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A gasp tears from my throat, shattering the stillness of the night. I bolt upright in bed, flinging my arms out, reaching for my bow, and finding nothing but the cool sheets and the crumpled quilt at my ankles. My heart is a wild thing in my chest—pounding, thrashing—its rhythm in-step with the tremors coursing through my body. Its cadence is a call to action, like it, too, is ready to fight, ready to escape the never-ending nightmares.
The darkness around me crawls with life. The inky blackness wraps its fingers around my throat, the moon outside a silent witness. I'm choking, gagging on the dust and flames and ash of the girl I once was. The girl on fire.
The silver light creeping through the window paints a mosaic of eerie shadows across the walls. They dance and sway, morphing into shapes and figures from the corners of my memories—ghosts of a past I can't escape.
"Stop," I murmur, pressing my palms against my eyes. The memories of loss and struggle haunt me even in sleep. They're etched into my very soul, as permanent as the bow grip calluses on my fingers.
I take one breath in and out. Then another. Another. It's a hollow attempt to slow my heart, to dispel the fear, and to ground myself in the here and now. But it's a doomed prospect when every shadow seems to harbor a threat; every silence feels like the precursor to chaos. I run my hands over my arms, willing warmth back into my limbs, trying to stop their shaking.
The moonlight continues its strange dance, and I let my gaze follow it across the room. There's solace in its constancy. There's beauty in its soft glow, a purity that contrasts the mess I am and the destruction I've caused. I remind myself that I've seen worse, done worse, survived worse than this night and this dream. It's a necessary ritual prescribed during my time in 13's hospital that usually helps me make it through the nights, even if it's only to lay in bed until the first pink vestiges of dawn color the sky. But tonight, I'm left with nothing but emptiness, a yearning for something—or someone—to fill the void that the Capitol left within me.
"Peeta..." The name falls from my lips, a silent plea in the darkness. I imagine the steadying presence he might offer. I used to know it well. Or, a part of me did, that part still scratching, clawing, and working its way to the surface. I needed him once. I'm sure of that. And he loved me. I'm sure of that, too. I feel the remnants of it in my bones as if it's a permanent part of who I was – who I could be. But he's not here, in this quiet room, this quiet house drenched in guilt, isolation, shadows, and moonbeams.
I linger at the edge of my bed two nights later. I'm so tired. There's an ache behind my eyes that never stops, and even the freedom of the woods offers no relief. I run my hand across the sheets, their coolness a reminder of the warmth that doesn't exist here, not without him. Peeta—the thought of his name sends a different kind of shiver through me, one that isn't born from fear or the false narrative of hatred that had been woven through my mind but from an ache for the comfort he always seems to bring.
Each muscle in my body protests as I ease out of bed, aware of the vast silence that envelops the house and the space I've created between us. The cold floorboards protest beneath my feet, each step deliberate, as if I'm stalking potential prey through a tangled labyrinth of weighted history, loaded words, and fragile peace.
Will he mind?
Should I wake him?
Do I knock?
I should let him sleep.
I should go back.
He won't want me there.
Not after everything I've said, everything I've done.
He must hate me.
I hate me.
But he came back.
He's here.
The primroses.
Could he be waiting for me?
Is that possible?
Does he still have nightmares, too?
"Stupid," I mutter under my breath, the word dissolving in a misty cloud in the frosty night air. The scent of pine needles and the impending threat of snow surrounds the remains of Victor's Village. I wrap my arms around myself, tiptoeing quickly through the dewy grass separating Peeta's house from mine. How many months have passed since my return? Since his? If snow will soon be rolling over the mountains, it's been more time than I've realized. I've been so lost. Days bleed into weeks, and the nights are endless.
As I turn onto the path leading up to his home, the crunch of gravel is an oddly comforting sound, a remnant of normality in a world spun off its axis. If I close my eyes, I can almost see us before wars and hijacking, blood and bruises, Mockingjays and ashes. We were scarred, wounded, and forever changed – Victors and star-crossed lovers for a nation – but there was a hint of hope there. We hadn't yet been ruined, used, and thrown aside. And we still had our families. We still had each other.
I stop at his front door with damp bare feet, disheveled hair, and pajamas that are still a bit too big for my frame. As my hand hovers over the doorknob, I watch the goosebumps rise on my skin, rippling in waves down my arms and legs —not from the night air, but from the anticipation of crossing a line to a place I never thought I'd be again. How often have we done this dance, approaching and retreating from each other? Taking a deep breath, my fingers grasp the knob. It turns easily, with silent approval, as though it understands the significance of this seemingly small action.
I climb the stairs with practiced careful steps. Whereas my bedroom feels cold and empty, Peeta's bedroom feels warm and inviting, like the first warm breaths of spring. It's been so long since I've been inside this space that I forgot the peaceful and calming sensations it brings. Paintings hang on the walls. There are books precariously stacked on a dresser, shoes neatly lined against the wall by the closet door, and a blanket folded over the arm of a plush chair with a worn shirt and jeans tossed on top. A collection of paints and brushes are huddled together on a side table next to an easel propped up by an open window with a view of the meadow and mountains in the east. Cream color curtains brush gently against the partially finished canvas on the easel, their movement brought on by the night air filtering through the window.
Moonlight spills across the bed, bathing it in a silvery glow, highlighting Peeta's sleeping form. Despite the scars we both carry and the demons that I know plague him as much as they do me, his face is peaceful, his breathing even. His lips are parted ever so slightly, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He's dreaming, but it doesn't look like a nightmare. Suddenly, I feel guilty. And frustrated. I should turn around and go back to my own house, to my own bed. I shouldn't wake him. I shouldn't desperately want to curl up beside him and breathe in that sugar and spice scent that belongs only to him. I shouldn't be longing for his kind eyes and the curve of his smile that seemed to hold a secret warmth reserved only for me.
"Peeta," I whisper, but he doesn't move. I hesitate between the now immense distance of the doorframe and the bed, afraid to step forward, afraid to leave. Each step forward seems like reaching into the expanse of a memory: loaves of bread in the rain, shared glances, words left unsaid, words that should've never been spoken, staged kisses, and kisses that brought on a hunger of a different kind.
With my stubbornly unruly pulse thundering in my ears, I wipe my sweaty palms across my shirt and approach the bed. The wooden planks beneath my feet creak softly with each step, making my heart stutter and my breath catch in my throat. I pause at the edge of his mattress. The quilt is a patchwork of colors, a representation of the sky at dusk, a silent testament to the hands that have created it—hands that have saved and taken lives, kneaded dough, and painted beautiful and terrible things. Like the layers of Peeta himself, its complex, fascinating, and comforting.
You once said you loved me. Is that still true?
Will you still stay with me?
The questions hang between heartbeats, questions of permission, or perhaps forgiveness, for all the space I've placed between us until now.
There's something almost sacred in pulling back the covers, an invasion into the privacy of his bed, his room, and him. But the need to be close to him, to ensure this isn't another dream ending in the shriek of a siren or the chill of loss, pushes my hand forward. As stealthily as I can, I slip beneath the quilt.
"Katniss?" His voice, groggy with sleep, wraps around my name like it's something precious he's afraid to lose.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I didn't want to wake you. You can go back to sleep. I just needed…to…not be alone right now."
"S'okay. Nightmare?"
I nod, a confession that needs no further explanation. He knows; he always knows.
"Come here," he says softly, and it's more than just an offer—it's a lifeline, a kindness, an act of forgiveness.
I move closer, finding that familiar spot tucked against his side, my head on his chest. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the cool air. It's magnetic. I can't help but snuggle in closer. His arm is strong and steady around me, and I'm flooded with tattered memories of nights just like this one. I release a shaky breath.
"Better?" Peeta's breath is warm against my hair, and his fingers a gentle pressure as he draws aimless patterns on my back.
I hum in agreement, too overwhelmed to say anything else yet. Instead, I allow myself the small luxury of the feel of him next to me and the sound of his heartbeat against my ear. We stay quiet, watching the curtains dance in and out of the window as the autumn air outside rushes through the pine needles and dying leaves. Slowly, my breathing and pulse begin to match Peeta's. The trembling in my body fades away with each careful movement of his hand. I don't know how much time passes, but he never wavers in his grip on me or his allowance of me in his bed.
Unwavering, loyal, selfless. He's still the Peeta I once knew.
When I finally feel brave enough, I turn to him, our faces close enough that his breath mingles with mine. "Does it ever stop? The memories?"
"Sometimes," he whispers, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, deep pools of sapphire. "But not always. Especially when I'd really like them to. Reminds me of our prep teams. They never knew when it was time to leave." His lips quirk into a soft smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
I nod and attempt to smile in return, feeling the echo of laughter from days long gone, the ghosts of our former selves lingering in the corners of this very room. "I keep thinking about the woods—the freedom. But even there, I'm not free, not really. Everything and everywhere feels haunted."
"Freedom's a tricky thing." He shifts slightly so that his hand can brush away a strand of hair that has fallen across my face. The touch is featherlight, yet it sears into my skin, branding me with a warmth that radiates far beyond the physical. "It's more than just being able to do what you want. It's... peace, isn't it?"
"Is that something we can have? After everything?"
His fingers hover near my face, hesitant. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath before the fingers move to trace the curve of my jaw, his thumb gliding across my bottom lip. His eyes never leave mine, a silent artist capturing the contours of a subject known by heart. "We have to try, Katniss. That's all we can do."
"What if trying isn't enough?"
"We've been through hell. But look at us. Still here. Still fighting. We get up every day. We go through the motions. It's not easy. Maybe it never will be. But it's trying. Maybe that's our real victory."
I allow the truth of his words to take root in my mind. There is a beauty to our brokenness, a testament to our resilience. In this room, with Peeta, I can let myself dream about the wholeness and peace that might be. And the different ways in which we might find it. I lay my head back against his chest, tightening my grip around his middle.
"Tomorrow," he continues, his lips brushing the top of my hair, "we'll face whatever comes. One day at a time. One step at a time. But tonight, let's just be us. All the good things, the bad things, the messiness, and mistakes."
"Us," I confirm.
"Always us."
I breathe into the stillness; the darkness around us is no longer empty and fearsome but a canvas waiting for us to paint our hopes on it. Wrapped in Peeta's arms, my horrors and traumas are not erased but shared, made bearable by hope and possibility. I fall asleep and dream of dandelions in spring.