll give you a surprise once everyone leaves."

That perks him up instantly, his eyes lighting with curiosity. "Oh yeah? What kind of surprise?"

I shrug casually, though my pulse quickens just from the tease. "You'll have to wait and find out. But it might involve orange lace... and not much else."

Peeta groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "You can't say things like that ten minutes before my family arrives. Now all I want to do is bend you over this counter and fuck you until you forget your own name."

"The mouth on you," I mutter, shaking my head, though I'm smiling. "You've changed since we started having sex."

He smirks, stepping closer. "Hard not to when my wife's better than any dream I ever had."

Heat flares in my cheeks, but I roll my eyes. "You're impossible. Go get our daughter ready before you drive me crazy." I laugh, nudging him toward the hallway where Azalea's napping in her bassinet.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically. "But only because I want that surprise. And because I love you more than I hate my mother." He smirks, giving my ass a playful tap before heading down the hall.

I shake my head, biting back a smile as I check the oven again. I don't blame him for dreading this—his mother's track record hasn't improved, as far as we know. We haven't seen her since Azalea was born—not at the bakery, not in town. I didn't miss her. And while part of me hopes she'll hold her tongue tonight, I know better than to count on miracles.

The difference now? I won't let her poison this evening. Not for Peeta. Not for Azalea. Not for us.

Peeta is still in the nursery, fussing over Azalea's outfit, when the dreaded knock echoes through the apartment. My heart skips a nervous beat, but I draw a steadying breath before heading to answer it. When I swing the door open, I'm met with a flood of blond Mellarks streaming in, all chatter and warmth that fills the space like sunlight after rain. For a fleeting moment, I silently thank the stars that Azalea inherited my dark hair—at least she won't blend into this sea of golden curls.

"Katniss!" Otho beams, stepping forward to wrap me in a hearty hug. His arms are strong and warm, grounding me in a way that's become surprisingly comforting over these months.

"Hi, Otho," I chuckle, returning the embrace before the rest pile in one by one.

Before I can close the door, a small tug on my sleeve pulls my gaze downward. Bran, Peeta's seven-year-old nephew and Wheatley's son, grins up at me with a gap-toothed smile, proudly wiggling his front tooth with his tongue. "Aunt Katniss, look! It's loose!"

I crouch down a bit, eyes widening in mock surprise. "Whoa, look at that! You're growing up so fast, Bran. Pretty soon you'll be taller than me."

He giggles, puffing out his chest. "Me too! I'll be five in two months!" Farro, Bran's little brother, chimes in excitedly, holding up five chubby fingers as if I might not believe him without proof.

"You're both shooting up like weeds," I say in mock dismay, lightly tapping their noses. "Slow down before I blink and you're towering over Uncle Peeta."

That draws a round of giggles from the boys before Hannah sweeps in, pulling me into a tight hug. "They were bouncing off the walls all day to get here," she says with a laugh. "Poor Wheatley hasn't had a moment's peace."

"They're always welcome," I assure her with a smile, giving the boys a fond look as they dart off to explore.

Rye lingers in the doorway with Clara and little Sage on his hip, smirking as usual. "Where's my baby brother hiding? Primping in the mirror to make sure his hair's perfect?"

Clara twists his arm lightly, making him yelp. "Ow, Clara! I was kidding!" he protests, scowling as she rolls her eyes and adjusts Sage with practiced ease, steering them inside while Rye shuts the door.

"Don't be a jerk," she says firmly. "He's obviously with Azalea."

As if summoned, Peeta emerges from the hallway, cradling our daughter in his arms. She's dressed in a pastel purple ruffled dress with tiny puffed sleeves, a bow headband perched delicately on her head, and the sweetest white ruffled socks. Hannah and Clara both gasp, Sage thrust unceremoniously into Rye's arms as they rush over.

"Oh my... she's gorgeous. May I?" Hannah asks, hands clasped in anticipation.

"Of course," Peeta replies, his grin softening as he carefully hands Azalea over. She blinks up at her aunt with wide, curious eyes, letting out a tiny yawn that makes Hannah melt on the spot.

Peeta walks over to me, his arm sliding around my waist as he presses a gentle kiss to my temple. His voice drops to a quiet murmur just for me. "Sorry—she had a blowout right as I was finishing up. Had to give her a quick bath."

I tilt my head up, brushing my lips against his in a soft kiss. "It's okay," I whisper. "So far, it's been... calm." My eyes flick toward Mrs. Mellark, who's hung back silently since arriving, her face unreadable as the family coos over the baby.

Peeta exhales through his nose, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Good. Maybe we'll make it through without the usual fireworks."

"Don't jinx it," I mutter, though a smile tugs at my lips. He chuckles, kissing my cheek before stepping forward to properly greet the others.

I hang back, my gaze lingering on his mother. The look on her face is odd—less edged with disdain than usual, almost like longing. But when our eyes meet, her mouth hardens, and she turns away. Rude as ever. Yet, a small part of me can't shake that fleeting expression I caught before she masked it—a side of her I've never seen, and I don't know what to make of it.

Dinner, to my surprise, turns out... pleasant. The room hums with easy conversation, the roasted chicken golden and perfect, and for once, the air isn't thick with unspoken dread. Everyone reaches across the table, filling their plates from the spread—mashed potatoes, fresh greens from the market, and warm rolls straight from the oven. I'm holding Azalea against my chest, her tiny weight a comforting anchor, so I'm fine waiting until Peeta's done; he can take her while I eat. But Peeta wouldn't be Peeta if he didn't insist on making my plate first, piling it just how I like—extra gravy on the chicken, a generous heap of potatoes.

He sets it in front of me with a soft smile, and Wheatley leans forward, his eager expression hard to ignore. "Here, Katniss—let me hold her while you eat," he offers, stretching out his arms. "You deserve to use both hands for once."

Normally, I'd hesitate, my instincts screaming to keep her close. But his face is so hopeful, so gentle, it cracks through my guard. I nod, rising from my chair and walking around to his side, carefully settling Azalea into his arms. He cradles her like she's made of glass, his rough features softening as he gazes at her sleeping face. I smile and return to my seat next to Peeta.

"Thanks," I murmur, finally able to pick up my fork without juggling her.

The conversation flows around us, light and teasing, though Mrs. Mellark remains silent, her fork pushing food around her plate. Still, I catch her watching Azalea with that same unreadable expression from earlier—gone the moment she notices me looking. I chew slowly, trying to puzzle it out, the mystery nagging at me.

Peeta's frown pulls me back to the moment. "She's grown so much already," he sighs, his thumb tracing the rim of his water glass. "Two months, and she looks bigger every day. I don't like it."

Wheatley chuckles knowingly, still rocking Azalea gently. "Just wait until school's on the horizon. That first day hits like a brick. You think two months flew? Try five years."

Peeta's head whips toward me, his frown deepening. "What do you think about homeschooling?"

I set down my fork and glare at him. "Peeta, we're not homeschooling her just because you can't let go."

His lips twitch with mischief. "But school means boys, and I don't like that at all."

"She'll be five," I counter, fighting a laugh. "The only thing she'll care about is juice boxes and scribbling stick figures."

Peeta leans back, that smug expression of his surfacing. "Not me. I knew what I wanted at five." His gaze flicks to me with deliberate meaning, a nod to his childhood crush confession.

My cheeks heat. "Fine. We'll discuss it later," I mutter, stabbing at my food to hide the flush creeping up my neck.

He grins triumphantly, and the table chuckles softly. Wheatley presses a kiss to Azalea's head. "I'm with Peet—no boy's ever going to be good enough for her."

As if agreeing, Azalea lets out a tiny whimper in her sleep, curling tighter into Wheatley's chest. The sight makes my heart ache and swell in equal measure.

Rye groans loudly, dragging a palm over his face. "Great. If she's this cute now, it'll only get worse. No one's dating my niece—ever."

"The poor girl," I sigh, shaking my head. "The first Mellark girl in two generations, and now she's got a father and two uncles whose life's mission is to scare off every boy in Panem."

Clara, rocking a dozing Sage in her lap, lets out a dreamy sigh. "Honestly, now I want another one."

Rye nearly chokes on his wine. "Sage isn't even two yet!" he sputters, eyes wide.

"Not right away," Clara says, rolling her eyes. "But in a year or two—be ready for that talk."

Rye slumps back, groaning. "Fine. But make it two and a half. I need time to brace for two under four."

The table erupts in laughter. Even I can't hold back a smile as Clara leans over to kiss his temple. The warmth lingers like a fragile peace, and for the first time tonight, even Mrs. Mellark seems touched by it. She hides it behind a sip of wine, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips—a smile almost surfacing.

And though it's gone as quickly as it came, the sight leaves me unsettled, still wondering what lies behind that fleeting look she keeps giving Azalea.

As the evening winds down, everyone drifts into the living room, settling into the easy lull that follows a good meal. Bran and Farro sprawl at the table with paper and crayons, bickering good-naturedly over who can draw the bigger rabbit while trading colors back and forth. Wheatley and Rye have claimed spots on the floor, leaning against the couch with their mugs, while Otho holds court in his armchair, voice animated as he reminisces about the bakery's early days.

Hannah perches on the couch behind Wheatley, idly twirling his hair between her fingers as he rests his back against the seat between her legs. Clara leans into Rye's side, Sage asleep against her chest, and Peeta claims the middle cushion, pulling me close beside him. The air carries the lingering scents of roasted chicken, cinnamon tea, and the fresh cookies cooling on the coffee table.

Only Mrs. Mellark remains apart, sitting stiffly in the opposite armchair, cup clutched in her hands, her gaze drifting—not to the storyteller—but to the small bassinet in the corner. That same unreadable expression flickers across her face each time she glances at Azalea, and it unsettles me more than I'd like to admit.

When Azalea begins to fuss, a soft whimper escalating into a cry, I excuse myself quietly and slip away to the nursery. The dim glow of the lamp bathes the room in warm gold as I sink into the rocking chair. Unbuttoning the front of my dress, I free one strap of my nursing bra and guide Azalea to latch. She settles quickly, her tiny hands curling against my skin, dark lashes fluttering as she feeds. These moments still catch me off guard with their raw intimacy—no crowd, no interruptions, just the two of us, the bond between mother and child weaving tighter with every breath.

When she's finished, I burp her gently and change her into a soft sleep onesie, her warm little body limp and trusting in my hands. She smells faintly of milk and soap as I cradle her close once more. I walk back down the hall, expecting to rejoin the easy laughter spilling from the living room—Rye's voice booming mid-story—but when I glance around, something catches my eye.

Mrs. Mellark is gone.

My brows knit as I spot her standing alone by the kitchen window, staring out into the dark sweep of town. There's something about her posture—rigid yet almost diminished—that makes me pause. I could just walk past, return to Peeta and the comfort of his arm around my waist. But something in me, sharpened since Azalea's birth, pushes me forward.

She notices as I approach, but her face stays composed, unreadable. I hesitate, shifting Azalea in my arms. "Um… thank you for coming tonight," I manage, my voice lower than usual. "I know Peeta really does enjoy when everyone's here." The words feel awkward, not entirely true, but I can't bring myself to be cruel—not with the look on her face.

She gives the faintest nod, her eyes dropping to the bundle in my arms.

I swallow, nerves prickling, then blurt before I can stop myself: "Do you… want to hold her?"

Her eyes lift, startled. "Me?"

"Yeah." I adjust Azalea slightly. "You haven't really met her properly yet. You don't have to, of course."

Her gaze flicks back toward the living room, toward her family laughing without her. Then, slowly, she nods. Tentatively.

I shift Azalea into her arms. The change in her face is immediate—her eyes glisten, her lips parting just slightly as she stares down at the baby. "She looks like Peeta," she whispers, her voice fragile. "Less chubby."

A laugh slips out of me, soft and surprising. "She eats like him, though. She already adores him. Loves her daddy."

"She's beautiful," Mrs. Mellark breathes, so quietly it almost breaks me.

"Yeah," I murmur, brushing Azalea's dark hair back with my fingers. "Most days I can't believe she came from me."

There's a long pause. Then, her voice cracks on words I didn't expect. "I almost had a daughter once."

I freeze. "You did?"

She nods, eyes never leaving Azalea's face. "Before Peeta. I was six months pregnant… a girl. I wanted her so badly." Her voice grows hushed, distant, as if speaking from another time. "I went into early labor. She died before she was even born. When they told me she was a girl…" Her breath falters, and a tear slides down her cheek. "Something inside me broke. Peeta came after, unexpected. I prayed he'd be a girl too, but when he wasn't…" Her jaw trembles. "I resented him. For something he had no control over." She rocks Azalea gently, her voice raw. "It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve it."

I stand there, frozen, Azalea's soft breaths between us. My throat tightens. I think of all the nights when I was pregnant that I lay awake fearing my body would fail my baby. That I would lose her before I even got the chance to hold her. The terror was enough to undo me. I can't imagine living through what she just described.

Still, I steel my voice. "That doesn't excuse what you did. You hurt your boys. Deeply. Especially Peeta. He carries it still." Her eyes flicker with shame, but I go on, softer this time. "But… I understand the grief. I get it more now. And I hope you realize—despite the fact he wasn't the daughter you wanted—he's grown into one of the best people I've ever known. He's good, kind, and he's an incredible father. He loves Azalea more than anything."

Her lips tremble. "I know… but I fear the time for apologies has passed."

I shake my head. "It's never too late. My mom abandoned me in her own way for years. And yet… when she was here for Azalea's birth, it changed something between us. She tried again. And now I let her in." My eyes hold hers. "Peeta would let you in too, if he saw you try. His heart's big enough for that."

"Do you really think so?" she whispers, clutching Azalea closer.

"I know so."

Something softens in her. She presses a trembling kiss to Azalea's forehead. "Thank you… for loving him. For being good for him. And for her."

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "I'm the lucky one," I admit.

Together we walk back into the living room. Mrs. Mellark settles carefully into the other armchair that Otho isn't occupying, Azalea safe in her arms as she rocks her gently, listening quietly to Hannah chatter about some story from town. I slip back onto the couch beside Peeta, and his hand immediately finds mine.

I glance at him, and his eyes soften. He leans close, pressing the gentlest kiss to my lips. "Thank you," he whispers.

I brush my thumb over his cheek, whispering back, "Always." Then I rest my head on his shoulder, letting the quiet murmur of family talk and the sight of our daughter—peaceful and loved in her grandmother's arms—settle over me like a fragile, impossible kind of hope.

That night, after the last mug is washed and the final Mellark has stepped out into the cool April air, the apartment settles into a stillness that feels almost sacred. It's been hours of voices, laughter, and the faint undercurrent of tension that never quite vanished, and now the quiet presses in like a held breath. Peeta and I climb into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, but I scoot close immediately, seeking his warmth like I always do.

For a while, neither of us speaks. Azalea's soft, rhythmic breathing drifts from her bassinet, a lullaby in the dark. I'm half-drifting toward sleep when Peeta clears his throat, his voice low and careful.

"So... what did you and my mom talk about?"

I hesitate, tracing idle patterns on his chest with my fingertip before answering. "You, mostly." I pause, then add softly, "Did you know she lost a baby before you?"

His body stills beneath my touch. "Yeah," he says after a moment, voice rough. "Dad told me when I was a teenager. I found an old picture of her pregnant—timing was wrong for any of us kids. That was all I ever knew. She never spoke of it. Not once."

I lift my head just enough to see his face in the faint moonlight spilling through the curtains. "It was a girl," I whisper.

Peeta goes quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy. Then he exhales, a broken sound that catches in his throat. "Oh..."

"I thought the same," I murmur, my throat tightening as I remember the raw grief in her eyes. "I told her it wasn't an excuse for how she treated you and your brothers. But... it explains some things. Peeta, I can't even imagine carrying a baby that long and..." My voice cracks, and I press my forehead to his chest. "I'm so grateful Azalea came out healthy. The thought of anything else—"

His hand cups the back of my head, grounding me. "Me too," he whispers, voice thick. "It scares me how easily she can still break me. You too." His thumb strokes my hairline gently. "But it just makes me love you both more. Makes me never want to take this life with you for granted."

I shift, propping my chin on his chest to meet his eyes, glistening in the dim light. "Do you think... you could ever try with her? Build something, if she actually reached out?"

His brow furrows, thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe. Tonight was... different. She hugged us goodbye, Katniss. I can't remember the last time she did that." His voice drops quieter. "It's something, at least."

A small smile tugs at my lips. I lean down and press a kiss over his heart. "You're so kind, Peeta. Never change."

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. "Never. As long as you stay exactly who you are." His hand slides along my back, pulling me closer. "My beautifully stubborn wife."

I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me as I settle my head back on his chest. His heartbeat fills my ear, steady and sure, and in the hush of our bedroom, I find myself holding onto a fragile hope—that his mother might keep trying, that the crack I saw in her armor tonight could widen into something healing. For Peeta's sake, I'll nurture that hope.

And as his arms tighten around me, I let it settle in my heart, warm and quiet, like the promise of a new dawn.

Chapter Text

It takes time to adjust—more than I expected.

At first, everything feels awkward, almost brittle. Mrs. Mellark goes out of her way to pull each of her sons aside, and even their wives, to apologize. The words come haltingly, stiff on her tongue, like she's speaking a language she never learned. But it's real, and it's something I never thought I'd witness. Wheatley accepts it almost immediately, relief softening his features—he's the oldest, the one who still remembers the mother she was before grief hardened her. Rye and Peeta... it's harder for them.

Peeta still flinches sometimes when she reaches to touch his arm, his body tensing before he forces himself to stay still. Rye can't seem to stop glancing over his shoulder whenever he drops a tray or burns a loaf, waiting for the sharp criticism that never comes. Instead, he gets a small, tentative smile that unsettles him more than anger ever did.

It's strange for me too. She lingers now, asking quiet questions during lulls at the counter, her voice softer around the edges. She even holds Azalea when my back aches from standing too long, rocking her with a look that's hard to name—wistful, aching, but undeniably gentle. Whatever this shift is, it's not for show. She's trying, and I have to give her that, even if trust comes slowly.

One evening, as we gather in the living room, Azalea drowsing in Peeta's arms after a big feed, his mother smiles faintly from her chair. "If she's anything like Peeta was at this age, you'll have a clingy one on your hands."

Peeta groans dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Lies. I was perfectly independent."

I snort. "Why do I not believe that for a second?"

Otho chuckles from his armchair. "Oh, it's true. He cried rivers the first day of school when he realized I wasn't staying with him."

Mrs. Mellark actually laughs—a soft, almost shy sound behind her hand—and Peeta buries his face against my shoulder with a muffled groan. "What is this? Gang up on Peeta night?"

"It's not a bad thing, sweetheart," his mother says gently, her voice quieter than I've ever heard it. "The clingy ones... they just need you a little longer."

Peeta lifts his head, arms tightening slightly around Azalea. "Well, if that means it takes her longer to want a boyfriend, I'll take it."

I jab my elbow into his ribs, making him grunt. "Don't even joke. Do you know how impossible it is to cook or clean—or breathe—when you've got a little shadow who won't let you out of sight?"

"We'll manage," he says with that smug grin of his.

I roll my eyes, but warmth flickers in my chest all the same.

The conversation drifts on, easy and light, and for the first time, Mrs. Mellark doesn't sit apart. She leans forward a little, listening, even laughing once or twice. It's small, tentative, but it's there—a crack in the armor she's worn for years.

And as I watch Peeta with our daughter, his face soft with love, I realize something: healing doesn't always come in grand gestures. Sometimes it's just this—quiet evenings, cautious steps, and the slow, stubborn work of choosing to try again.

For all of us.

A few days later, in the evening after the bakery has closed, the lingering scent of sugar and yeast hangs heavy in the air, and the quiet feels almost too loud after the day's bustle. Azalea is tucked into her bassinet upstairs for the night, and I've come down to check on Peeta.

As I approach the kitchen door, I pause in the shadows of the hallway. Peeta is at one of the prep tables, wiping it down with slow, deliberate strokes, his movements heavy with something unspoken. His mother lingers near the counter, her posture awkward, hands clasped tightly in front of her. I stay half-hidden behind the doorframe, old protective habits hard to shake. She may be trying, but trust doesn't come easily—not after everything.

"I... I never thought I'd see you like this," she says quietly, her voice softer than I've ever heard it, almost fragile. "A father. A husband. You're good at it, Peeta."

He doesn't look up right away, just sets the rag aside and leans against the table, arms folded across his chest. "I had to be," he replies simply, his tone even but edged with old pain. "If I'd waited for you to show me how, I'd still be waiting."

Her face tightens, guilt flickering in her eyes. "I deserve that."

Peeta sighs, dragging a hand through his flour-dusted curls. "You don't know how many times I wondered what was wrong with me. If I just wasn't enough. If I was too much of a disappointment for you to love." His voice cracks slightly, raw and honest, and my heart twists in my chest.

Mrs. Mellark blinks hard, tears glistening. "It was never you, Peeta," she whispers, voice breaking. "It was me—grieving something I lost and taking it out on everyone else. I can't undo the years I failed you, but I need you to know I see it now. What I did. And I'm so sorry."

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with years of unspoken hurt. Peeta stares at the floor, jaw tight, and for a moment I think he might walk away. But then he looks up, meeting her gaze.

"I don't know if I can just forgive and forget," he says honestly, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "But... I want Azalea to know her grandmother. I want her to grow up with more than just the hurt between us. If you really mean this—if you want to try—then maybe we can start there."

Her breath shudders out, and she nods quickly, as if afraid the offer might vanish. "I do. More than anything."

Slowly, hesitantly, she steps forward and lays a hand on his arm. This time, he doesn't flinch. He doesn't lean into it, but he lets her hand stay. And it's something—a small, fragile beginning.

I slip away before they notice me, my throat tight, chest aching with a mix of emotions I can't quite name. Upstairs, I peek at Azalea sleeping peacefully, her tiny fist curled by her cheek. I smile and press a kiss to her soft forehead before getting ready for bed.

It's a while before I hear Peeta's footsteps on the stairs, the door opening and closing softly. He rustles around the apartment before entering our bedroom, stripping down to his boxers and sliding into bed beside me.

He lies on his back, one arm draped around me, and I rest my head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, and for a while we're both quiet, just breathing each other in.

Finally, I break the silence. "I saw you downstairs. With your mom."

Peeta stiffens for a fraction of a second before sighing. "You heard?"

"Not all of it," I admit softly. "But enough."

He's quiet again, his hand absently tracing slow circles on my shoulder. "I didn't know what to say to her. Part of me wanted to tell her it was too late. But then she looked at me—really looked at me. And for the first time... it wasn't with anger or disappointment. Just regret." His voice drops, raw around the edges.

I shift so I can see his face, propping my chin on his chest. "And how did that feel?"

Peeta swallows hard. "Strange. Like something I've wanted my whole life but never trusted enough to believe in. I'm still angry—I'm angry for all of it—but when she said she was sorry... I believed her."

I reach up, brushing my fingers through his curls. "You don't have to forgive her all at once. Or even at all, if you're not ready. But the fact that you listened? That you didn't walk away? That means something."

His blue eyes find mine in the dim light, soft and searching. "I wanted you to see it too. That I'm trying. That I'm not just shutting her out."

"You don't have to prove anything to me," I whisper, leaning closer. "But I saw it. And I'm proud of you."

He exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his body. "It felt... good, actually. To not flinch. To let her touch my arm and not feel like a kid waiting for the next blow. It was small, but—" he pauses, emotion thickening his voice. "It felt like I was taking something back. A piece of myself."

I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "You are. And whatever comes next, we'll face it together."

Peeta's arms tighten around me, and he leans down to kiss me—slow, steady, lingering, like he's anchoring himself in me. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I know," I murmur, my lips brushing his. "I love you too. More than you'll ever know."

The room is quiet again, but it's different now—lighter, somehow, though the past still lingers. He feels different too, carrying less of that old weight. I hold him tighter, silently promising that no matter what happens with his mother, with his family, with any of it—he'll never face it alone again.

Three weeks slip by before Peeta and Rye finally start to unwind around their mother's new demeanor. It's subtle at first—Peeta offering a small smile when she compliments a batch of rolls, Rye no longer tensing when she steps into the kitchen—but the shift is real. Then one afternoon, as Peeta sets a tray of fresh loaves on the display rack, he surprises her with a sudden, impulsive hug.

I watch from the counter as her eyes widen in shock, her arms trembling before they wrap around him in return. Something inside me twists at the sight—my strong, steady husband holding on like a boy who's been starved of affection his whole life. I'm glad he's getting a piece of what he always deserved, but it aches too, knowing he's trying to reclaim years he'll never get back.

I still can't bring myself to trust her completely. Maybe I never will. She's trying, yes—showing up with small gestures, softer words—but the scars she left run deep, and forgiveness doesn't come easily. I can't imagine leaving Azalea alone with her, not even for a minute. That bridge feels too far, too fragile. My instincts won't allow it.

It helps to remind myself that the only person I truly trust alone with Azalea is Peeta. He knows her rhythms, her cries, the meaning behind every little sigh as well as I do—better, sometimes. He's attuned to her in a way that calms the constant hum of worry in my chest. Maybe others would call it overprotective, even obsessive. I don't care. Azalea's safety is everything, and with Peeta, she's always safe.

/

I wake slowly, the warmth of Peeta's lips trailing over my neck pulling me from the depths of sleep. My first sound is a soft hum, part protest, part pleasure, as I keep my eyes closed, clinging to the last fragments of rest.

"What are you doing?" I mumble, voice husky with sleep, craning my neck to meet his gaze over my shoulder. His mouth curves into a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm and teasing.

I snort quietly, a lazy smile tugging at my lips. "I was having a really good dream, you know. You're going to have to make it up to me."

He moves swiftly, settling his weight over me until I'm on my back, his grin turning wicked. "You don't have to tell me twice. Just lie back and let me take care of you."

I arch an eyebrow, though my heart's already quickening. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

His hand slides up my thigh slowly, teasing, pushing the hem of the shirt I stole from him to sleep in higher and higher. "As much as you wearing this drives me crazy..." his voice drops, low and rough, "I think it's got to go for now."

Biting my lip, I sit up just enough for him to peel it over my head, letting it drop to the floor. Then his lips are back on me, claiming my neck, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts. He massages them gently over the thin fabric of my nursing bra, careful but firm, his thumb circling until my breath stutters, heat pooling between my legs.

He kisses across the soft swell before working his way lower, trailing fire down my stomach until he disappears beneath the covers. I feel his fingers hook into my panties, tugging them down and off, discarding them somewhere on the floor. His hands part my thighs, breath ghosting against my skin, making me shiver. When his tongue flicks against my clit, I gasp, my hand shooting under the blanket to tangle in his curls.

"Oh, fuck... keep doing that," I moan, my hips grinding against his mouth, chasing the building rhythm he sets.

He's gotten maddeningly good at this. The first time, he'd claimed he needed "practice," but by the third, he had me writhing like he'd been made for it. I know he enjoys it too—almost as much as I do—from the way he groans against me, like he can't get enough.

I bite my lip, trying to muffle the louder noises with Azalea sleeping in her bassinet nearby, but soft moans slip free anyway. When his tongue does something new—faster, rougher, pressing just right—I squeal, my back arching, thighs trembling as I fall apart against his mouth.

He emerges from the covers with a satisfied grin, wiping his chin. "Happy birthday indeed," he teases, crawling up to kiss me deeply. The taste of myself on his tongue is heady, intoxicating, and it ignites a fresh hunger in me, sharp and insistent.

My feet shove at his pajama pants and boxers, pushing them down as far as I can. He fumbles the rest of the way, kicking them off into the shadows of the room. Then he's bracing himself above me, eyes locked on mine, and in one smooth, deliberate thrust, he's inside me, filling me completely.

I cry out, biting my lip too late to silence it, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His mouth finds my neck instantly, sucking hard enough to make me gasp, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin. His fingers slide between us, circling my clit with tight, practiced precision that sends jolts of pleasure racing through me.

"God, you feel incredible," he groans against my throat, hips snapping harder, faster, driving deeper with every stroke.

"Peeta—" My nails dig into his shoulders, desperate, my body coiling tighter, teetering on the edge.

"Look at me," he pants, pulling back just enough to catch my gaze, his blue eyes dark and wild. "Come with me."

The angle shifts, his thrusts sharper, hitting that perfect spot inside me, and the orgasm crashes over me like a storm surge, ripping a cry from my throat. My walls clench around him, pulsing in waves that drag him down with me. He groans my name into my mouth, thrusting once, twice more before spilling hot and deep inside me, his body shuddering with release.

For a moment, we just cling to each other—sweaty, breathless, utterly spent. His forehead rests against mine, our lips brushing with every ragged exhale.

"Happy birthday," he whispers again, voice hoarse and satisfied.

I smile, tracing lazy patterns down his damp back. "That's one hell of a wake-up call, Mellark."

He laughs quietly, kissing me once more before rolling us to the side, keeping me tucked firmly against him. "Don't worry," he murmurs, nipping playfully at my ear. "That was just the opening act. I've got the whole day planned."

I raise a brow, my smirk lazy but challenging. "Then I can't wait to see how you plan to top that."

The gleam in his eyes tells me I might have just issued a very dangerous invitation.

After our shower, Peeta insists I get back into bed while he makes breakfast—his self-declared "birthday rule." So here I am, tucked under the quilt with Azalea in my arms, the faint clatter of pots and pans drifting in from the kitchen like a promise.

She latches easily, her little hand curling around my finger as if to keep me close. The rhythmic sound of her nursing fills the quiet room, steady and soothing. I stroke her soft cheek with my thumb, marveling for the hundredth time at how something so small can hold my entire heart.

By the time she's finished, Peeta is still busy with whatever "simple breakfast" he's turned into a production. I shift, propping my knees up and laying Azalea against my thighs. She kicks her legs happily, lips parting in that gummy almost-smile, and when I tickle her round belly she lets out a string of delighted coos and squeals. She's always most vocal in the mornings, full of energy before the day wears her down. It's my favorite part of the day—just her, me, and the sunlight spilling through the curtains. Honestly, I'm completely obsessed with her.

When Peeta finally pushes through the door, balancing a tray, I can't help but grin. He's managed perfectly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast with butter melted into it until it's golden and fragrant, and two steaming mugs of tea. He sets one mug on my nightstand and the other on his before carefully placing the tray across my lap once I stretch my legs out.

Then he reaches for Azalea. "Come here, my little star," he croons, lifting her gently from my thighs. She squeals the instant she's in his arms, her tiny hands flailing with excitement. He peppers her cheeks with noisy kisses, making her giggle so hard she hiccups.

I shake my head, biting into a strip of bacon while I watch them. "She definitely prefers you in the mornings."

Peeta smirks over her head. "That's because she knows I'm the fun one." He bounces her lightly, earning another round of delighted giggles.

"Uh-huh," I say around my mouthful. "She'll figure out soon enough that I'm the one with the bow and the brains."

"Careful," he teases, eyes sparkling. "She might take after both of us—smart and fun. We'll be outnumbered before we know it."

I finish chewing and glance at him, curious. "So, what's the plan for today?"

He settles on the bed beside me, Azalea still tucked happily in his arms. "Morning here, just the three of us," he says softly. "Then lunch in the meadow if the weather holds. And for dinner, I invited your mom and Prim—small and cozy, no big crowd. I know you hate fuss."

My chest warms at how perfectly he's read me. "You got it exactly right," I murmur. "Nineteen isn't exactly a milestone."

"Maybe not," he admits, brushing a fingertip along Azalea's tiny fist. "But it's your first birthday as a mother... and as my wife. That feels pretty damn important to me."

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I duck my head, pretending to focus on my eggs. "When you put it like that..."

He leans closer, shoulder pressing into mine. "Besides, my nineteenth wasn't half bad, if I remember right."

I snort. "We didn't even do anything. I was huge and pregnant, it was snowing like mad, and we spent the whole day on the couch eating stew and watching terrible Capitol reruns."

"Exactly," he says, grinning like it's the best memory in the world. "Best birthday yet."

I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me as I lean into him. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," he counters, kissing Azalea's temple before stealing a quick kiss from me too.

Maybe nineteen isn't such a small birthday after all.

The morning unfolds exactly as I'd hoped—simple, quiet, ours.

Peeta and I spread a soft blanket across the living room floor, stretching out with Azalea between us on her belly. She hasn't rolled over yet, but her head control amazes me—she lifts it proudly, wobbling but determined, her big blue eyes tracking the bright rattle I dangle just out of reach. Every time she kicks her legs or lets out a delighted squeal, my heart swells a little more.

"Look at that neck strength," Peeta murmurs, voice warm with awe. "Strongest baby in Panem."

I snort, shaking the rattle gently. "Don't start bragging yet. She still spits up half her meals."

"She's perfect anyway," he says easily, leaning down to press a kiss to her soft hair.

By the time we head into town, I'm tucked against Peeta's side, hugging his arm while he pushes Azalea's stroller with his free hand, the picnic basket balanced against his hip. He talks animatedly about the bakery—a massive Capitol order that's kept him, Rye, and Otho working late—and I listen, content just to hear his voice rise and fall.

"I swear, by the time this cake is done, I'll never want to see frosting again," he mutters, though the spark in his eyes tells me he doesn't mean it.

"Liar," I tease, bumping his shoulder.

He grins, nudging me back. "Maybe. But it is illegal how often I crawl into bed lately and you're already asleep because we're so behind."

I roll my eyes and kiss his cheek to soften the truth of it.

We settle in the meadow, spreading the blanket under a wide oak. The early May breeze carries the scent of wildflowers, and I stretch out on the grass, letting it wash over me while Peeta unpacks the basket. The world feels smaller here, safer, the district's hum distant and unimportant.

We snack lazily, trading bites and stories, laughter rising and falling with the wind. At some point Azalea dozes off in her stroller, and Peeta ends up braced above me on his forearms, his lips brushing mine until the kiss deepens, stealing my breath. My fingers weave through his hair, tugging gently, while one of his hands settles warm on my waist. He kisses me like we have all the time in the world—because today, we do.

When we finally break apart, flushed and breathless, he collapses beside me in the grass. We point out shapes in the clouds, bickering playfully over whether one looks more like a goose or a lopsided loaf of bread. He argues so earnestly that I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach.

Then his voice shifts, softer, almost hesitant. "Do you think we'd still be together... without the reaping?"

I turn my head to look at him. The vulnerability in his eyes catches me off guard. "I don't know," I admit quietly, reaching for his hand and threading our fingers together. "Back then, I wasn't thinking about marriage or kids. I was just trying to keep Prim fed, keep us alive. But..." I squeeze his hand. "If you'd ever worked up the nerve to talk to me, I think it would've only been a matter of time. This feels... inevitable."

A small smile curves his lips, but his eyes stay locked on mine. "I almost did, you know. When we were sixteen. I knew the reaping was coming, that time was running out. I told myself I wanted my first kiss to be with the girl I already loved, not some stranger I'd be forced to marry."

My breath catches. "You never told me that."

He looks away briefly, cheeks pink. "I chickened out. You were laughing with Madge, and you looked so beautiful... I convinced myself you'd brush me off. So I stayed quiet."

I roll my eyes, though my chest aches with the weight of what might have been. "You thought wrong."

His grin returns, soft and boyish. "I've never been happier to be wrong."

Before I can respond, a small whimper drifts from the stroller. Azalea stirs, fussing awake. Our moment breaks gently, but Peeta is already up, lifting her into his arms with that effortless grace. He presses his nose to her cheek, rocking her until she calms.

"She's hungry," I say, reaching for her. Peeta transfers her carefully, and I unbutton the front of my dress, guiding her to latch. She settles quickly, her tiny hand curling against my skin.

Peeta watches us with quiet wonder, then leans down to kiss Azalea's head, then mine. "Happy birthday, Katniss," he whispers again, his voice full of everything we don't need words for.

I smile, leaning into him. "Best one yet."

We spend the rest of the afternoon like that—passing Azalea back and forth after she's finished feeding, then laying her on the blanket so she can kick her little legs at the sky, her fists batting at nothing in particular, her coos mingling with the breeze.

Peeta leans back on his elbows, watching her with a smile so soft it makes my chest ache in the best way. "You know," he says quietly, his voice almost lost in the rustle of leaves overhead, "we've been married nearly ten months, but sometimes it feels like we're only just starting to figure each other out."

I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, nodding as I watch Azalea discover her own toes. "Our marriage started before our relationship did," I murmur. "Everything was backwards. But every new thing I learn about you..." I glance at him, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "It just makes me love you more."

His eyes shine, bright and unguarded, and he reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Then let's keep learning," he says softly. "For the rest of our lives."

I don't need words for that. I just lean over and kiss him, slow and certain, letting the meadow and the quiet afternoon hold our promise.

Dinner with my mom and Prim is warm and familiar, the kind of evening that settles into my bones like a favorite song. Prim can't keep her hands off Azalea, practically glued to her side, cooing over every tiny yawn and stretch, while my mom asks gentle questions about how Peeta and I are finding parenthood. I barely get a word in—Peeta does all the talking, his whole face lit up, voice brimming with pride as he recounts Azalea's "firsts." The list isn't long—she's only three months old—but he makes each one sound like a victory.

Prim laughs, reaching over to stroke Azalea's cheek. "I bet she'll be crawling in no time. Or climbing. Probably before you're ready for it."

Peeta looks equal parts thrilled and horrified. "Don't remind me. I want her to stay this small forever."

My mother chuckles, sipping her tea as she studies him with soft eyes. "You wear fatherhood well, Peeta. It suits you."

He ducks his head, a faint blush rising. "I don't know about that. I'm just... figuring it out as I go."

I pat Azalea gently against my shoulder to coax her into sleep, her warm little body heavy against me. "I never thought I'd love this so much," I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can overthink them. "Or that I'd even be good at it. Babies weren't exactly part of my plan."

Mom smiles knowingly. "I knew you would. The way you always were with Prim told me everything. And motherhood—instincts come whether you're ready or not. She spent nine months inside you. You were her first home. That bond doesn't just fade."

Her words land gently but deeply, naming something I hadn't been able to articulate myself. I tighten my hold on Azalea, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "It's just... scary sometimes. How much I feel for her. I loved Prim like this too, but this—it's more intense. Almost overwhelming."

Mom's expression softens, pride and understanding mingling. "That's the fierce kind of love that keeps us going, even when it's hard. Some days will feel impossible, but then you'll look at her and know exactly why you're pushing through."

Peeta shifts closer on the couch, sliding his arm around my shoulders. He leans in to gaze at Azalea, eyes shining in the lamplight. "I already feel like I'd give up anything for her," he says quietly. "For both of you."

"Don't get too dramatic," I tease lightly, though my voice wavers. "We still need you at the bakery."

Prim grins. "Let him be dramatic. It's sweet."

We all laugh, the sound easing the lingering weight in the room. My mom leans forward from her armchair, brushing a stray curl from my forehead the way she used to when I was small. "You're doing better than you think, Katniss," she says gently. "And you're not doing it alone this time. That makes all the difference."

I swallow past the lump in my throat, glancing at Peeta. He squeezes my hand, hearing every unspoken word in my silence. And in that moment, surrounded by the people who know me best, I believe her.

After my mom and Prim leave, Peeta turns off the lights and locks the doors, the apartment settling into a hush that feels almost sacred after an evening full of voices and laughter. It's a different kind of quiet—soft, intimate, wrapping around us like a quilt.

I peek into the bassinet to check on Azalea. She's fast asleep, lips parted, tiny fists curled against her cheeks like she's dreaming of something sweet. I brush a featherlight kiss to her forehead before slipping into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

Steam fills the small space, fogging the mirror, and I step under the spray. The water beats warmly against my shoulders, cascading down my body, easing the day's lingering tension. My eyes drift shut, and for a few minutes it's just me, the heat, and the steady rhythm of the water.

I don't hear the door open, but I feel him the instant Peeta steps in—his presence a shift in the air before he even touches me. Then his lips press against my wet shoulder, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver racing down my spine.

"What did you think?" he murmurs against my skin, voice low and warm. "Good birthday?"

I smile, eyes still closed, leaning back into his chest. "You did an incredible job," I whisper. "But this... this is my favorite part. Just us."

His grin curves against my neck. "I'll never get tired of hearing you say that."

Before I can answer, his mouth claims mine. The kiss starts sweet, unhurried, like he's savoring every second. But then my hand slides down, wrapping around his cock—already half-hard—and I stroke him slowly, deliberately. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, while his fingers slip between my thighs, circling my clit with that perfect pressure that makes my breath hitch. Our tongues tangle, heat building fast.

"Fuck," he mutters against my lips, voice rough with need. "I love when you touch me like that."

"I love when you shut up and fuck me," I whisper back, smirking.

He chuckles breathlessly. "Bossy tonight, aren't we?"

With a quick, fluid motion he hooks my leg around his hip, and in one smooth thrust he's inside me, filling me deep and sudden enough that I claw at his shoulders for balance, a sharp cry escaping before I can stop it.

"God, Katniss..." he groans, forehead pressed to mine. "You're still so fucking tight."

My breath leaves me in a whimper of his name, and he answers with a deep thrust that makes my back arch against the slick tile. The rhythm he sets is slower than usual—no frantic rush tonight. It's deeper, almost reverent, each stroke deliberate, drawing out every sensation. I can feel it in the way he kisses me between moans, in the way his hand not holding my leg grips my hip like I'm something precious.

I let go first, a squeal tearing from my throat as my body tightens and trembles around him, pleasure crashing through me in waves. His thrusts falter, grow sharper, more desperate, until he groans through his release, spilling hot inside me with a final, shuddering thrust.

We cling to each other under the spray, catching our breath, hearts racing in sync. He presses soft kisses along my jaw, tender now, and I cradle his face in my hands, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone.

"Happy birthday," he whispers again, voice hoarse but full of warmth.

I smile, kissing him once more before we finally pull apart. We wash each other properly after that—playful touches, lingering kisses—until the water begins to cool. By the time we climb into bed, Azalea is still sleeping peacefully, her faint little sighs the only sound in the room.

I curl into Peeta's arms, pulling his arm firmly around me, and he kisses the top of my head.

Sleep tugs at me quickly, my body sated and warm. Just before I drift off, I realize this—his steady presence against my back, the quiet of our home, the promise of tomorrow—is the perfect ending to my birthday.

/

When Azalea hits four months, I feel an unexpected pang—like she's slipping away from me a little more each day. Her hair has grown so much it falls across her forehead, and we'll soon have to start tying it back to keep it from her eyes. She's rolling over now, which means she's officially outgrown the bassinet and moved to her crib—still in our room, though. None of us are ready for her to sleep alone. I like her close, where I can hear her breathe, where I can reach out and touch her if I need to. She's still so little.

A week later, we invite Madge and Gale for dinner—our first proper catch-up since... well, since before the reaping, really. They bring River, who's a few weeks older than Azalea, and the size difference makes me laugh. My daughter looks so tiny next to him, like a sparrow beside a hawk.

It's strange seeing Gale and Peeta in the same room. Peeta starts off a little stiff, keeping me close, his hand lingering on my waist as he eyes Gale with quiet suspicion. I don't blame him. He knows Gale and I hunted together for years. He knows Gale kissed me the day before the marriage reaping. But as the evening unfolds and he watches Gale with Madge—how Gale's sharp edges soften when he looks at her, how his hand rests protectively on her shoulder—Peeta relaxes. Gale only has eyes for his wife now.

We're all so young, yet here we are—doing grown-up things we never asked for, forced to mature before our lives even began.

"You look happy," Gale says quietly, coming up beside me at the sink while I scrub dishes, his voice low enough not to carry.

My gaze drifts automatically to the living room. Peeta sits on the couch, holding Azalea high above his head, rubbing his nose against her belly to elicit those full, infectious belly laughs. Madge watches from the armchair, smiling warmly as River gums a toy on her lap.

"I am," I admit, glancing at Gale. He offers a small, genuine smile.

"Guess it's good we didn't get paired, then," he teases lightly.

I snort. "Yeah. We would've driven each other insane—and not in the good way."

He chuckles, the sound easy and familiar. We're quiet for a moment before he speaks again, his voice quieter. "I just wish Madge and I's start hadn't been tainted by the reaping." He lifts his left hand, the plain gold band glinting under the light—the same band every reaped husband wears. "These rings... they were forced on us. We didn't choose them."

I look down at my own matching band, a frown tugging at my lips. He's right. "There's not much we can do about it now," I murmur.

"But there is." His eyes brighten with quiet determination. "I ordered a new ring for Madge from the Capitol—it's coming in two weeks. I want us to get married again, our way. I'll use it to ask her properly."

I bite my lip, but a smile breaks through. "Look at you, Mr. Romantic," I tease.

Gale rolls his eyes and flicks a soap bubble at me. "Yeah, whatever, Everdeen. Not a word to anyone."

"Your secret's safe," I promise, grinning as he heads back to the living room, sliding onto the armrest beside Madge. She leans her head against his arm as they watch Peeta launch into a dramatic retelling of Rye's latest attempt to become Azalea's favorite uncle.

I glance over occasionally while I finish the dishes, and the more I watch Peeta—his easy laughter, the way he lights up with our daughter—the more Gale's words take root. The more I want the same. I want to look at our rings and remember a day I chose, a day I was happy to say yes, instead of dreading the life forced on me.

By the time the dishes are done, the idea has settled deep: I want that for us too. A real choice. A real beginning.

I'm propped up in bed, feeding Azalea while she keeps swatting at Peeta's face with her chubby little hand, grinning around my breast every time he pretends to gobble it up with exaggerated "nom-nom" noises. I can't help but smile at their game, my fingers rubbing slow circles on her back the way she likes.

When she's finished, I ease her down between us, tucked into her sleep sack. Almost immediately she arches her back and lets out an indignant squeal, protesting the loss of our arms. Before the crying can start, I begin singing softly—the old lullaby my father used to hum—my fingertips stroking her cheek in gentle rhythm. It works like magic; her eyes droop halfway through the first verse, her fists curling up beside her head as she finally drifts off.

By the time the last note fades, I'm just watching her—memorizing the rise and fall of her tiny chest, the way her lashes flutter in sleep. "I want us to get remarried," I whisper, turning to Peeta. I already know he's looking at me; he always is when he thinks I won't notice.

His brows lift in surprise. "Remarried?"

I nod, keeping my voice low so I don't wake her. "It's something Gale mentioned tonight. These rings—" I glance at the plain gold band on my finger, "—they were forced on us. But we could choose new ones. Do a proper toasting, like they did before the reaping. Make it ours. We could even change our anniversary—count these months as dating, then start fresh when we say yes for real."

Peeta's quiet for a moment, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. "I'd marry you again tomorrow if you asked," he says softly. "Hell, I'd marry you every year just to hear you say yes."

I roll my eyes, but warmth floods my chest. "Don't go overboard."

He chuckles, reaching over Azalea to brush a strand of hair from my cheek. "I know you, Katniss. No Capitol monstrosities with a thousand diamonds. It'll be simple. Perfect. Like you."

"So... when?" I ask, tracing idle circles on the blanket between us.

"Whenever you want," he answers immediately.

"First week of winter?" I suggest. "Gives us time to find rings. And it'll be cold enough for the fire."

He nods, eyes bright. "First week of winter it is."

I lean across our sleeping daughter to kiss him—slow, soft, certain. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," I whisper back.

/

I've never been on a train before. We could never afford it, and under Coin's rules, travel between districts was restricted to "essential" reasons—business, medical emergencies, or official business. It was her way of keeping us divided, just like Snow's games kept us afraid. Only Coin's cruelty wasn't about children slaughtering each other in arenas. No, hers was about forcing us into marriages and pressuring us to reproduce, turning our bodies into tools for her vision of Panem's future.

The train whistles past the familiar edges of District 12, and I stand Azalea on my thighs so she can peer out the window, her wide blue eyes tracking the blurring landscape with rapt fascination. She babbles "ga-ga" and "ba-ba," her chubby hands smacking the glass in excitement. It's a four-hour ride to District 4, with stops in 8 and 6 for refueling and new passengers, but the time flies watching her discover the world rushing by.

Now that Panem's freer—reapings abolished, borders open—Peeta's eager to explore expanding the bakery. District 4 appealed to him first, with its vast oceans and, he hopes, less competition for sweets. And since June has arrived with its sticky heat, he suggested Azalea and I come along after his meetings, so we can enjoy the beaches while he works. I accepted without hesitation—curious to see how a district of endless water differs from our tree-choked home.

"It's lucky you spent all spring teaching me to swim in the lake," Peeta grins, settling beside us on the bench seat, his arm draping casually over my shoulders.

I shoot him a look. "I wouldn't have let you go to 4 without it."

He laughs, low and easy. "Well, you won't need to worry. I'm almost better than you now."

I roll my eyes as Azalea bounces on my thighs, her giggles infectious. "Keep telling yourself that."

Peeta squeezes her chubby thighs playfully, making her squirm and squeal with delight. "She's almost five months old..." he mumbles, a touch of wonder in his voice. "Where did that time go?"

I kiss Azalea's temple, and she twists toward me, tugging at my shirt with insistent little fists. I lean forward to grab her baby blanket from the bag, draping it over us for privacy before guiding her to latch. She settles quickly, and I sigh, laying my head on Peeta's shoulder as the train hums along.

"I don't know," I murmur. "It's almost unfair how fast it flies."

"Yeah..." He trails off, his fingers absently stroking her back through the blanket. "But I'm excited for when she starts talking. I think we'll have a sassy little thing on our hands."

I smile in agreement. Azalea's personality is already shining through—feisty and discerning. She squeals in protest whenever Rye holds her, reaching immediately for Peeta or me. Rye's convinced we whisper commands in her ear, which is ridiculous; Azalea's just smart, and her Uncle Rye acts like a four-year-old half the time.

She gets particularly whiny if we set her down for too long—we're both too weak to let it go on. To say she has us wrapped around her finger is an understatement.

Azalea is fast asleep by the time the train pulls into the District 4 station, her little body limp against my chest in the sling. I carefully maneuver her into a more secure position so I can help Peeta with the bags, freeing my arms from the ache of carrying her the whole way. The platform bustles with people—fisherfolk in weathered coats, merchants hauling crates of seafood—but the salty tang in the air is new, invigorating, a far cry from the coal dust of home.

Peeta and I are staying in a single-story beach cabin, the kind visitors can rent for a taste of seaside life. We hail a car for the first time—another novelty in this freer Panem—and climb in, the engine rumbling to life beneath us. It's strange, sitting still while the world blurs by, the driver's hands steady on the wheel. I prefer walking, feeling the ground under my feet; these metal boxes feel like accidents waiting to happen, too fast, too enclosed. My fingers tighten around Azalea's sling instinctively.

I'm relieved when the car finally stops in front of the cabin, a quaint wooden structure with a small grass lawn out front, bordered by a stone path leading to a weathered porch. Behind it stretches golden sand meeting a sea the color of Peeta's eyes, flecked with whitecaps that dance in the breeze. The sound of waves crashing in the distance is rhythmic, almost hypnotic.

Once we're settled inside—the space simple but cozy, with sun-bleached curtains and a faint salty scent clinging to everything—Peeta heads off to his meeting with the mayor. I warn him to be careful and back by sunset, kissing him goodbye before he leaves. With Azalea still dozing in her portable crib down the hall, I step out onto the back porch. The platform overlooks the beach, long wooden stairs to my right descending straight to the sandy shore.

It's so different from 12. There are trees here too, but they're strange—tall and spindly with fronds like giant feathers, nothing like the sturdy oaks and pines back home. The ocean breeze carries a cool undertone through the warmth, cutting the usual sticky heat of summer, and the air tastes clean, briny, alive. I lean against the railing, letting the wind tousle my hair, and realize I could see myself returning here—maybe even making it a tradition, a place to escape the district's grind.

For the first time in a long while, the future feels open, full of possibilities beyond survival. And with Azalea and Peeta, that's a gift I never thought I'd have.

By the time the sun begins to dip low on the horizon, painting the ocean in hues of orange and pink, Peeta walks through the door of our rented cabin. His cheeks and arms are slightly reddened from the day's sun, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his eyes light up the moment they land on me and Azalea on the couch. He crosses the room in a few strides, sighing as he sinks down beside us, immediately reaching for our daughter as she squeals and stretches her chubby arms toward him.

I hand her over with a smile, watching as she nestles into his chest, her tiny fingers clutching at his shirt. "How'd it go?" I ask, leaning my head against his shoulder, the salty sea breeze still clinging to his skin.

"Pretty good, actually," he replies, his voice warm with quiet triumph as he bounces Azalea lightly on his knee. "I managed to sweet-talk the mayor into a spot on the edge of town, right near the docks. It'll get tons of foot traffic—people coming and going all day from the boats."

"That's great!" I say, genuine relief flooding me. Expanding the bakery to District 4 was Peeta's idea, a way to grow beyond 12's borders now that travel's freer, but I'd been nervous about the negotiations.

He nods, pressing a kiss to Azalea's forehead before meeting my eyes. "It was a relief when he finally agreed. He even introduced me to the dockmaster—the guy who had to sign off since it's more on harbor territory than town land. Invited us to join him and his family on their boat tomorrow, if we're up for it."

I raise an eyebrow, a mix of curiosity and caution stirring. "What'd you tell him?"

"That I'd check with my wife first," he says with a grin, his thumb rubbing slow circles on Azalea's back.

I roll my eyes but can't hide my smile. "Well, I don't see why not. It'll be interesting—seeing what it's like on a boat. As long as it's safe for her."

Peeta's grin widens, relief softening his features. "It will be. And if it's not, we can always bail. But I think it'll be good for us—something new."

I nod, leaning in to kiss his cheek, the day's stubble rough under my lips. "Then let's do it."

There are two things I learn that first morning on the boat. One, sailing on the open ocean is a far cry from swimming in the lake—endless, unforgiving blue stretching to the horizon, no visible edge to cling to like a lifeline. The constant rocking makes my stomach lurch, and I hold Azalea tighter against my chest, half-convinced she'll slip from my arms into the waves below. The second? Finnick Odair is the cockiest, most irritating person I've ever met—and that's saying something, considering the Hob's full of men who think a few drinks make them philosophers.

Peeta and I had arrived at the docks just after dawn, the air thick with salt and fish, gulls wheeling overhead like sentinels. Peeta greeted Finnick with a surprisingly warm handshake, the two of them chatting like old acquaintances after only a few hours the day before. But when Peeta introduced me as his wife, Finnick's grin turned sly, his sea-green eyes flicking over me with that infuriating charm.

"Ah, so you're the boss, huh?" he teased, leaning against the boat's railing like he owned the entire ocean.

I glared at him, shifting Azalea higher on my hip. "Peeta can make his own choices, but I won't apologize for being wary of my husband—the father of my child—diving into unknown waters on a boat with a stranger."

Finnick snorted, unfazed. "You've got a fiery one here, Mellark."

Peeta bit back a laugh, his eyes dancing, but my glare must've landed because his smile dropped like a stone. "She's right," he said quickly, squeezing my hand. "I'm excited, but I get it."

Now, I'm perched on a weathered bench near the stern, Azalea dozing against my chest in her sling, while Finnick demonstrates some contraption he calls a "gill-tube"—a clear, tube-like mask that supposedly lets you breathe underwater for up to an hour without surfacing. It's clever, I'll give him that, but watching Peeta strap it on makes my stomach twist. He's shirtless in bright orange swim shorts, his skin already kissed by the sun, muscles flexing as he adjusts the straps. Normally, the sight would send heat rushing through me, but anxiety overrides it all—visions of currents pulling him under, of him not coming back up.

"You got it," Finnick says with a grin, clapping Peeta on the shoulder. "Now let's dive, friend. Clams and sea treasures wait for no man." He bends to adjust a smaller version for his and Annie's six-year-old son, Kai, the boy beaming with excitement.

I rise, crossing to Peeta with a frown. "Be careful," I warn, my voice low and serious. "I'm not joking."

He smiles, cupping my face for a moment. "I will. I always come back to you." He kisses my cheek, then Azalea's forehead, lingering on the soft skin there.

"If you don't," I threaten, though we both know it's empty, "I'll never speak to you again."

He chuckles, the sound warm despite the worry in my eyes. "Katniss, Finnick's experienced—been diving these waters his whole life. I'll be fine. Try not to worry too much, okay?"

I nod reluctantly, forcing a small smile. "I love you."

"I love you too." He bites down on the gill-tube's mouthpiece, slings a netted bag over his shoulder for whatever "treasures" they find, and gives me one last reassuring look.

Finnick counts down from three with his fingers, and then they're gone—Peeta, Finnick, and Kai leaping off the side of the boat into the deep blue below, vanishing beneath the surface with barely a ripple. I stand frozen at the railing, heart pounding, staring at the spot where they disappeared, the ocean's vastness suddenly feeling like a threat rather than a wonder.

I sit with Annie on the gently rocking floor of the boat, the ocean's vast expanse stretching out around us like an endless blue canvas. Her four-year-old daughter, Cordelia—Cora for short—kneels between us, her small fingers deftly weaving colorful ropes into bracelets, her tongue poking out in concentration. Unlike her husband, Annie is quiet, almost ethereal, speaking only to her children or when directly addressed. She's strikingly beautiful, with long brown hair cascading in waves past her shoulders, sea-green eyes that mirror Finnick's, and pale skin that glows under the sun. She wears a long white dress of lightweight fabric, the outline of her swimsuit visible beneath, practical for a life by the water.

"Peeta's in good hands," Annie says reassuringly, her voice soft and steady, without looking up from the rope she's twisting.

"I know... I just worry a lot," I mumble, my arms tightening around Azalea in her sling, the boat's sway making me uneasy despite the calm sea.

"Understandable," Annie replies, her fingers never pausing. "But Finnick's been diving these waters since he was a boy. He's as safe as they come down there."

I nod, forcing a small smile, though the knot in my stomach doesn't loosen. "So, you and Finnick got matched through the reaping, right?" I ask, rocking Azalea unconsciously as she fusses a bit.

"Yep, six years ago now," Annie says, a fond smile touching her lips as she glances up. "We were already... drawn to each other before it happened. When our names came up together, it felt like the universe was giving us a nudge. Meant to be."

"Really?" I say, surprised. "But you're so... grounded, and he's..."

Annie giggles softly, a light, musical sound. "Finnick? He comes on strong—annoying, even, to some. But that's just the surface. Underneath, he's a good man. Loves me with everything he has, adores our kids. Loyal to a fault, protective of the ones he cares about. You'd see it if you gave him a chance."

I hum thoughtfully, glancing out at the water where the men disappeared earlier. "I'll take your word for it—for now."

Annie smiles, shaking her head affectionately. "Fair enough. What about you two? You and Peeta seem pretty in love yourselves. Gives Finnick and me a run for our money."

I snort, kissing Azalea's temple as she settles again. "It didn't start that way. It was rough at first—forced together, me pushing him away because getting close felt too risky. After losing my dad, and my mom checking out emotionally... love seemed like a curse, not a blessing. But Peeta... it's hard not to love someone like him. Kind people have a way of sneaking into your heart and taking root before you even realize."

"That's the best kind," Annie says softly, her eyes warm. "Rare, too. I'm glad you found it. You both deserve that—you're good people. I can tell."

I smile at her, the unease from earlier fading a bit. "Thanks. You do too—though I'm still reserving judgment on your husband. Might upgrade him if he returns Peeta unscathed."

Annie laughs again, the sound light and easy, and I find myself chuckling along. I relax a little more in her company, and Cora's—she's a quiet child, much like her mother, focused on her bracelet with the same serene intensity. The conversation flows gently, and for the first time since stepping onto this boat, the vast ocean feels a little less intimidating.

Peeta, Finnick, and Kai resurface about forty-five minutes later, their heads breaking the ocean's glassy surface with splashes that send ripples across the water. Finnick hoists Kai back onto the boat first, the boy grinning ear to ear, his gill-tube still dangling from his mouth. Then he and Peeta pull themselves up over the railing, water streaming off their sun-kissed bodies. I rise quickly from where I've been sitting on the deck with Annie, my heart still racing from the wait, and approach Peeta as he removes his gill-tube, gasping for fresh air.

Before he can say a word, I pull him close and kiss him, tasting the salt of the sea on his lips. "That was the longest forty-five minutes of my life," I scowl, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

Peeta chuckles, his wet hand settling on my hip, the cool water seeping through the waistband of my lightweight cotton shorts. "Why am I not surprised you were counting?" he teases, his grin wide and breathless, eyes sparkling with the thrill of the dive.

I roll my eyes but kiss him again, deeper this time, relief flooding through me now that he's back, solid and safe. "That was incredible down there," he says when we break apart.

"Did you find anything?" I ask

"Sure did," he replies, his voice full of boyish excitement as we sit on the bench lining the boat's side. He rummages in the netted bag slung across his chest and pulls out a rough, oddly shaped shell. "This is a clam."

Finnick walks over, handing Peeta a small, sharp knife with a nod before kneeling down with Kai to examine their own haul. Peeta wiggles the blade between the clam's tightly sealed shells, popping it open with a practiced twist. Using his thumb and index finger, he plucks out a tiny, translucent pearl, iridescent in the fading light.

"And when you open it..." he says, dropping it into my open palm, "you find a pearl. For you."

I stare at the small gem, smooth and perfect, then look up at him. His ashy blond curls fall in wet ringlets over his forehead, framing those blue eyes that always seem to see straight to my soul. "Thank you," I whisper, kissing his cheek before leaning my head on his damp shoulder.

He smiles, pulling out more treasures from the bag—a variety of shells in shapes and colors I've never seen: spiraled conchs in creamy pinks, scalloped edges shimmering with iridescent blues, flat oysters rough and gray on the outside but smooth within. He describes each one with enthusiasm—where he found them, how deep he dove—his voice washing over me like the waves against the boat. I'm just grateful to have him here, solid and alive, the echo of my worry fading with every word.

As the sun dips lower, painting the sea in golds and purples, I listen, content in this moment we've carved out far from home.

By the time the following afternoon rolls around, there's a quiet ache in my chest at the thought of leaving. It's been a short trip, but one I'll carry with me—the salt air, the endless blue, the way the ocean felt both vast and alive.

We'd had dinner at Annie and Finnick's the night before, after our day on the water. Against my better judgment, I have to admit Annie was right: Finnick is a good man. The way he interacts with his kids—always ready to scoop them up when they call for him, turning even vegetables into a game that has them giggling and clearing their plates—is impossible not to respect. He's still cocky, still annoying in that larger-than-life way, but he's easier to be around now. I can see the steadiness beneath the showmanship.

Annie mentioned they're expecting again—four months along with their third, another girl. The way her hand rested on her belly, soft and protective, stirred something in me. I'm glad we met them. I have a feeling they'll become the kind of friends who stick—steady through the years, no matter where this new Panem takes us.

"It's a little sad to be leaving," Peeta sighs as we settle into our seats on the train, Azalea dozing in his arms.

"I know," I murmur, leaning my head against his shoulder. "It was a nice change—the ocean, the quiet. But I'm ready to go home. I still prefer the woods."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling softly through his chest, and presses a kiss to my temple. "I figured. Don't worry—I do too. Trees over tides any day."

"But we should come back," I say quietly, watching the coastline slip past the window. "As often as we can."

"We will," he promises, his voice warm and certain. "Anywhere you want to go, Katniss—we'll go. The world's open now."

I smile, turning to kiss him softly, tasting salt and sunlight on his lips. "Good."

Azalea stirs then, letting out a small whimper, and I reach over to tickle her neck gently. She blinks up at us with those big blue eyes, a sleepy grin spreading across her face.

/

As the months slip by, so do the days where Azalea clings a little less to Peeta and me, her independence blooming like the wildflowers in the meadow. By November, she's nine months old, and I feel her slipping through my fingers already—time a thief I can't outrun. She may have inherited my dark hair, but that's where the resemblance ends. Her eyes are Peeta's vivid blue, her skin his fair complexion, and unlike my straight locks, Azalea's fall in soft, unruly curls just like his.

She's utterly obsessed with Peeta, which delights him to no end. It warms me too, watching him give our daughter the kind of childhood he always longed for—filled with laughter, gentle touches, and unwavering love. She's at that wary age now, clinging to us like a lifeline, which means one-handed cooking has become an art form. She'll crawl to my feet and wail if I set her down too long, her protests tugging at my heartstrings. I'm not too upset about it; if anything, it gives me a ready excuse to turn down the constant requests to hold her from well-meaning strangers or acquaintances.

Developmentally, she's a whirlwind—crawling with determined speed, pulling herself up on every surface she can reach, teetering on wobbly legs as she practices walking. She's not quite standing on her own yet, and for that I'm grateful; I don't think I could handle her toddling off independently at nine months. She's transitioning to solid foods too, mashing bananas and soft veggies with her gums, only breastfeeding in the mornings and before bed now.

Those quiet moments are ones I hold onto fiercely, knowing soon she won't need them at all, and my baby won't be such a baby anymore. The thought aches, a bittersweet pull in my chest—pride in her growth mingled with the quiet grief of letting go, piece by piece.

One evening, after dinner has been cleared and the apartment falls into a peaceful hush, Peeta and I sit in front of the crackling fire, its glow warding off the early winter chill seeping through the windows. Azalea is asleep in her crib down the hall, her soft breaths a distant comfort, leaving just the drip of the faucet and the wind rattling the panes to fill the silence.

"You ready?" Peeta asks, his voice low and steady, eyes meeting mine with that quiet intensity I've come to love.

I nod, a flutter of nerves mixing with anticipation. He picks up a piece of the nut and raisin bread—the same kind he threw to me in the rain when we were eleven—and skewers it carefully, holding it near the flames. I lay my head on his shoulder, watching the bread toast to a golden hue, the moment heavy with meaning. This bread once saved my family; now, it binds us anew.

He pulls it from the fire when it's ready, and we share it slowly, feeding each other bites, the flavors rich and nostalgic on my tongue. Once it's gone, I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out the ring I made for him.

"I... never felt right about the rings we'd see in town," I explain, holding it out. "So I carved this from that big oak by the lake. The one where we swim. I took it to a craftsman to make it durable—damage-proof, long-lasting. That way... you have a piece of me, of us, with you always."

He takes it, his smile bright and genuine, eyes shining in the firelight. "I love it, Katniss. I won't ever take it off." I slide it onto his left ring finger, replacing the plain gold band that once symbolized our forced fate.

Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my ring. I gasp—it's a simple gold band, but nestled on top is the pearl he dove for in District 4, the one I thought I'd lost forever.

"I figured you'd want to keep it close," he says, his voice soft with emotion. "So you never lose it—because I know how much you worried about that."

"It's perfect, Peeta," I whisper, my throat tight as I hold out my hand. He slips it on, the pearl catching the fire's glow, and it feels right—like a promise we chose.

We lean in together, our lips meeting in a sealing kiss, slow and deep, the fire crackling beside us as if in approval. When we pull apart, foreheads touching, the world feels remade—ours, not something thrust upon us.

I bring his lips back to mine, my fingers threading through his curls, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from him. The sound vibrates against my mouth, sending heat pooling low in my belly. Peeta shifts his weight, pressing his body against mine until I'm flat on the floor beneath him, his warmth a delicious cage. His hand slides up under my shirt, cupping my breast through the thin fabric of my bra, squeezing firmly. I moan into the kiss, arching up to meet him.

He pulls back slightly, eyes dark with want, and yanks my shirt over my head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. His mouth descends again, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, down my neck, lingering at my collarbone until I'm breathless. His fingers fumble with the clasp of my bra, unhooking it and flinging it away, exposing me to the cool air. I whimper as his lips capture one sensitive nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling in ways that make my hips buck against him involuntarily.

"Peeta..." I gasp, feeling his erection press against my thigh through his jeans, the friction sending sparks through me.

He grunts at the contact, his mouth moving to my other breast, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch higher. After what feels like an eternity of exquisite torture, his lips begin their descent, kissing a path down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans. He undoes the button and zipper with deft fingers, tugging them down my legs along with my panties in one fluid motion, leaving me bare and aching.

"Peeta..." I whimper, my voice trembling with need.

"I know," he murmurs against the inside of my thigh, his breath hot on my skin, "but I want a redo of our wedding night." I can feel his smile curve against me, and I bite my lip to suppress a moan, anticipation building.

He wastes no time, his mouth finding my clit immediately, tongue flicking with expert precision. My hands fly to his head, keeping him pressed there as pleasure surges through me. "Oh!" I squeal, my back arching off the floor.

His hands push my thighs open wider, spreading me further for him, and I look down to meet his gaze—he's watching me, eyes locked on mine the whole time. The intensity of it, knowing he's seeing every reaction, sends a strike of pleasure straight through me. My back bows as I whimper, and he responds by working harder, his tongue relentless as he adds his fingers, thrusting two inside me with a curl that hits just right.

"Yes..." I moan, my hips grinding against his hand and mouth, riding the building wave. With his fingers pumping steadily and his tongue stimulating my clit without mercy, the tension snaps. My body arches sharply as I cry out, shuddering through the orgasm, waves of ecstasy crashing over me until I'm left trembling and spent.

He emerges with a satisfied grin, licking his lips as he crawls back up my body. "Better than the first time?" he whispers, voice husky.

"Much," I pant, pulling him down for a deep kiss, tasting myself on him.

My hands fumble to push his shirt up and over his head, exposing the warm, firm planes of his chest. He hurriedly undoes his jeans, shoving them down along with his underwear, kicking them off his ankles in a tangle on the floor. His lips crash back to mine, urgent and hungry, and my legs part for him instinctively, welcoming him home.

He thrusts inside me in one deep, fluid motion, and I break from the kiss with a cry of pleasure, my back arching off the floor. His pelvis grinds against my still-sensitive clit with every movement, sending fresh sparks through me. I grab fistfuls of his curls, tugging as he litters my neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses, his hips thrusting slowly but deeply, filling me completely.

Unlike our usual frantic pace—fast and hard, chasing release—this is slower, more passionate. We're making love, every stroke deliberate, every touch lingering. It feels amazing, so much more intimate, like he's pouring himself into me, body and soul.

When he brings his lips back to mine, I cup his face, holding him close. "I love you," I whimper, the words spilling out raw and true.

"I love you too—so much, Katniss," he breathes, his voice rough with emotion, before I pull him down for another kiss, our mouths moving in perfect sync.

Peeta keeps the rhythm steady, deep and unhurried, until I feel the tension building again, coiling tight in my core. My fingers dig into his back, nails scraping as I bite down on his lip to muffle my cries. My orgasm rips through me like fire, waves crashing as I shudder around him. "Oh, Peeta!" I gasp, my body trembling in release.

He thrusts a few more times, deep and deliberate, and as my walls squeeze around his cock, he grunts low in his throat, spilling hot and deep inside me. He collapses beside me, pulling the blanket from the couch to drape over our sated bodies, tucking me close against his side.

We lie there on the rug in front of the fire, my back pressed to his front, his arm draped firmly around my waist, holding me close like he never wants to let go. My fingertips trace lazy patterns up and down his forearm, the warmth of his skin grounding me as we stare into the dancing flames. His chin rests on my shoulder, his breath steady against my ear.

"It feels different this time," I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.

Peeta hums in agreement, his chest rumbling behind me. "Yeah. Probably because we chose it this time," he replies, his voice soft and thoughtful.

I twist in his arms to face him, searching his eyes in the firelight. "Just promise me something."

"Anything, Katniss," he murmurs, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his touch tender.

"Promise me that no matter what, you'll never leave me," I whisper, the fear in my voice raw and unfiltered.

His brows furrow, concern etching lines across his forehead. "I know it scares you," he says gently, cupping my cheek. "And I can't promise death won't come knocking one day—life's too cruel for that. But I can promise I'll fight like hell to stay with you as long as I can. And even if it takes me... I'll be waiting for you on the other side."

The words hang between us, heavy but comforting, and though the terror of loss still lingers, it's enough. I nod, my fingertips tracing the curve of his lips before I lean in to kiss him, slow and deep. When I pull back, I lay my head on his chest, letting his steady heartbeat lull me as sleep tugs at the edges of my mind, surrounded by his warmth and the faint scent of something sweet and home.

8 Years Later

I wake up alone, which immediately makes me frown. The bed feels too empty without Peeta's warmth beside me, especially as the cold seeps through the windowpane, snow falling steadily outside in fat, silent flakes. Before I can muster any real annoyance, though, the clatter of pots and the sound of muffled voices drifts in from the kitchen, drawing me like a moth to flame.

Cradling my large belly, I slide out of bed, the wooden floor cool under my feet. I pull on my forest green cardigan, wrapping it around me like a shield against the chill, and pad out of the bedroom. Standing in the archway to the main room, a smile tugs at my lips unbidden. There, in the kitchen, Peeta stands with our daughters—Azalea, now eight, perched on a chair to his left, and Juniper, our four-year-old, on another to his right. Both girls are whisking bowls with focused determination, flour dusting their cheeks as Peeta instructs them on the next step, his voice patient and warm.

Azalea and Juniper are smiling, their eyes fixed on Peeta like he's the center of their universe. The only real difference between the sisters is Juniper's ashy blond hair, the same shade as Peeta's, making her look like his little twin—right down to the way her curls fall over her forehead when she's deep in concentration.

The sight stirs a memory—the chaotic day Juniper was born. I'd convinced myself a short walk in the woods would be fine, that I needed the fresh air after being cooped up. I hadn't told Peeta, knowing he'd never let me go so close to my due date. But luck—or fate—had other plans. It started with mild cramps I could ignore, but by the time I reached the lake, the pain had sharpened, doubling me over until I regretted every step.

Juniper's birth came faster than Azalea's—too fast to make it home. Panic set in as I sank against an oak tree, breathing through contractions that built like a storm. The afternoon sun dipped lower, shadows lengthening, and by sunset I was crying out for Peeta, knowing he couldn't hear me from so far away.

It felt like an eternity before rough rustling broke the silence—Peeta bursting through the clearing, my mother close behind, her medical bag slung over her shoulder. He didn't yell or scold; he just dropped to his knees beside me, kissing my face over and over, mumbling how glad he was I was alive, his hands trembling as he held mine.

There was no time to move me—Mom checked and said I was ready to push. Juniper was born right there in the woods by the lake, her cries echoing off the water like a victory song. Peeta stripped off his shirt to wrap her in, keeping her warm despite the summer air, his bare chest pressed to mine as he held us both.

Since then, he likes to tease me about putting a tracker in my hunting boots so he'll always know when I sneak into the woods. I usually roll my eyes and flick his forehead, calling him ridiculous, but secretly, I love the protectiveness behind it.

Now, watching him with our girls, that memory feels like a lifetime ago. I lean against the doorframe, content to observe a moment longer before stepping in.

"I won't be the one cleaning all this mess, you know," I say with a grin, my voice light as I finally announce myself.

All three heads snap toward me. "Mommy!" Juniper nearly topples her chair as she jumps down and races over, wrapping her arms around my legs in a fierce hug.

"Hi, my girl," I chuckle, running my hand through her ashy blond curls, so much like her father's.

"Daddy and Azalea are teaching me to make pancakes!" she exclaims, her eyes wide and sparkling.

I look up at Peeta and our eldest, leaning down to kiss Juniper's head. "Well, you're in capable hands," I respond, taking her small hand in mine as we walk into the kitchen. I press a kiss to Azalea's forehead next, her dark hair tickling my nose.

"Good morning," Peeta grins, wiping his hands on a towel before slinging it over his shoulder.

"Morning," I mumble, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him close.

"Sorry I wasn't there when you woke up," he says softly, swaying us gently in place. "Juniper came barging in claiming she was starving and demanding a pancake lesson."

"Makes sense," I snort, pressing my forehead to his, breathing him in.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his hand sliding down to rest on the swell of my belly.

I shrug. "Back's still aching, but the headache's eased up a bit."

He nods, kissing my forehead, then my lips. "At least the baby will be here any day now," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the taut skin.

I nod, leaning into him. He kisses me again before turning back to our daughters, who are watching us with matching grins. "Alright, you two—let's get these pancakes flipped before Mommy starves."

Our son is born in the quiet hush of dawn, the first light filtering through the curtains as his cries fill the room—strong and insistent, like he's already demanding his place in the world. He's bigger than his sisters were at birth, a sturdy little thing with Peeta's blond curls already crowning his head, and that same dimple on his left cheek, mirroring his father and older sisters. His eyes are a faded blue, softer than Peeta's vivid shade, and I can't help but wonder if they'll darken to my gray as the months pass.

"Bannock Sage Mellark," Peeta murmurs, his voice thick with emotion as he watches our son nurse, Bannock's tiny hand flexing against my skin.

I look down at him, this perfect bundle in my arms, and smile through the exhaustion. "The perfect piece to complete our family," I whisper, meeting Peeta's gaze.

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to my lips, then to Bannock's forehead. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "He is."

Azalea and Juniper are staying with my mother and Prim, giving Peeta and me these precious first hours alone with him—to bond, to rest, to marvel at this new life we've created. The room is quiet, save for the soft suckling sounds and the distant hum of the district outside, and as I lean back against the pillows, Peeta at my side, a profound happiness washes over me.

I think back to how Peeta and I began—thrown together by Coin's cruel reaping, two strangers bound in a marriage neither of us chose. It was survival at first, then duty, then something deeper, forged in the fires of fear and love. I wish we'd had more time to know each other first, to court like normal people, without the shadow of obligation hanging over us. But I don't regret it—not a single moment. That path led us here, to this family, to this joy.

I'd choose Peeta again and again. In every lifetime.