Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June

I have a few minutes to kill before I’m supposed to meet Delly in town, so I stop by the bakery. Peeta’s back in the kitchen kneading a batch of dough and listening as I tell him about a funny encounter I had in the woods this morning with a family of ducks. Though I’m not sure he’s actually listening; he’s staring at my breasts with something of a glazed look in his eyes and occasionally making noises of assent. 

“...and then a bear came out of nowhere and ate all of the baby ducks! Every last one of them,” I lie dramatically.

“Wow, that’s crazy,” Peeta says distractedly.

That does it. I snap my fingers in front of his face and he jolts slightly.

“Excuse me, my eyes are up here,” I scold him.

“Yeah, they’re gray, I’ve seen them thousands of times,” Peeta says, still shamelessly ogling my chest.

I tilt his face upwards so he’s forced to look in my eyes. “You’ve seen those plenty of times, as well,” I remind him.

Peeta chuckles then grabs my waist and pulls me into a long kiss. When we pull apart, his eyes dart downward again momentarily.

“That shirt’s really working for you,” he whispers.

“It seems more like it’s working for you .” 

“It really is,” he groans, burying his face in my neck.

Peeta finally abandons all pretenses of work and gently but urgently pushes my back against a wall to continue his ministrations. I indulge him for a few moments before reluctantly pulling away.

“What has gotten into you?” I ask

“I’m ovulating,” Peeta whines.

This shocks a laugh out of me. Unfortunately, Ember chooses this exact moment to walk back into the kitchen and lets out a startled laugh of her own that she really tries to cover with a cough before turning on her heel and walking straight back to the front of the bakery.

“No, that’s me,” I remind Peeta in a whisper. “And don’t make me regret teaching you that term.”

“Wait, are you?” Peeta asks with a tilt of his head.

“Am I what?”

Ovulating, he mouths, as Shiloh comes back from his break and resumes his station on the other end of the kitchen.

“I think so,” I shrug.

A lot of the baby-making process, I’ve learned, is just guesswork. And especially since I can count on one hand the number of periods I’ve had in my life that were unhindered by starvation, trauma, or birth control, I’m quickly learning I know very little about my own cycle.

“Well then what are we doing here?” Peeta asks.

“You were doing your job before you decided to revert back to being a horny teenager,” I remind him under my breath.

“Yeah, right. I had way more control back then,” he scoffs.

I shake my head at him, amused. 

“When will you get off?” I ask. Peeta raises his eyebrows. “Of work!” I clarify, smacking him lightly on the arm. “Get a grip, Mellark.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Peeta retorts while grabbing my waist and giving a tight squeeze.

“I’m just surprised you’re not sick of me yet,” I say.

For almost three months we’ve been trying to get pregnant. And even though I already considered our sex life fairly healthy before, it’s bordering on ridiculous now. 

“Never,” Peeta whispers, leaning down to nibble on my ear.

“Can the two of you do your foreplay somewhere else?” Shiloh complains. I had already forgotten he was here. “It’s getting weird.”

“Sorry, I forgot about your delicate sensibilities,” Peeta says with an eye-roll. As if we haven’t spent the past decade and a half watching Shiloh seduce any girl with a pulse.

“It’s not me you have to worry about. You’re upsetting the dough,” Shiloh says.

“Tell the dough not to worry, I’m supposed to go meet Delly to run some errands,” I say, much to Peeta’s disappointment. “When will you be home?”

Peeta shrugs. “Couple hours?” 

“Alright, see you later,” I say, going up on my toes to kiss him. Then I whisper in his ear exactly what I plan on doing with him when we get home before throwing a sweet smile over my shoulder as I walk out the back door of the bakery.

July

For the past fifteen years, the first weekend of July has meant the annual summer festival in District Twelve. There are games for the kids and merchants set up booths with samples and special seasonal offerings. There’s a dance floor that gets more and more lively as the night goes on. And there’s always summer festival punch.

The festival punch and I have a long and complicated history. The first year of the festival, I didn’t realize the punch was spiked until it was too late to turn back. I don’t remember much of that year, but Peeta said I danced a lot. Another year I got drunk on purpose and ended up crying because I thought Peeta was going to leave me over not wanting kids.

That year feels like a completely different lifetime now, as I triple check to make sure the cups I’m grabbing are the non-alcoholic variety. Despite the rocky years, I typically do enjoy indulging in one cup of the fun stuff every year, and it’s become a tradition for Haymitch and me to drink together at the start of the festival while Peeta’s running the bakery’s booth. But this year, I have to make an exception.

When I hand Haymitch his cup, he takes a sip and then frowns at it like it personally wronged him.

“You gave me the kiddy stuff,” he grumbles.

“It’s the exact same punch without the alcohol, it’s nice to surprise your liver every now and then,” I shoot back. “I’m not drinking the spiked stuff this year, so if you want it you can walk your ass over to the table and get it yourself.”

He gives a grunt of disapproval and takes another sip. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

I know better than to lie to the only other person who can see through me as well as Peeta, so instead I change the topic. “I should find Delly soon, have you seen her?”

Haymitch raises his eyebrows. “Are you knocked up?” he asks bluntly.

“No,” I say in as flat of a voice as I can muster. His face calls bullshit. “I could be, I don’t know yet. Don’t say anything.”

“Who would I tell, my geese?” 

“You can tell them, I’m more concerned about your frequent calls with Effie Trinket.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes. We sip our punch in silence for a moment.

“You seem…surprisingly calm about this,” he notes.

“It’s not exactly an unplanned thing,” I mumble.

There are very few things that genuinely surprise Haymitch, but this is one of them.

“How long until you know for sure?” he asks once he’s recovered from the shock.

I shrug. “About a week?”

“Just in time for the boy’s birthday,” Haymitch notes with a tiny smirk.

I have to admit, I’ve got a good feeling about this month, especially with the potential likelihood that I could announce a pregnancy to Peeta on his birthday.

The first thing I do when I go to the bathroom on the morning of Peeta’s thirty-fourth birthday is take a pregnancy test. The required five minutes of wait time tick by incredibly slowly, but eventually the screen flashes the words Not Pregnant at me. I brush it off as best I can. It’s still early in the day, and I’m not even technically late yet.

Still, I take another test when Peeta leaves to put in a few hours at the bakery (despite my protests that he shouldn’t work on his birthday). I take a third while Peeta’s asleep after making love all afternoon. Then a fourth right before dinner. All four flash me the same, disappointing result.

“Are you okay? You seem quiet,” Peeta says as we’re walking hand-in-hand on our way to meet Cambric and Haymitch for dinner in town.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. I was just…kind of hoping I could give you something special for your birthday,” I admit.

“What are you talking about? I thought the gift you gave me this afternoon was very special,” Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. “I mean a different gift. The…anticipated result of this afternoon’s activities.”

“Ohhh,” Peeta understands with a chuckle. “Well, the day’s not over yet. Maybe we can take a test tonight just for fun.”

I shake my head. “I’ve already taken four today, I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Sorry,” Peeta says with a sad little smile.

“It’s not your fault,” I shrug.

“It’s definitely half my fault, unless there’s something you need to tell me?” Peeta adds with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, shoot, I was going to wait to tell you about my secret affair until after your birthday,” I tease.

“Damn. I should be mad, but honestly I’m just impressed you have the stamina for an affair on top of all of the sex we’re having,” Peeta says.

I stop him right in the middle of the road to kiss him. “Never, ever. You know that, right? I only have eyes for you,” I tell him.

August

My period came early this month. Early . I wake up to bloodstains on our bedsheets I wasn’t prepared for and face the disappointment of yet another month with no baby. Even worse, I think this means I wasn’t ovulating when I thought I was. I didn’t even stand a chance.

It’s going to be one of the bad days, I know it. Peeta left bright and early for the opening shift at the bakery this morning, so there’s no one to make me get out of bed. No one to make me go through my list of good things. I’m free to burrow myself under the covers and indulge the downward spiral of my thoughts.

Hunger gnaws at my belly, but I make no attempt to eat. Dandelion, our fat orange cat, repeatedly nudges at me with her head. Somewhere downstairs the phone rings. It stops. It rings again. That’ll be Peeta. I should answer it to let him know I’m not doing well. Instead I fall back asleep.

When I wake up, Peeta’s beside me, stroking my hair. I can smell fresh bread and I immediately sit up and take a cheese bun from the plate now resting on my bedside table. It’s still warm.

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re feeling this low,” Peeta chides.

“The phone’s too far away,” I say.

“Then I’ll have another one installed in here,” Peeta says firmly. “I need to know that you can get ahold of me when there’s a problem. Especially once we have a baby.”

“Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing my body’s decided I’m unfit to be a mother,” I spit out.

Then, for the first time since we started trying, I cry. Peeta holds me and whispers reassurances to me. That what I said isn’t true. That these things take time. That he loves me so, so much.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper once I’ve pulled myself together.

“It’s okay. I get it, love, it’s okay to be disappointed,” Peeta says.

“Why isn’t it happening, Peeta?” I ask in frustration.

“I don’t know, it might just take a little longer for some people,” he shrugs.

“We’ve waited fifteen years, how much longer is it going to take?”

Peeta looks at me with amusement written all over his face. “Oh really? We’ve waited fifteen years?”

“You know what I meant,” I mumble, pulling my knees up to my chest. “What if I took too long to decide? What if I’m too old and too broken and this never happens for us?”

“Katniss,” Peeta says sternly. “You’re not old. You’re not broken. And this is going to happen.”

I sigh, dropping my head onto his shoulder.

“How are you so patient?” I complain.

Peeta gives a soft laugh. “I guess I just believe that most things usually work out in the end, you know? Even the worst moments of my life–the arenas, the hijacking–they brought us here. They brought me you ,” he adds, lightly nudging my shoulder with his. “So I have to believe that maybe this is taking longer than we expected for a reason. And someday we’re going to be holding our child and this will all make sense.”

Another tear rolls down my face and Peeta presses his lips to my forehead.

“I think I like the world better through your eyes,” I admit. 

“Well, alright, that answer just sounded nicer than my real answer,” Peeta says.

“Which is…?” I ask with intrigue.

“That I’m selfish.”

I burst out laughing. “Peeta, you’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met.” 

“No, I’m serious. Look, I want this baby just as much as you do. But it’s going to change everything and take a lot of our attention away from each other. So, yes, I’m selfish. I want all of your attention while it’s still mine, and if it takes a few extra months, so be it.”

September

I try not to think about it anymore. I try to focus on what Peeta said that day in August about being selfish. I decide to be selfish, too. To cherish the things I’ll miss when we become parents.

I show up at the bakery one morning with a backpack packed for us to play hooky and spend a weekend at the lake. Peeta pops by the house on his lunch break with a bouquet of flowers and fresh cheese buns.

For the first time in months, I feel lighter. We’re still trying, of course, but it no longer feels like work. It feels joyful to engage in some spontaneity after months of tracking calendars and trying to get the timing exactly right. To give each other our full attention, while it’s still undivided. And if all this attention leads to our ultimate goal of having a baby, even better.

October

Peeta’s working the front counter when I enter the bakery. I scoot around the short line and duck behind the counter.

“Hi,” says Peeta, giving me a quick peck on the lips, “Shouldn’t you still be hunting?”

“Not a lot of activity today,” I shrug. The truth is that I’m so exhausted I can barely stand, but I don’t want to worry him. “Do you need any help around here?” I ask.

“Yeah, actually, if you’re able. Ember’s got a stomach bug so I’ve been short on hands all morning,” Peeta says gratefully. 

“I resent that comment,” Cambric says in mock offense. He lost his hand in a factory accident over a decade ago. His friendship with Peeta is built on a firm foundation of amputation humor.

Peeta laughs, then continues to me, “I’ve got a batch of sourdough in the back that should be ready for kneading.”

“You’ve got it, boss,” I say with a wink. I happen to know that Peeta really enjoys it when I call him boss around the bakery. I also slap his ass as I walk away, for good measure.

I start working with the dough, one of the only things I can be trusted to not screw up in the bakery. After a minute, I start to feel my eyelids grow heavy, and I decide to close my eyes as I continue to knead. 

A few moments later I feel a hand on my lower back, causing me to jump. Peeta’s suddenly standing next to me with a bemused look on his face. I don’t know how he managed to sneak up on me, he’s still so loud when he walks even though he thinks it’s gotten better over the years.

“You just fell asleep,” he says incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m standing here kneading dough,” I scoff.

“Yeah, and I’ve been standing next to you for two minutes watching you stand here clearly asleep,” he says. Oh. That would explain why I didn’t hear him.

“Just because I closed my eyes doesn’t mean I was asleep,” I say stubbornly.

Peeta rests the back of his hand against my forehead, checking for a fever. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine, I’m just tired,” I say, annoyed.

“You slept well last night, though, didn’t you?” he asks with a frown.

I nod. “Maybe I’m finally getting that growth spurt I’ve been waiting on,” I joke, bringing myself up to my full height. 

Peeta laughs. “Why don’t you go lay down in the office?” he suggests. “Rory starts his shift in an hour, so then I’ll be able to play catch-up from this morning.”

“Peeta,” I say slowly, “if Ember’s sick, should her husband really be coming in and infecting the rest of the staff?”

Peeta’s shoulders sag with this realization. “I’m going to be here all day, aren’t I?”

“I can help as much as I can,” I offer.

“No, Katniss, you look exhausted. Go lay down, maybe I’ll take you up on the offer to help when you wake up.”

I want nothing more than to lay down on the plush couch in the bakery’s office at this moment, but I insist on at least finishing kneading this batch of dough before I go to sleep. I’m careful to keep my eyes open for the rest of the time.

Once I crash on the couch, I’m down for the count. I wake up several times throughout the afternoon, but only to stumble to the bathroom then land back on the couch. When Peeta takes his lunch break he sits with me and manages to coax me awake enough to eat a ham and cheese sandwich with him. I keep thinking eventually I’ll wake up and be able to continue my day, but I’m just so damn tired I keep falling back asleep instead.

“Honey,” says Peeta, gently shaking me awake, “it’s time to go home.”

“What time is it?” I mutter.

“It’s almost five,” says Peeta. He’s been here twelve hours and I’ve managed to sleep through the majority of them.

We stop by the little soup and sandwich shop around the corner, since both of us are decidedly too tired to cook tonight. Dinner is a quiet affair, Peeta keeps glancing at me as if I’m about to fall asleep into my bowl of soup. I stay awake, but I’m not very hungry. The soup shop’s an old standby for us on nights like tonight, and their cheddar potato soup has never failed me, but I find that tonight I can barely stomach the stuff. 

“What’s going on with you?” Peeta finally asks. There’s a hint of frustration in his voice, but mostly it’s just concern.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Just not very hungry tonight, I guess.”

“Is something bothering you?” he asks.

“No, I really don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” I say honestly, “I’m just all out of sorts.”

“Could it…have something to do with your cycle?” he asks delicately. “That hasn’t happened yet this month, right?”

“No, it did. A couple weeks ago. It was a weird short one, though,” I frown. 

And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion, the change in appetite. Could I be…no. I don’t want to think about it yet. If I still feel off tomorrow I’ll take one of the tests upstairs. Until then, there’s no point in getting either of us all worked up yet.

“It could be related, I guess,” I continue with a shrug. 

We both go to bed right after dinner. Peeta has another long day at the bakery tomorrow, and I’m still so tired.

When I open my eyes I’m standing in the clock arena, waiting for the minute to be up. There’s an odd sense of familiarity within me, like I know what’s coming. That is, until I look down and see the baby, fast asleep and strapped to my chest. Panic overtakes me. I can’t swim like this and if I can’t swim I can’t get to the weapons. I can’t protect us, and it’s my job to project her and Peeta. Peeta! Where is he? 

When the gong rings I stand on my platform paralyzed with indecision and confusion. We’re too vulnerable like this, but what else can I do? I wrap my arms around the baby, shielding her as best I can. I look around the circle for my husband, but he’s out of sight. No, not my husband. That was just for the audience, right? But then again so was the baby, and yet here she is. I’m trying to puzzle out what’s going on when Peeta swims up to my platform.

“Hello, again,” he says, giving both me and the baby a kiss. “You go get your weapons, I’ll take her and meet you on the beach.” Before I can work through what he’s said he’s taken the sling from me and now has the baby on his chest. I follow his instructions even though somewhere in my mind I know this doesn’t make sense.

When I arrive at the beach, armed with my bow and arrows and several knives, I follow Peeta and Finnick and Annie into the jungle. Annie? No, not Annie. Mags. It should be Mags. Annie’s in District 4 with her son. Her son…Suddenly I turn to Peeta and realize the baby’s gone. I’m about to question him when I hear her wailing. Loud, healthy newborn cries coming from deep in the jungle. I take off running without a second thought.

I realize too late that it’s the Jabberjays, that I’m now trapped here hearing my baby cry without knowing where she is. I’m pounding against the invisible wall, crying out for Peeta, for anyone, for someone to please find her. It’s useless, I know, but when I fall to the ground I see someone in my peripheral vision. 

There, right on the other side of the wall, sits Prim. She’s carefully cradling the baby in her arms. The cries from the Jabberjays start to fade, and I can see that the baby is safe. Happy even, captivated by Prim as she coos over her little niece. Suddenly Prim looks up at me with the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen. That smile I haven’t seen in so long.

“Prim?” I choke out. Despite the wall between us we can hear each other clearly, I guess.

“Katniss, she’s perfect,” says Prim, still beaming. “I wish I could meet her.”

This confuses me. “Prim, you’re holding her now,” I tell her.

She shakes her head, and for a moment her smile fades to something sad, and she looks older than she ever got to be. 

But then she smiles again, and whispers, “You’re going to make a great mother, you know.” 

And then the parachutes fall. 

“Katniss! It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe,” says Peeta desperately. I’m screaming and he’s holding me. “Katniss, can you hear me? It was a dream. You’re safe now.”

“I know,” I mutter, shaking myself free of the nightmare but facing a new challenge. I try to swallow down the wave of nausea rolling up from my belly, but it’s no use. “Peeta,” I try to warn him, “I think I’m about to–”

In the last possible second Peeta understands and shoves the bedroom wastebasket under my mouth. He holds it there while I empty the contents from my stomach. With his other hand he gathers my loose hair from around my face, pulling it out of the way. When I’m finally done I slump against him. He continues stroking my hair for several minutes.

“Well that explains some things, huh?” Peeta says lightly.

Peeta, you have no idea, I think.

“Think it’s done?” he asks eventually.

“For now at least,” I mumble.

“I’ll go clean this up,” he says, taking the bin from my hands. I cringe, it’s bad enough he had to watch me vomit, he shouldn’t have to clean it up too.

“Let me do that,” I say feebly. 

He chuckles a little and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Not a chance, love.”

Peeta takes the wastebasket to the bathroom down the hall, leaving our bathroom open in case I have to bolt again. Forget finding out in the morning, I need to be sure about this right now. 

I’ve taken enough of these tests to know the drill by now. I quickly do my business and leave the stick face down on the counter. Five minutes, I think, just five minutes. Peeta knocks on the door asking if I’m alright. I tell him yes, that I’m just freshening up a bit, and ask him to get me a glass of water, please.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, rebraid my hair. Why don’t we have a clock in here? I think. I realize I’m shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from the dream or the vomiting, or the little plastic stick on the counter that could change our lives forever. Maybe I should take this with Peeta, but my gut is telling me this is one I’m going to want to process on my own first.

My mind is reeling and I still think there’s at least a minute left until the test is ready. I try to focus my mind with the old tried and true method. Start with what you know to be true, and move toward what’s more complicated.

My name is Katniss Mellark. My home is District Twelve. I am married to Peeta Mellark. We’ve been together for fifteen years. I love him more than anything. We were in the Hunger Games. There are no more Hunger Games. We’re trying to have a baby. I want to have a baby. 

I steal my nerve and flip over the stick. I add one more thing to the list. The most complicated of them all.

We are having a baby. 

I don’t know how long I just stare at it. It’s finally the sound of Peeta’s feet shuffling across our bedroom that brings me back to reality. I shove the stick back in the wrapper and put it back in the box with the others. I don’t want Peeta to see it before I tell him. I feel weirdly disconnected from my body as I glide out of the bathroom and back into bed.

“Small sips,” Peeta reminds me as he hands me the glass of water. I nod numbly. Absentmindedly sip my water as I watch Peeta remove his prosthetic and get settled back under the covers. I should tell him now, right? He deserves to know, he’s been waiting so long for this. Just two words. I’m pregnant . 

Oh my god, I’m pregnant.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently. I burst into tears.

They’re ugly, hysterical tears. Peeta takes the glass from me and pulls me tight against his chest. “Oh, Katniss,” he murmurs into my hair. “Is this about the nightmare or getting sick?”

“All of it,” I sob.

Peeta continues to soothe me but instead of calming down I just get more hysterical. It’s just her hormones, from the baby, I hear Finnick’s voice in my head and I almost laugh. But then I remember that Finnick’s dead, and I remember the dream, and I think about Prim holding our baby she’ll never meet and I lose it again.

“I couldn’t save her, Peeta,” I cry out, “I couldn’t save her, I watched her die!” I don’t really know if by her I mean Prim or the baby. The baby, who is no longer an image in a dream but a real flesh and blood creature in my body. Another person I have to protect. Another person I could fail to protect.

“I know, Katniss, I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“It could happen again. Peeta, what if it happens again?” I’m nearly yelling now. 

I feel Peeta tense up beneath me. “Katniss, Prim is…”

“DEAD! I know she’s dead Peeta!” I shout before breaking into another round of hysterics. 

“Shh,” he hushes soothingly, “I just meant she’s somewhere where she can’t be hurt anymore. You don’t have to worry about her suffering, now.”

I cry into his chest some more, racked with grief and anxiety. I marvel at the unceasing patience of my husband. His steadiness while I’m such a wreck. 

“I can’t do this,” I say in a small voice.

“Do what, Katniss?” he asks. But no, I can’t tell him now. Not like this. Not when he’s wanted this for so long.

“I need you,” I say, desperately clutching at his shirt. “Peeta, I need you. I need you.” And then I start hyperventilating. 

He tilts my chin up so I’m looking right into his baby blue eyes. “Katniss, look at me. I’m right here. Always.” He pulls me as tight as he can to him. “I’ve got you. I’m right here, Katniss. Count my heartbeats if you need to, just focus on that.”

It’s an old technique he uses when I’m especially hard to calm down after a nightmare, but it’s effective. With my ear pressed to his heart, I begin to count the beats until my breathing is back in check and the tears seem to be done for good.

“Kind of fast,” I mutter, dropping a kiss over his heart.

“Yeah, well, you’re scaring the hell out of me,” he responds.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Please, tell me what I’m missing here,” he pleads.

I shake my head. “Tomorrow, I promise. Right now I really just want to sleep.” It’s like all the energy has been zapped from my body. 

He kisses my forehead. “You should roll over. I read somewhere that laying on your left side is better for digestion, might help you not to get sick again,” he says.

I stare up at him and let out a puff of laughter. He’s going to be such a good father.

“What?” he asks indignantly.

“I just love you so much,” I laugh, placing one more kiss onto his heart before rolling over onto my other side.

Peeta follows suit, laying against my back and enveloping me in his warmth. When he drapes his arm over my waist, I interlock our fingers. Under the guise of shifting to get more comfortable, I move our hands so his palm rests right over the spot where our baby is.

Chapter Text

I wake up to the reintroduction of Peeta’s weight on the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and lightly rubs my back. I yawn and roll over to face him, curling into his pillow. I frown at the realization that he’s fully dressed and about to leave for the bakery.

“Did I miss breakfast?” I ask with another yawn. He shakes his head while he lightly pushes back the hair from my forehead.

“No, I did,” he says. I frown again, I can’t even remember the last time Peeta hasn’t gotten up in time to make breakfast. “I’ll grab something at the bakery,” he reassures me, then adds, “There’s a couple cheese buns left if you feel up to it.” 

It takes me a moment to remember the events of last night. The nightmare, the vomiting, the baby.

The baby!

I’m suddenly struck with guilt, first at the thought that Peeta doesn’t know I’m pregnant yet, then at the realization that he probably slept so poorly out of concern for me. 

“There wasn’t enough time for me to find someone to cover this morning. I’ll just open up then call around to see if anyone can come in so I can come home for you,” he says. 

Tuesdays are the only day Peeta works the bakery entirely alone, although most weeks I end up joining him. Tuesdays are consistently quiet days at the bakery, so Peeta gives it as a day off for his employees. 

“No, you should stay there. I’m feeling a little better. I’ll sleep a bit more but then I can meet you at the bakery,” I say.

He looks at me skeptically. “Katniss, you should really rest.”

“I’m fine, Peeta. Really,” I say genuinely. Despite my panic last night, this morning I cautiously allow myself to feel just a little excited. I smile up at him. “I think it’s going to be a good day.”

A small, concerned smile tugs at his lips as he checks my face for a fever. When he finds none, he frowns as he leans down and presses a lingering kiss to my forehead. He murmurs that he’ll be right back, and returns moments later with the phone and our last two remaining cheese buns. He sets these up, along with the wastebasket, within my reach then kisses my forehead again. 

“Why don’t you call me when you wake up, and we’ll see how you’re feeling?” he says.

I nod. It's a compromise I can live with for now, already my eyelids are getting so heavy again. I feel his lips against my face one more time before I’m pulled under.

I wake up again a few hours later. I could easily fall back asleep, but I don’t want to spend the next several months sleeping. I guess I need to start getting used to being tired. I tentatively start to work on a cheese bun and run my hand along my mostly flat stomach (fifteen years of being married to a baker have added padding to my body that I wasn’t afforded in my youth).

Pregnant. I can’t believe it. After all these months of trying I was so focused on the getting pregnant part of it that I didn’t really think about actually being pregnant. I know one of the books Dr. Aurelius sent a long time ago gives a pretty thorough breakdown of what to expect, so I’ll have to track that down again. And Delly’s on her fourth pregnancy right now, I’m sure she’ll be a good resource too. And my mother, of course. I just have to work up the nerve to tell her. She’ll probably be the first person I tell after Peeta.

Peeta. My wonderful, patient, adoring husband. I’m contemplating all the ways I can break the news to him when I remember I was supposed to call when I woke up. He’s probably been worried sick.

Peeta answers the phone after two rings. “Mellark’s Bakery, this is Peeta.”

“Mellark household, this is Katniss,” I respond. 

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” Peeta asks.

“Better. Much better,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” He sounds relieved. “Are you sure, because I can still call Shiloh and see if he can come in for the afternoon.”

“No, don’t bother him on his day off. If anything you could just close early, couldn’t you? Is it busy today?”

“Not really, normal morning rush but it’s been quiet since then.”

“Okay, I’ll come by around lunchtime.” I hear Peeta start to protest but I cut him off. “It’ll be good for me to move around and get some fresh air.”

He sighs. “If you’re sure. But if anything changes I’ll close up and come home.”

“Deal. I’ll see you soon, love you.”

“Love you too.”

After that I make myself get out of bed. I find the pregnancy test from last night just to double check that it wasn’t all a dream. Then I take two more, for good measure. When all three sticks confirm it I pull up my shirt and start examining my body in the mirror. I push my stomach out as far as it’ll go, then try to imagine it double or triple that size. I wonder how far along I am. I remember there’s some way to calculate it, it’s probably in that book I lost. 

I spend the next couple hours occupying myself until lunchtime and trying to get myself used to the idea of being pregnant. My hand keeps resting on my stomach even though there’s nothing different from the outside. I finally find the book under our bed where I vaguely recall kicking it in a moment of frustration. I calculate that I must be around six weeks. One look at the image of a six-week fetus is enough to make me slam the book shut out of fear. I can’t fully fathom the fact that there’s a tiny person growing inside me right now. I stuff the book in my bag, deciding to wait to read the rest of it until I’m with Peeta. 

I manage to hold down both cheese buns until I get to the kitchen. Peeta left out a can of the fancy Capitol cat food he insists on feeding Dandelion, and one whiff of it is enough to send me running to the bathroom.

“Hey,” I grumble at my stomach, “if you’re going to be part of this family you need to learn that we don’t waste cheese buns.” 

Pulling my shirt up over my nose, I wander around the kitchen looking for something to replenish the lost nutrients that won’t set my stomach off. Nothing seems to do the trick, so I finally head out towards the bakery in hopes that there will be something appetizing there.

I haven’t decided exactly how I’ll tell Peeta, but I’m sure it won’t matter. He’s wanted this so badly, for so long. He’ll probably cry. Who am I kidding? He’ll definitely cry.

I can see him behind the counter when I get to the bakery. His eyes light up for a moment, but by the time I’ve turned the closed sign and locked the door, his face has fallen.

“Katniss, you look awful.”

I scowl at him. “You used to be nicer.”

“I’m sorry. You’re beautiful, you’re always beautiful. You just sounded like you were feeling better on the phone, but you still look very sick,” he explains.

I shrug. “I must look worse than I feel, really, I feel okay right now.”

“And you haven’t thrown up again?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.

“No…” I say avoiding his gaze. “Not more than once at least,” I mutter.

“Katniss!” he groans. “I told you if you’re still sick I’d come home.”

“But I’m not sick ,” I say petulantly.

He gapes at me incredulously. “You’re not sick?” I shake my head stubbornly. “Let’s recall the events of the past twenty-four hours, shall we? You’ve fallen asleep on your feet, slept almost an entire day away, barely eaten anything, and vomited at least twice.”

Well when he puts it like that, it seems obvious, really. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to understand. Then I start to realize he’s not going to put this together on his own. How could he? He’s never had any reason to learn these early pregnancy symptoms that are staring him in the face. The fact that Ember had a stomach bug doesn’t help matters either.

I can’t help the little smirk that comes across my face. The idea that he has no idea what’s coming makes me even more eager to tell him.

“I’m not sick, Peeta. But…I can see where you’re coming from,” I concede, “I mean, I’d probably think that too…” 

I steal one final second to take him in, to see my Peeta for the last moment in his life where he is not a father. I take a deep breath and tell him.

“...if it weren’t for the baby.”

I watch his reaction roll over his face in waves: confusion, recognition, understanding. 

“Katniss?” he finally whispers, nearly inaudibly. 

I beam at him, nodding my head emphatically. “We’re having a baby, Peeta.”

The next thing I know I am in his arms. He pulls me into a firm kiss, although he can hardly maintain it for long because he’s smiling so wide. When he pulls back I can see the tears streaming down his face.

“We’re having a baby?” he confirms.

“Yeah,” I say, running my fingers through the loose curls on his forehead. “That’s still okay with you, right?”

“I’ll allow it,” Peeta says with a noise that’s half laugh, half sob.

Then he grabs me firmly by the waist and lifts me into the air as he spins us around.

“Peeta, put me down,” I groan urgently.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wide-eyed, “Do you think that’s bad for the baby?”

I roll my eyes at him. “I’m sure the baby’s fine, it’s your nauseous pregnant wife that can’t handle spinning right now.”

He gives me a sheepish look, but it shifts into another wide grin almost immediately.

“You’re pregnant ,” he says in awe.

“I know,” I say, smiling at him.

“And you’re happy about this?” he asks cautiously.

“I’m happy,” I say. “I mean, I’m also terrified and nauseous and so tired. But yes, happy’s in there too.”

“How long have you known?” he asks.

“I took the test when I went to the bathroom last night,” I admit.

His face falls. “Ah.”

“What?”

“You’re not happy.”

“I am!” I insist. “I’m sorry I wasn’t jumping for joy after vomiting my guts out and watching my little sister explode for the thousandth time. I warned you, Peeta, I’m still going to be scared. I’m probably going to be scared every second for the rest of my life that something will hurt her, but–”

“Her?” Peeta asks in a choked voice, eyes filling up with tears again.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I laugh. “Those tests are high tech, but not that high tech. It was just a girl in my dream last night, sorry, that must’ve slipped out.”

“Oh, okay,” Peeta chuckles. Then he pulls me into his arms and holds me tight against his chest. We stay that way for a long time, the two of us locked in an embrace. The three of us , I realize. 

“We’re having a baby,” I whisper in his ear, happy tears finally starting to fall down my cheeks.

“I know,” Peeta says with so much joy in his voice. “Is it weird if I kiss your stomach?”

“No, you’re welcome to,” I laugh. “It doesn’t look any different yet, though.”

“I don’t care,” Peeta mumbles as he pulls me back into the kitchen. Then he squats down, lifts my shirt, and plants a long kiss just below my bellybutton.

I let out another laugh. “Peeta, I think the baby’s a lot lower than that.”

He tries again, this time considerably closer to where I think my uterus is. “Welcome to the team, little one,” he whispers against my skin.

“I don’t think it has ears yet,” I tell him. It’s all I can do to stop myself from crying again.

Peeta looks up at me with a scowl. “I’m having a moment here. Please refrain from telling me anything else I’m doing wrong.” 

“Carry on,” I say, biting my lip to keep from laughing any more. 

Peeta continues for a few minutes, telling our ear-less baby how much they’re loved and how excited we are to meet them. He could probably go on for hours–and I expect he will in the months to come–but then my stomach growls right in his face and he returns his attention back up to me.

“You said you threw up again,” he realizes as he stands, concern etched into his expression. “We need to get some food in you.”

We head back to the front and I look over the display case with disdain. Even some of my favorite foods don’t seem appetizing to me.

“I guess I’ll try cheese buns again,” I shrug. “Oh, and you need to feed Dandelion somewhere else for a while.”

Peeta eats lunch across from me at the counter. I retrieve the pregnancy book from my bag and, with his hand tightly interlocked with mine, we begin reading about week six then go back and catch up on our baby’s development up until now. 

“Wow,” Peeta breathes out when we get back to week six. We’re both staring at the actual size illustration of a six-week fetus. The book compares it to the size of a pea. “It’s not very big.”

I shake my head. “Or particularly pretty,” I add, wrinkling my nose. I look up and find Peeta giving me an exasperated glare. I narrow my eyes back at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You love me, I have proof!” I say, pointing to my abdomen.

His expression softens into a boyish grin and he pulls our enjoined hands up to press his lips to the back of mine. “I do love you. So very much,” he says softly.

“I love you, too,” I say.

We smile at each other like lovesick fools for another moment, then Peeta lets out a sigh.

“Should we just head home or should I attempt to work the rest of the day like our entire lives didn’t just change?” he asks.

“Well either way, I’m taking a nap,” I declare. “It’s probably best to be as business-as-usual as we can, though. If you close the bakery people might have questions, and we can’t tell anyone for a while still,” I remind him.

“Good point. Will you stay here to sleep? I like having you near me,” he says.

I smile to myself. I have a feeling Peeta’s going to be very protective of me over the next eight months. As if he wasn’t protective already.

“Sure, I do all my best napping on that couch anyway,” I shrug. 

Peeta reluctantly goes and unlocks the front door and turns the sign. Then he digs through one of the cabinets up front and pulls out an old bucket usually used for cleaning.

“Here, just in case. Try not to vomit on the rug if you can avoid it,” he says.

“Thanks. Try not to cry on the customers,” I retort.

Peeta laughs. “No promises.”

I tilt my head up and he meets me in the middle as our lips crash together. We kiss until the bell over the door rings. We quickly pull apart, but I can’t say I’m that embarrassed. The town has long since gotten used to the two of us being unbearably affectionate with each other.

“Sleep well,” Peeta whispers. I give him a mock salute as I disappear into the back.

As I’m shutting the door to Peeta’s office, I hear him seriously undercharge the customer for her food. I laugh and rub my belly.

“It’s a good thing we’re not solely relying on your Daddy’s income to keep us fed,” I whisper.

Chapter Text

The weeks pass by in a blur of vomit and sleep. The first week was the worst; I barely ate anything and threw up what little I could get down. It scared the hell out of Peeta. We’ve both watched the other waste away far too many times for comfort.

But because he’s Peeta–endlessly patient and endearingly gentle–he hasn’t stopped working with me to make sure I get fed. I think I’ve eaten more sourdough toast in the past several weeks than I had for the sum of my life before getting pregnant, but now my food only comes back up about half of the time.

I tried hunting once but the smell of blood made me even sicker. So now I spend the majority of my time in the bakery where the smells are pleasant, Peeta can keep an eye on me, and I can sleep in his office whenever I want. Still, I’m getting a little bit stir crazy without the woods and I know it’ll only get worse. Winter is rapidly approaching, and come spring I’ll have to navigate maneuvering a baby belly around the woods.

Delly came in last week, which was nice. In theory. But in reality the entire visit was a bit of a downer. At thirty-eight weeks into her fourth pregnancy, she didn’t have many good things to say about the experience.

“What method of birth control do you use?” Delly asked me abruptly.

Peeta looked up from the counter and gave me a shake of his head that said stay strong .

“I’ve used a few different kinds over the years, are you looking for suggestions?” I answered, skirting the original question.

“Yeah. I’ve made it very clear to Briar that once this– ” she pointed at her bulging belly, “–comes out he will not be touching me until we’re one hundred percent certain this –” pointed again, “–will never happen again.”

“I thought you said pregnancy is a magical experience,” I said, quoting Delly’s cheerful musings from her past three pregnancies. 

“Well I was lying. There’s nothing magical about lugging this thing around and getting kicked in the ribs a thousand times a day,” Delly huffed.

Peeta walked over with sourdough toast for me and an apple tart for Delly. “I think you’ll change your tune once you’re holding that baby in your arms,” he said gently, smiling reassuringly at me over Delly’s shoulder.

“Oh, I know I will. That’s why I’m complaining now,” Delly huffed. “And answer the question,” she snapped at me.

“I always liked the shot. Lasts five years, virtually no side effects, and it makes your cycle less of a hassle,” I said. “They can’t say it’s a hundred percent effective but it pretty much is.”

“Why’d you stop then?” Delly asked with a mouthful of tart.

“Just wanted to try something different,” I shrugged.

Delly spent the rest of her visit venting about how miserable she felt and eating pastries. I spent it trying not to let her know how miserable I felt and swallowing down bile. When she left to go get the boys from school, Peeta came back to the table and let me lean my head back against his stomach.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” he mumbled. “She didn’t seem to have any problem with her appetite.”

“Something to look forward to, I guess,” I groaned.

For everyone’s sake, we were relieved to hear that Delly went into labor the next morning and delivered within four hours. Briar gave almost no information over the phone, just that Delly and baby were safe and healthy. I told Peeta that I’m certain it must be a girl based on how evasive they’ve been about giving information.

By week nine I’ve at least adjusted to feeling miserable all the time, even if I can do very little to change my circumstances. Peeta does a good job keeping track of my safe foods. My little baker’s baby seems to only want bread or bread-adjacent foods. I honestly can’t believe Haymitch hasn’t questioned the fact that we’ve had nothing but plain noodles with butter for the past two weeks of family dinners.

When Peeta gets home Saturday afternoon, it’s no surprise to either of us that I’m in the downstairs bathroom throwing up. He immediately kneels on the ground beside me and scoops my hair away from my face and over my shoulder. When I’m done, I throw my head back against him and begin to cry. Normally I can keep it together, but today I give in to the misery.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Peeta says while holding me.

“Yeah, I don’t really love feeling it either,” I mumble.

“I think you should call a doctor,” he says.

“I already did, they won’t see me until week twelve,” I say, wiping my tears.

“Did you tell them how sick you are?” he asks.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t qualify as an emergency. They said this is typical and to come in at week twelve unless it gets significantly worse.”

Peeta stands before helping me to my feet. He dampens a cloth with warm water and gently wipes my puffy eyes, then the corners of my mouth.

“Maybe you should call a different doctor,” he says.

“They all work for the same hospital, they’ll just tell me the same thing.”

“No, I mean, a different doctor,” he says pointedly.

Oh. My mother. We had decided early on that my mother would be our exception to not telling anyone before twelve weeks. But I keep putting off telling her. Partially because I want to revel in this little bubble we’re in where we’re the only ones who know about our child. But mostly I’m scared of losing the baby. I’m scared of losing the baby more than I’d ever dare admit outloud. 

As miserable as I’ve been, I also know I’ve never loved anything quite like this before. I’ve never felt such instantaneous hope from something that could be taken from me at any second. And I know it will crush me if it is. The less people there are to witness that, the better.

One look into Peeta’s pleading eyes reminds me that this isn’t just about me and what I want—although Peeta was the first to agree right off the bat that my comfort in this pregnancy is his top priority. But I have no right to be selfish when he’s looking this scared. I think about how helpless I feel when he’s sick, even if it’s just for a few days. I multiply that feeling by several weeks. Add a growing baby into the mix. No, if my mother has even one piece of advice that will help, it’s not fair to any of us for me to wait any longer.

“Fine, I’ll tell her when she calls tonight,” I promise.

Peeta breathes out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Anyway, if I have to talk to her again this week she’s going to know something’s up.”

That’s fair. My mother calls every Saturday, but I’m bad at lying and haven’t known how to talk about my week without revealing the pregnancy. So I’ve made Peeta answer the past two weeks in a row. The first time he said I was in the woods (a lie) and last week he told her I was sick (much more true).

When the phone rings at the usual time on Saturday evening, I feel suddenly nervous. Peeta gives me an encouraging smile and nod as I answer the phone and put it on speaker.

“Hi, mom,” I answer.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” my mother asks.

“The same, honestly. Pretty miserable,” I say.

“What are your symptoms?”

“Um…nausea, vomiting, low appetite, exhaustion,” I rattle off.

There’s a pause on the other end. Peeta smirks; we can both tell she’s figured it out already.

“When was the last time you took a pregnancy test?” she asks in as light of a tone as she can.

I laugh. “A few weeks ago. Want to know what it said?”

My mother lets out a mixture between a choked gasp and a laugh.

“We’re having a baby,” I confirm.

“Oh, Katniss!” she cries out.

“I’m here, too,” Peeta chimes in.

“I’m not talking to you, you lied to me for the past two weeks,” she admonishes him.

Peeta gasps. “She made me!” he says indignantly.

My mother laughs. “Congratulations, you two. How far along are you?”

“Around nine weeks,” I answer.

“Was this planned or a surprise?”

“It was planned,” I say.

“And are you…excited?” she asks cautiously.

“Yeah,” I say, then Peeta gives me a skeptical look. “I’ll be more excited once I stop vomiting all the time.”

My mother switches into doctor mode at that point, talking me through different potential remedies for my morning sickness from her combination of medical expertise and experience. I’m not all that surprised to learn that I gave her similar troubles during pregnancy, whereas Prim was a little angel. It tracks. 

Peeta asks her lots of questions concerning my nutrition. She assures us both that yes, a well balanced diet is important, but right now eating anything is better than eating nothing. Well, except for the foods I’m supposed to avoid. I know this from the book, but she still promises to send a list as well as a care package to help me get through the next several months.

When we hang up the phone, Peeta pulls me into his arms.

“See, don’t you feel better having told her?” he asks.

“I guess. Though I liked that we were the only ones who knew,” I add, rubbing my abdomen.

Peeta presses his hand on top of mine. “You’re not just our little secret anymore,” he says, looking down at my stomach.

“Still no ears,” I remind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Peeta says while squatting down to address my stomach directly. “I’m going to keep talking to you anyway, so when you get those ears I don’t miss a single day.” 

I laugh and run my hands through his curls as he lifts up my shirt and starts kissing my belly. It’s meant to be a tender moment for him and the baby, but almost immediately I start to feel greedy from the feel of him against my skin. We haven’t made love since finding out I’m pregnant. Not necessarily on purpose, just because I’ve been so sick. Three weeks without sex isn’t quite a record for us, but after months of being so hot and heavy it feels like it’s been ages.

“How soon will dinner be ready?” I ask, sounding a little breathier than I expect.

“I can speed it up, are you hungry?” he asks, standing up again.

“In a sense,” I say innocently, before taking his face in my hands and devouring his lips.

Needless to say, we end up having dinner much later than anticipated.

The next day the bakery’s closed and I get to enjoy a lazy morning with Peeta. We’ve started reading the next chapter of the baby book in bed together on Sunday mornings to prepare for the week ahead.

“A prune,” Peeta says, estimating the size of our baby with his fingers, “that’s pretty big.”

I nod. “It’s starting to look like a baby,” I note.

“Will we get pictures at the appointment?” he asks.

“I think so. We should get to hear the heartbeat, too.”

This is the part I’m most looking forward to and dreading. I want proof that our baby is healthy and growing. And I’m scared I won’t get it.

“Good,” Peeta responds. He kisses my shoulder. “Are you hungry yet?”

“Getting there. Can we do french toast?” I ask, as if I don’t know full well that Peeta will make whatever I want right now.

“Absolutely,” he says, immediately springing up to attach his prosthetic. He kisses my lips, then my stomach, then my lips again before heading downstairs.

“We are so, so loved, little prune,” I whisper to my stomach.

Peeta and I go back and forth throughout the day, but ultimately we decide it’s time to tell Haymitch. For one thing, I’m not sure how much longer we can hide it. And besides that, Haymitch is as much a part of the family as my mother is. I tell Peeta he can do the honors, since he hasn’t gotten to tell anyone yet. 

Over dinner I watch Peeta carefully and see glimpses of the boy who used to so carefully choose his words and his timing. Waiting for his moment to drop the news.

“So, how long are we going to do this?” Haymitch blurts out in the middle of dinner.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Pretend that you’re not knocked up.”

My eyes go wide and Peeta delicately sets down his fork on his plate. 

“How’d you know?” Peeta asks with narrowed eyes.

“How’d I know?! The girl’s eaten nothing but beige foods for the past three weeks and gets up to go to the bathroom every ten minutes. I’m not a complete idiot,” Haymitch says.

“We were going to tell you tonight,” Peeta mumbles, looking slightly disappointed.

I squeeze his hand under the table and give him an apologetic grimace. He shrugs it off, but after dinner I corner Haymitch while Peeta’s out of the room.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss.

Haymitch shrugs. “Trauma, mostly.” 

I roll my eyes. “Peeta was really looking forward to telling you.”

“Well then he should’ve spit it out faster,” Haymitch says.

“You were the only family he was going to get to tell,” I scold him.

The three of us sit in the living room for a while after dinner. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind Haymitch spoiling the surprise–mostly he just seems excited to be able to talk about the pregnancy openly–but I remain grumpy on my husband’s behalf for the rest of the night. Haymitch knows this is one of those times he’s crossed a line, because when he stands to leave he asks Peeta to walk him home.

“You need help getting across the lawn?” Peeta says incredulously.

“I’ve got some things to say to you, but clearly that one’s ready for bed,” Haymitch explains.

“I’m growing a human,” I mutter in defense of my tiredness.

“I know you are.” Haymitch kisses me on the forehead. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

“Head up to bed, I’ll be back in a few,” Peeta adds with another kiss.

I trudge up the stairs, exhausted and secretly a little bitter that Peeta isn’t able to carry me up tonight. I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas, examining my stomach as I do. There’s no visible bump yet, but I’ve been having a hard time with the button on some of my tighter pants. 

“Your whole family knows about you, now,” I say aloud. 

Then a lot of thoughts hit me at once. First I remember that nightmare, with Prim holding the baby and saying “I wish I could meet her.” I think of all of the people who will never meet this child. My father. Peeta’s father. I’m grateful I’ll never have to worry about Peeta’s mother harming our child, then I feel guilty for being glad she’s dead. And finally, a strange realization hits me that I’m carrying the first blood relation Peeta has had in over fifteen years.

All of this sends me into a bit of a panic. Panic at the thought of having to explain to this baby someday why our family is so sparse. Panic at the realization of how hard it will hit both of us if I lose this baby. So I do the only thing that’s brought me comfort in moments like these and take another pregnancy test. I don’t know if this is actually how it works, but for now, this is all I can do to tell myself the baby’s safe. I allow myself to relax once the positive result shows up once again.

Peeta gets back and starts getting ready for sleep as I’m climbing into bed. Through the open bathroom door he fills me in on the surprisingly tender words of congratulations Haymitch had for him.

“He was really apologetic about stealing our thunder, which–” Peeta cuts himself off with a loud laugh. He leans against the doorframe, shirtless and gorgeous, with an amused look on his face.

“Did you take another pregnancy test?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah. I do that sometimes,” I admit sheepishly.

“Why?”

“Just…to be sure…”

“To be sure you’re still pregnant?” he asks, still grinning.

I nod, and curse my hormones as my lip starts to quiver.

“Oh! Oh, honey,” Peeta practically launches himself at the bed to wrap his arms around me. “Did something happen?”

“No, I’m just scared it will,” I admit.

“It’s okay if it does,” Peeta whispers.

I pull back from him. “How can you say that?”

“I mean, it’s not…obviously we’ll both be devastated. And we’ll get through that together,” he elaborates.  “But I need you to understand that it’s not your fault if something happens. You’re doing everything you can to keep this baby safe.”

“Sometimes that isn’t enough,” I cry.

“I know,” he says simply. “You did everything you could for Prim, Katniss. And you and I are going to protect this baby the same way we’ve always protected each other. If the worst happens, we’ll have each other, too.”

“I already love her so much,” I tell Peeta. This earns me a raised eyebrow from him. I’m still convinced it’s a girl because of that dream. “It, them. Whatever. I haven’t let myself love anyone this much in a long time.”

Peeta pulls a mock offended face. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t let myself love you, I fell very much in spite of myself,” I remind him.

Peeta laughs and pulls me onto his lap as he settles further into the bed. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

I pretend to think for a second. “No, I guess not.”

“Good.” He pulls me tighter against him and peppers my face with kisses before turning serious again. “We’re almost through the worst of it, love. And in a few weeks we’re going to get to hear our baby’s little heartbeat and know they’re safe and sound.”

I allow myself to smile at the thought, even if my stomach plummets a little at the possibility that that’s not what will happen. But here in this moment, wrapped tight in Peeta’s steady arms and unbridled optimism, I allow myself to believe it.

Chapter Text

It’s an unseasonably warm day in early December, and I’m feeling better than I have in months. Between my first trimester nearing an end and the morning sickness remedies my mother sent, I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. My episodes of sickness lessen to once a day. Then every other day. Then barely at all. And this morning, thanks to the weather, I even got a chance to hunt without gagging at all.

My hunting time, however, had to be cut short due to the tormenting feeling growing in my core. There’s an insatiable need that’s only been building since I woke up this morning. A need that only Peeta can fulfill.

I practically run through the front door of the bakery and behind the counter. But when I reach the display case, I find that what I need most isn’t there. I turn on my heel and burst into the kitchen. Peeta’s there, grinning at me. I bypass any greeting and get straight to the point.

“You’re out of cinnamon rolls,” I tell him.

Peeta laughs. “Thanks for letting me know.” He leans down to kiss me, but only briefly because I have more pressing matters on my mind.

“When are you making more?” I ask

“Tomorrow morning,” he says with a little shrug. A timer dings and he turns his back to me to pull trays out of the oven. “They really only sell in the morning, anyway, so once they’re gone they’re gone for the–”

Peeta turns around to find my eyes full of tears and my lip trembling. These damn hormones! I didn’t even cry when they took me for the Games! But now I’m going to lose my mind over a couple of cinnamon rolls?

“–No, no, no,” Peeta pivots quickly. “Don’t cry, I’ll make more right now!”

I shake my head as the pathetic tears start to roll down my cheeks. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, you don’t have to.”

“If my pregnant wife and my unborn child want cinnamon rolls, I’m going to make the damn cinnamon rolls,” Peeta says in a low voice. “My bad, I had a moment of temporary insanity where I forgot what I was dealing with here.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, slightly embarrassed.

He runs a thumb under my eyes and kisses my nose. “Do you want one or two?” I bite my lip as my response. “Two it is. Go take a seat, I’ve got tomorrow’s batch ready in the freezer so I’ll bring them to you in a few minutes. Oh, and Delly called to say she’d be stopping by this afternoon so we can meet the baby.”

This, along with the promise of my cinnamon rolls, brightens my spirits significantly. I assume my stool at the front counter and talk with Cambric while I wait for my food. I learn that Sadie’s coming home soon for a visit. She, Posy, and May Belle have been on a nearly two year long trip around Panem to “discover themselves.” Whatever that means. Last I heard they were living in an apartment and taking classes in the Capitol. Hazelle and Cambric are of the same mind that it’s equal parts ridiculous and wonderful that they have the opportunity to do something so frivolous. And Sae, bless her heart, is simply too old to care what May Belle does.

Peeta joins me at the counter a few minutes later with cinnamon rolls so perfect I might start drooling. Peeta tells Cambric to take his break, who gives a curious look at my plate. Peeta just shrugs.

“We both know she’s the real boss around here. I just do as I’m told,” he says in a dramatically loud whisper. Cambric chuckles as he heads to the back.

I dig into my rolls, unrestrained moans falling from my mouth occasionally at having my craving so perfectly satisfied.

“You are going to get so lucky tonight,” I say between bites.

“I’m worried that you’re talking to the cinnamon roll and not me,” Peeta says.

My laugh is loud and genuine. Peeta’s smile is warm and soft.

“Well, bring some of this icing home and I think we can reach an arrangement that works for both of us,” I say.

“It’s nice to see you feeling better,” he says.

I am feeling so much better. And it’s not just the weather and the cravings and the lack of morning sickness. More than anything, it’s the tiny bump that’s hiding beneath my sweater. Well, Peeta’s sweater. Pregnant or not, I spend the majority of every winter stealing from his collection of oversized wool sweaters.

The bump appeared a few days ago. Its arrival has allowed me to relax for the first time since finding out I’m pregnant. It’s not much, but it’s definitely a change from my regularly small frame. Even if it’s mostly just my organs making room, it’s evidence of change. Evidence that our baby is growing. Evidence that my hope is not misplaced.

Soon both buns are gone and I’ve unabashedly licked the plate clean–and Peeta has taken it upon himself to lick any remaining icing from my face. Peeta’s kissing me fiercely across the counter when the bell over the door rings and we regrettably break apart.

Delly just laughs and says, “I can come back if this is a bad time.”

“Don’t you dare, we’ve been waiting to meet this mysterious baby of yours for almost a month,” Peeta says.

The baby’s strapped to Delly’s chest, sound asleep. He or she is dressed in tan pajamas that we got for Rowen when he was born. If Delly and Briar are really done having kids, I wonder if those pajamas will find their way back to our house for our baby to wear.

“Sorry for all the mystery, we had a little bit of a rocky start but we’re okay now, aren’t we?” Delly says to both us and the baby as she lifts them from the wrap. I nearly melt as the baby scrunches in protest of being removed from the warm cocoon of the wrap.

Half a year from now I’ll have you in my arms like that, I think to myself as I lightly rub my stomach.

“You’re sure everything’s alright?” I ask seriously. It was around this time after her last baby that we discovered how badly she was struggling with postpartum depression.

“I’m sure, and Bry’s keeping a close eye on me for symptoms. So far, so good,” Delly responds.

“And who do we have here?” Peeta asks, addressing the baby.

“This is Clara Penn,” Delly says.

“I knew it was a girl!” I exclaim. Then I turn to Peeta with a secret smile and add, “I have a sense about these things.”

Peeta affectionately rolls his eyes at me and gives me a look that says we’ll see.

“Can I hold her?” I add to Delly. She looks slightly surprised at how quickly I ask, but after my hands are cleaned the baby is gently deposited into my arms.

Clara is adorable, with Delly’s round cheeks and wisps of blonde hair. After a moment she stretches and I’m rewarded with a hint of a tiny blue eye peeking out from her lids.

“She’s perfect, Dell,” Peeta says, leaning over the counter to get a better look at her.

My eyes drift from the baby up to my husband’s face, and in that moment I can tell we’re both sharing the same thought.

I have one of these in my body right now .

There’s another thought, too, one that I’m sure Peeta is not thinking about at the moment, which is that I’ll have to push one of these out of my body. I’ve always considered newborns to be tiny, but with this new lens all I can think about is how much bigger this baby is than the little lime in my belly.

“She’s big ,” I say, more to myself than Delly.

Delly scoffs. “Did Briar tell you to say that?”

“No, why?” I say.

“Oh, she was just born really small, I’ve been worried about getting her weight up.”

Ugh. I add this to the list of things I need to worry about for my child. I’ve just about gotten to the point where I can cross miscarriage off the list, but every soothed fear seems to be replaced by two new ones.

“You’re doing a great job, she looks good and healthy,” Peeta comments.

I look back at him and we engage in a brief, wordless conversation.

Tell her , my eyes say.

Are you sure? Peeta asks with a half raised eyebrow.

Yes, I nod, it’s your turn to tell someone .

Thank you, he says with a soft smile.

“How are the boys adjusting?” Peeta asks Delly.

The boys? Wait, no, Peeta, you misunderstood me. Maybe that conversation wasn’t as clear as I thought.

“They’re doing well, they love her to pieces,” Delly answers.

“It’s too bad they’re so far in age, though. She won’t really get to be in school with them,” he continues.

Delly’s frown matches the one I know is on my face. “No, I guess not. She’ll make friends, though,” she says, somewhat defensively.

“Oh, I know she will,” Peeta says with a placating grin. And then I see that look in his eyes, and I know he understood me after all. “I’m just saying it’s probably a good thing ours will be here in a few months to keep her company, that’s all.”

There’s a moment where Peeta’s words are still sinking in. Then Delly lets out a shriek.

Clara startles slightly in my arms and I hold her closer to my chest. “Shh, it’s okay. Your Mama’s crazy,” I whisper to her.

“Oh, please. She has three brothers. She’s used to screaming, it’s silence that freaks her out,” Delly says dismissively. Then she looks rapidly between the two of us. “Are you really?!” 

I nod. “Twelve weeks.”

I expect some hugs, maybe more screaming. Instead Delly flicks Peeta on the head.

“What is wrong with you?” she says sternly.

“Me? What did I do? She wanted to get pregnant, I checked–”

“You let me sit there and rant about how terrible pregnancy is to her?!”

Peeta and I both laugh.

“Well I’ll remind you I brought you a steady stream of pastries to try and shut you up,” Peeta points out.

Delly takes my face in her hands and kisses my forehead. “It’s magical and you’re going to love it,” she assures me.

“It’s not and I hate it,” I say from between my squished cheeks. “But if ours is half as cute as this one it’ll be worth it.”

Delly’s eyes fill with tears and she throws her arms around me, encompassing both of our babies between us for a moment. Peeta comes out from around the counter and she hugs him too. She’s crying in earnest by the time she pulls away.

“I’m sorry, I don’t actually care this much,” she blubbers. “I mean, I do, but mostly I’m crying because I had a baby and I’m so full of hormones.”

Peeta looks like he’s stifling a laugh, but I let mine ring out freely.

“Before you came in I was crying because there were no cinnamon rolls,” I admit.

Delly laughs, then claps a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, I can’t believe we’re going to have babies together!” she squeals.

This gets to me and I break down crying too. Peeta plucks Clara from my arms and coos over her while the two of us weep and celebrate. It’s quite the image for Cambric to take in when he comes back from his break.

“What did I miss?” Cambric asks slowly.

I nod my permission for Peeta to tell him.

“Katniss and I are having a baby,” Peeta says.

“Oh, wow! Congratulations,” Cambric says calmly. 

Too calmly. It’s understandably a stark contrast to Delly and me. I wasn’t expecting Cambric to start weeping and giggling, but I’d expect a bigger reaction from Peeta’s closest friend. Unless…

“Did you already tell him?!” I gasp at Peeta.

“No,” Peeta says. He may have been able to lie with ease to all of Panem, but after fifteen years I know his tells. 

“You did!”

“I did not!” 

We glare at each other for a moment.

“He may have figured it out,” Peeta concedes. “You’ve been sleeping and puking here for weeks , Katniss. The others might be clueless but he’s got four kids, he knows what pregnancy looks like.”

“Hey, I have four kids, too! Why didn’t I figure it out?” Delly asks grumpily.

“Because you were too busy complaining about your swollen ankles and getting punched in the ribs,” I remind her. “How long have you known?”

“Since you fell asleep kneading dough,” Cambric shrugs. “Lacey couldn’t stay awake if her life depended on it when she was carrying the girls.”

“There’s no tired like pregnancy tired,” Delly agrees. 

Peeta hands Clara back to Delly and wraps his arms around me. “For the record, I didn’t tell him,” he says firmly.

“Alright, I believe you. But nobody else can know until after the appointment, okay?” I ask, looking at our friends to confirm their agreement.

The next morning we’re walking to the hospital before the sun is fully up. I booked us the earliest possible appointment, knowing that Peeta would be awake anyway and I would be exhausted no matter what time we go. My hope was that going this early would mean there would be less people in the waiting room to see us in the maternity center and spread gossip.

The plan works in my favor, when we arrive we’re the only ones here and we’re able to go right back to the room. The nurse gets all of the standard procedures out of the way: vitals, urine sample, blood draw. I’m a little thrown by being asked if I’d like them to order any extra tests on the blood work, but ultimately I decide I want as much information about the baby as I can get as long as it’s not invasive.

After that, Peeta and I are left to wait for the doctor. Being the first appointment of the day, though, we don’t have to wait very long. I’m pleased to find out that it’s the same doctor who conducted our fertility tests a few years back. I liked her, she seemed kind but also no-nonsense, which is exactly what I need to get through this pregnancy.

“Well, hello. Good to see you two again,” Dr. Elliot  says as she enters the room. 

I’m surprised she remembers us, then again it’s not every day you do fertility tests and prescribe birth control in the same appointment. It’s several minutes later that I realize she probably remembered us because of our fame and not because of the rather uneventful appointment we had years ago. Damn baby brain.

“And it looks like congratulations are in order,” she adds, looking down at my chart.

After that it’s more questions and talking about symptoms. Dr. Elliot has me lift my shirt and starts getting me hooked up to machines as we talk, so I’m distracted from the whole process until the next thing I know she says, “Okay, let’s hear this heartbeat.”

I don’t have enough time to prepare myself, to worry that it won’t be found. Before I know it, the sound of a heartbeat comes out of the monitor in front of us.

“Is that it?” Peeta whispers, as if speaking any louder will scare it away. 

“That’s it,” she confirms. “Strong and steady.”

I press the back of Peeta’s hand that’s entwined with mine to my lips. Strong and steady, just like your daddy , I think with tears in my eyes.

Next, cold gel is dispersed and the doctor rubs the machine along my stomach as the screen lights up beside us. Peeta and I watch intently, trying to make sense of the black and white blobs on the screen. 

“Oh!” I cry out. The image comes into focus and I can see the perfect outline of our baby’s side profile. Peeta’s a sniffling mess beside me. Dr. Elliot clicks around and takes all kinds of measurements while we stare at our little baby and point out what we think we’re seeing. Two stubby little arms. A button nose. Tiny pouty lips.

“Wow,” Peeta whispers in my ear before leaning in to kiss my cheek. “We made that.”

Once she’s taken all the photos and measurements she needs, the doctor points out other features of interest on the screen. She also confirms our due date for June 18th. When we’re done, she leaves me with a cloth to wipe the gel from my stomach and lets us know that a nurse will be in shortly with our pictures and the results from my bloodwork.

“These are for you,” the nurse says brightly, handing over the still images from the ultrasound. “It looks like your bloodwork was all normal, Dr. Elliot didn’t find anything she was concerned about. She just left a note for me to check if you wanted to find out the sex?”

“The sex…of the baby?” I ask, shocked. The nurse nods. “I thought we couldn’t find out until the twenty week scan.”

“Traditionally that’s when most couples find out, but since you requested we test everything in the bloodwork that includes the sex,” she explains. 

“So you’ve got it there?” Peeta asks, indicating the clipboard in her hands. She nods again. Peeta turns to me. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I say. For some reason, I’m feeling almost lightheaded at the thought of making this decision right now. “I haven’t had time to think about whether I want to find out at all.”

“That’s alright, I can just leave a note in your file indicating that you don’t want to know,” the nurse says kindly. “You can always change your mind at a later appointment.”

The problem isn’t that I don’t want to know, though. It’s that I don’t know if I want to know. But now I’m afraid I’ll decide I do and we’ll have to wait until my next appointment, even though it’s right there on the clipboard in front of me.

“You could seal it in an envelope, right?” Peeta asks. “People bring those to the bakery all the time. That way we can open it if we want or leave it a surprise, but we don’t have to decide right now. That okay?” he turns to me.

“Yeah that’s…good…why do they bring them to the bakery?” I ask as my brain catches up. The nurse leaves to grab an envelope.

“They order cakes sometimes and have me fill them with pink or blue filling so they can be surprised,” he explains.

“People order entire cakes to find out if their baby is a boy or girl?” I ask incredulously.

“Usually it’s a small cake. Closer to a cupcake, really.” Peeta shrugs. “I think it’s cute, it makes it more intimate for the couple than finding out in a doctor’s office.”

The nurse comes back with the sealed envelope and we’re free to go. I stop at the desk on my way out to set up my next appointment. There’s a few more people in the waiting room than when we arrived, but hopefully I’m brief enough to avoid their attention. Then we walk back out into the brisk winter air, hand-in-hand.

“Why didn’t I know about this whole cupcake baby reveal thing?” I ask as we make our way towards the bakery.

Peeta shrugs. “It’s still pretty new in the last five years or so. I guess you just haven’t been around when I’ve made them.”

“But I’m surprised you haven’t ever mentioned it,” I continue.

“I don’t know if you remember, but pregnancy was a bit of a sticky subject for us up until very recently,” he reminds me.

“I guess.”

The image hits me of Peeta happily making cakes for all of those couples, helping them create a special moment. Never knowing if we’d have that moment ourselves. And all at once my decision feels clear and solidified.

“You should make one of those cakes for us,” I tell him.

“Katniss, it kind of defeats the purpose of doing a reveal if I’m the one setting it up,” he chuckles.

“No, it’ll be sweet,” I insist. “You’ll get to be the one who tells me. Here, take the envelope. I’ve got errands to run so I wasn’t planning to hang around the bakery, anyway. You can make the cupcake and bring it home tonight.”

Peeta turns over the envelope in his hand wearily. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Just a few minutes ago you weren’t sure if you wanted to find out at all.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it today, that’s all. But now that I’ve thought about it I’d like to know and I think doing it this way would be very…us,” I say.

We reach the back door of the bakery and Peeta leans down to give me a kiss. 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” he says. “I’ll leave here around four. Cake in hand.”

It’s agonizing staying away from the bakery for the rest of the day, but I try to keep busy. I buy our groceries for the week. I sort through the ultrasound photos. I hang my two favorites on the fridge, set aside one for Peeta to bring to the bakery, another to send to my mother, and I go over to Haymitch’s house and hang one on his fridge as well. I take a nap. Then I stand in the doorway of our soon-to-be nursery for a full twenty minutes, trying to will myself to get started converting it. In the end, I do absolutely nothing in the room except take the pajamas I saved for our baby a long time ago out of the hope chest and lay them out on top of the dresser. But not before holding them up to my stomach for a minute and once again fretting about having to get something that size out of my body.

I’m trying my hand at knitting for the hundredth time (and failing, yet again) when I hear Peeta’s boots at the door and I bound at him.

He tries to distract me by pressing me to the stretch of blank wall in the entryway where we do some of our best work, but I won’t fall for it.

“Do you have something for me?” I ask.

He holds up the bakery bag in response. 

“And…?” I press.

Peeta kisses me several times in quick succession before he answers. “And…we can eat it after dinner,” he says slyly.

With that he leaves me in the doorway to get started making dinner. I trudge after him.

“You’re really going to make me wait?” I huff.

“If we eat cake now we’ll spoil our appetites,” he teases. He’s in far too good of a mood. I hadn’t really thought through the possibility that there would be a stretch of time where he knows and I don’t.

“Peeta,” I whine.

“Katniss,” he mimics me. “This was your idea. Let’s try for some patience, shall we?”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumble.

I help Peeta make dinner so efficiently that we’re ready to eat by 4:45. The entire time we cooked, I tried to goad him into letting it slip, but he guaranteed me that I wouldn’t get anything out of him until it was time. This, of course, only made me goad further.

When my plate is clear I look up at him expectantly, to which Peeta simply chuckles.

“Go take the cake out of the fridge, you ridiculous woman,” he says.

The cake is tiny, but gorgeous as ever. Just bigger than a cupcake, covered in white buttercream and vines with spring green leaves. Beautiful. Simple. Neutral.

I catch Peeta sticking something in his back pocket as he hands me a knife, but I don’t catch what it is.

“Go for it,” he says with a bright smile.

I slice the cake in half and take a deep breath as I separate the halves, revealing that we’re having a…

“Chocolate?” I ask, befuddled. I look at my slice, then back at the other half to see if maybe I missed the reveal. No, the entire thing is filled with chocolate filling. I look up at Peeta, whose grin has turned amused now.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of finding out without you,” he says, pulling the envelope from his pocket. Still sealed.

I burst out laughing. “Then why did you go to all the trouble of making the cake? You could’ve just told me that!”

“Please, after the cinnamon roll incident, I wasn’t about to take away the idea of cake from you after it was already on your mind,” he answers. 

I laugh again, swipe at the chocolate filling with my finger and lick it clean, then fall into Peeta’s arms.

“I thought you’d want to do the cake thing, after making so many for other people,” I say.

“I like it because it’s sweet for the couple to find out together, not because of the cake itself. But here, we have cake, now we can find out together,” he says.

I eye the envelope now sitting on the counter.

“Do you have a preference?” I ask.

“No,” he says immediately, “truly, I’ll be just as happy either way.”

“Me, too,” I say, drawing a chuckle out of Peeta. “What?”

“You’ve been claiming it’s a girl since practically the moment you got pregnant,” he says.

“Well that’s because I know it’s a girl. Call it mother’s intuition,” I say haughtily. “But on the off chance I’m wrong–”

“Which you never are,” Peeta interjects.

“–which I never am,” I agree, “then I would be just as delighted for it to be a boy. Honestly.”

“Are you ready?”” Peeta says, kissing my forehead. 

I nod. “But I still want you to be the one to tell me, so you have to open it.”

“Okay,” he grins, releasing me from his arms and plucking the envelope off the counter. He opens it quickly and pulls out the paper. For a moment his face remains entirely, annoyingly neutral. Then he lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head.

“Oh, this is going to go straight to your head,” he says under his breath.

I clap a hand over my mouth. “Is it…?”

“It’s a girl,” Peeta confirms.

The next several minutes is a blur of kissing and hugging and crying. After we’ve collected ourselves we settle in on the couch. A slice of cake on each of our laps, my head on Peeta’s shoulder, and a photo of our baby girl in Peeta’s hand. When our cake is done I drape my legs over his lap as we continue to be mesmerized by the photo of our daughter.

“Daughter,” I whisper, tracing my finger over the little swoop of her nose. “We have a daughter.”

“We could start thinking about names,” Peeta says hopefully.

“I thought we agreed we’d call her Pumpernickel,” I joke.

“No bread names,” Peeta says firmly.

I laugh as I set the photo on the coffee table and curl into Peeta more. I start rubbing my bump the way I’ve started to do whenever I’m worried; pretending to soothe the baby when I’m really soothing myself. She became real today, in a way. We’ve seen her, heard her heartbeat. She’s real, but to give her a name takes that to an entirely different level. To give her a name is to give her an identity. And with so much that can still go wrong, I’m not sure I’m ready to commit to that. Not yet at least.

“I might want to wait until I see her,” I answer, and thankfully Peeta doesn’t press the topic any further.

For a while Peeta talks to my bump and I fall asleep on his shoulder. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping when he nudges me awake.

“You don’t look very comfortable, love,” he whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Can you carry me?” I mumble half-incoherently.

“Sure,” he says, shifting my weight onto his lap so he can pick me up. “Anything to take care of my girls.”

Chapter Text

“I changed my mind again,” I shout as soon as I walk in the front door.

“Too bad!” Peeta calls back to me from the top of the cellar stairs. I don’t bother retorting since I hear his steps soften as he makes his way downstairs.

I huff as I kick off my boots at the door, then huff again even louder as I go to throw myself onto the couch and find that it’s completely covered with stacks and stacks of identical flat rectangles covered in brown paper.

Peeta’s paintings. Every single one, meticulously wrapped and labeled and stored over the years. When Peeta said he was going to start going through them this morning, I didn’t fully realize the extent to which that would take over our house.

“Heard you’re changing your mind again,” Haymitch says, sounding bored. He carries in another stack of paintings, drops them on the coffee table, then moves a stack from an armchair for me to sit down. I scowl at him as I drop into the chair.

“It’s a terrible idea,” I say.

“It was your idea,” he reminds me.

“Exactly, and you don’t let me make the plans, right?” I snap back.

Haymitch scoffs as Peeta enters the room with his own stack of paintings.

“I think that’s it for now, I can go through the rest later but this should be plenty,” he says to Haymitch, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he adds to me, “Hello, beautiful. How was the woods?”

“Cold. Don’t change the subject. We’re not going,” I say.

“Yes, we are,” Peeta says firmly.

Every year in the Capitol they hold some kind of extravagant New Year’s party, which also coincides with what most people consider the official end of the war. This year, however, the festivities will be extra prestigious, as people have been invited from all over the country to a fundraising gala for the new Hunger Games museum. Plutarch’s idea, of course. Peeta expects that this is his last hurrah before he retires. Haymitch muttered that that man never quits.

When the invitation arrived, I shocked all three of us by saying we should go. Struck by sentimentality–something that has become unfortunately more frequent as my hormones have changed–I said it was important for us to be involved. To make sure this museum is an accurate portrayal of what we went through. To make this somewhere we could bring our daughter, someday far in the future, to help her understand.

“Why?” I whine.

“Do you recall when you said we should accept the invitation, and I said ‘are you sure? Once we accept you can’t change your mind,’ and you said ‘of course I’m sure, Peeta! Why would I change my mind?’” Peeta recounts calmly.

“No,” I mumble, averting my eyes as I cross my arms as tight as I can over my growing bump. This is the third time he’s had to remind me of this conversation since we accepted.

Peeta only chuckles. He asks Haymitch to put a pot of milk on the stove and starts the fire in the fireplace. Then he walks over to me, drops a kiss on my forehead, and drapes a blanket around my shoulders.

“What’s troubling you this time?’ he asks gently.

“She’s growing too fast. I said we should go when the pregnancy was still…hideable,” I say. 

“It is still hideable,” he says.

“Not in a dress,” I say.

In Peeta’s sweaters, if I bunch them right, I can still cover up the bump. But even then I’ve started noticing people doing double takes on occasion. And the other day, in preparation for the gala, I pulled out an assortment of my old dresses from Cinna to try on. Not a single one fit. Even without the pregnancy, maybe it’s unreasonable for a woman in her thirties who has had a constant supply of bread to expect to fit into the wardrobe of a starving seventeen year old. But I’m feeling rather unreasonable these days, so this sent me over the edge.

Once I got over myself, I tried on a few styles without zipping them up. It became apparent to me then that even in the dresses gathered at my ribs and free flowing over my stomach, this little girl is making her presence known. The bump isn’t large by any means, at least not knowing how big it will get. But unless I spend the entirety of the gala sucking in my stomach, news of my pregnancy is about to spread rather rapidly.

“Would it be so bad if more people knew?” Peeta asks.

“Some people, fine. But the entire country? I just don’t want this entire thing to become about the star-crossed lovers’ baby. She’s ours, not theirs,” I whisper. We’ve been afforded more privacy these past years than I ever would’ve imagined, but going back into the heart of the beast like this will guarantee all eyes on us.

“I talked with Plutarch when I accepted our invitation,” Peeta explains. “We still have every right to refuse interviews, and it’s a closed event. The only photos that will be taken will be posed ones, nothing without our permission.”

“But everyone there will know,” I counter.

“Okay, so they’ll know. But they won’t have proof. Pregnancy rumors about you spread every few years, anyway,” he reminds me.

That’s true. And besides, I’ve been looking forward to seeing Annie, Finn, and Jo. My streak of sentimentality extended to convincing them to come as well. It would be much better to tell them in person instead of over the phone.

“But I still don’t have anything to wear,” I say, not ready to give in so easily yet. And I’m not one to care about clothes, but in this case it’s a pressing concern.

“If only we knew anyone who could help in a wardrobe crisis,” Haymitch says sarcastically. He nods Peeta towards the kitchen and they switch places.

“I don’t want the prep team,” I tell him. We keep up every few years over letters, and I’m sure I’ll see them at the event, but I’m not sure I can handle more than that.

“I meant Effie,” he shrugs. “Say the word and I can give her a call and let her work her magic.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

Peeta comes in a few minutes later with mugs of hot chocolate–Haymitch takes his back to his house–and sits on the floor near my feet. I take to playing with his hair while we sip our drinks.

“I hope the baby has curls,” I say, winding one of his around my finger.

“No you don’t, they’re a pain to deal with,” he argues.

“You can teach her, though. It’ll be a good daddy-daughter bonding experience,” I say.

Peeta tips his head back onto my lap, eyes closed with a huge grin on his face. No doubt he’s imagining sharing all of his curl knowledge with our little girl.

“So…what are we doing with all of these?” I ask, finally addressing the living room full of paintings.

Peeta gives a tiny groan. “Probably moving 90% of them back to the cellar. I told Plutarch I’d bring a few to auction off for the fundraiser. And eventually I’ll donate more to be a part of the museum, so I want to sort through them now. Since we’ll have a toddler roaming around by the time the museum is finished.”

“A toddler . That’s hard to imagine considering she’s smaller than a pear,” I say.

“They grow up so fast,” Peeta jokes. “Seriously, though, I’ll get this cleaned up as fast as I can.”

I look around the room and can’t help but smile at the paintings covering every available surface, the way they were the first time I went to Peeta’s house.

“It’s okay, it reminds me of when we were falling in love,” I tell him.

“You were falling, I was already there,” he says.

“I was already there, too. I was just the last person to realize it,” I say.

“Agree to disagree,” he says, kissing the back of my hand.

A few days later, despite more protests on my part, the three of us are loaded onto a train along with our bags and a half dozen paintings.

“Been a while since the three of us have done this, huh?” Peeta asks. He and I have taken many trains since the end of the war, but Haymitch hasn’t left the district in over fifteen years. 

Haymitch grunts something and goes to his room for the majority of the trip, only joining us in the dining car for dinner.

We arrive in the Capitol the next morning, where a car has already been arranged to pick us up and take us to our hotel. We check into our rooms–Haymitch is right next to ours–and Haymitch reminds us that Effie will be here in about forty-five minutes to bring dresses for me to try.

“This place is nice,” Peeta says, dropping our bags and sprawling out on the large bed.

I hum my agreement as I look around the room. It is rather nice. Not gaudy, but full of amenities. I’m not sure how long the selection of snacks will last, considering my appetite these days, but the minibar will remain untouched by either of us. It’s a waste of a good fridge, really. I would’ve preferred that that be filled with food as well.

I look over at Peeta, still laying on the bed with his hands behind his head. Eyes closed with a contented grin. Shirt riding up ever so slightly to reveal the faint blonde hairs trailing down his stomach.

I need him. Now. One of the best (if not slightly inconvenient) pregnancy symptoms so far has been the new influx of hormones demanding that I get Peeta in bed as often as possible. It’s really something, considering how healthy our sex life was before this new little treat pregnancy has brought me.

I’m on the bed, straddling his lap, and pulling off my shirt before he even opens his eyes. 

“Well, hello there,” he says with a smirk, propping himself up slightly on his elbows. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, take your clothes off,” I insist. 

There’s not much talking after that as Peeta happily obliges my every need. Just as we’re heading towards round two, there’s a knock at the door.

“Oh, crap,” Peeta mutters, looking at the clock. “Just a minute!” he calls out. The two of us race to get our clothes back on, but Peeta beats me to it and answers the door.

“Delivery,” Haymitch says, rolling in a luggage cart packed with hanging dresses.

“Effie isn’t with you?” Peeta asks.

“I told her to give you some space to settle in, you’ll have plenty of time to catch up at the party,” Haymitch shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if you were prepared to tell her yet.” 

It always catches me off guard when Haymitch is surprisingly thoughtful like this. 

“Not to mention it’d be indecent to let her in with the two of you looking like you just rolled off the slag heap,” he adds. 

And the thoughtfulness is gone as quickly as it came. Haymitch walks right past me sitting on the hastily remade bed and knocks on the wall behind me. 

“You see this? From what I can tell this wall is about six inches thick, and you’d do well to remember that that means I’m sleeping about six inches away from whatever’s happening in here,” he continues. Then he turns to Peeta. “Your memory doing alright, boy?”

“Yeah, why?” Peeta asks, perplexed.

“Just checking, seemed like she was reminding you of your own name an awful lot.”

I chuck a throw pillow at him as hard as I can. “Get out of here!” I yell.

Peeta looks like he’s just barely containing his laughter. He gets hit with a pillow too.

“Fine, I’ve got somewhere I need to be anyway,” Haymitch says vaguely.

“Not planning another rebellion without us, are you?” Peeta says.

“Wouldn’t tell you if I was,” he mumbles.

With that, Haymitch helps himself to our minibar and empties the entire thing into an extra bag from the garbage can to carry with him. Peeta’s eyebrows knit together in concern.

“I’m sure you’ve got the same thing in your room, don’t you?” he asks. 

“Not anymore,” Haymitch says, throwing the bag over his shoulder and walking out of the room.

Peeta continues frowning in the direction Haymitch left.

“I really thought he was sober,” Peeta says.

“How long do you think?” I ask.

“Six months, give or take,” he sighs.

Now that he mentions it, I can’t remember the last time I saw a drink in Haymitch’s hand. The only time that comes to mind is the summer festival, but that wasn’t even alcohol.

“Maybe this whole thing is too hard on him,” Peeta continues.

“Oh, but when I said it was a mistake you told me to suck it up?” I say.

“This was your idea,” he reminds me for the hundredth time.

I roll my eyes. Peeta sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls me in so I’m standing between his thighs. His hands work their way under my sweater–that I’m now realizing is inside out and backwards–and his lips work their way up my neck.

“I guess I should probably try these dresses on now, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, take your clothes off,” Peeta says enthusiastically into my jaw.

I indulge him (okay, and myself) for another few moments before I pry myself away to consider the clothing cart. One thing that can always be said for Effie Trinket is that she’s thorough. There are dresses of every color, a variety of styles, and she’s even included a bag with an assortment of accessories. Even without knowing I’m pregnant, she’s found several dresses that will work with my ever-changing body. Of course, there’s also many dresses I wouldn’t wear if my life depended on it. Luckily, this time, it doesn’t.

I peruse the rack, picking out the least offensive of them and throwing them on the bed beside Peeta. He’s an excellent sport as I try on dress after dress and offers his opinions. Although I can only handle hearing so many variations of “you look gorgeous in everything” (said after every dress) and “ that’s my favorite look so far” (said in between dresses when I’m standing in my underwear). Eventually I give him the task of sorting through the accessory bag to keep him busy.

While he’s detangling a clump of necklaces, I pull on a sleek forest green dress that ends slightly below my knees. It’s formfitting and not the kind of thing I’d normally wear, but I decided to give it a chance because of the color. Now I’m glad I did. Although it’s tight, the material feels like butter and I don’t feel restricted at all. I step into view of the full length mirror and confirm what I knew from feel alone; this is my favorite.

I turn to view it from different angles. I admire the way it hugs my baby bump and all of the other curves that pregnancy has given me in a way that feels more comforting than revealing. I’m so used to seeing myself at sixteen and seventeen in elaborate gowns, but I’m suddenly struck by the image of who I am now.

I am not their tribute, their victor, their mockingjay. I’m a young woman, getting older. Hardened by war and grief. Softened by bread and love. I’m a hunter, a trader, a baker–by marriage but not by trade. I am a wife and a mother, or soon to be, at least. I don’t need to be in some costume, playing some role. I’m simply Katniss.

I catch Peeta’s eye in the mirror and he smiles at me.

“That one,” he says with a nod.

“I almost agree, except for the fact that the baby’s just so exposed in this,” I say.

Peeta’s eyes light up with an idea and he rifles through the bag I’ve given him. A moment later he pulls out a silky green wrap that matches the dress.

“Perfect,” I say, draping it over my arms and practicing covering the baby with it. “It’s a little wrinkled, though.”

“We’ll hang it in the bathroom, I’m sure the steam will get those out,” Peeta reasons.

“Oh no, I guess we’ll have to take a long, hot shower, far away from Haymitch’s room,” I shrug mischievously.

The next evening I’m dressed again in the green dress with the now-wrinkle-free wrap and a simple strand of pearls around my neck. Peeta’s in a simple black suit, but the white of his shirt matches my pearls and he happened to pack a green tie that goes well with my dress. We look, as always, like a well coordinated team.

At 5:30 on the dot, there’s a sharp tap, tap, tap , on our hotel door that can only be Effie coming to collect us for our big, big, big night.

“Ready for this?” Peeta asks. Effie is just the first of many pregnancy announcements we’ll be making tonight, but she may be the most emotional so I’m glad to get it out of the way first.

“Ready,” I say, joining him at the door as he opens it.

“Well, hello! It’s been too long!” Effie dotes. “Oh, Katniss, you look– pregnant! ”

I can tell the last word slipped out in surprise, as Effie immediately claps her hand over her mouth and looks horrified. I let out a laugh.

“It’s okay, Effie, it’s only rude if it isn’t true,” I say graciously.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, addressing us all but mostly Haymitch.

“Not mine to tell!” Haymitch says, raising his hands in defense.

“We’re surprising a lot of people tonight, Effie, you’re just lucky enough to be the first,” Peeta says tactfully. He gives her a light kiss on the cheek and she looks appeased.

“Well, this is quite the surprise!” she says, carefully patting at the corner of her eyes to stop any tears from ruining her makeup. She takes both my hands and gives them a light squeeze. “Congratulations, my little pearls. We’ll chat much more later, but for now we can’t be late!”

Effie leads us down the elevator and to a long car with room for the four of us in the back, although two of us will have to ride backwards. Peeta and Haymitch volunteer, as Effie says she gets terribly carsick and my stomach’s still a bit precarious at times.

In the back of the car, I’m fretting with the wrap, arranging it and rearranging it to try and cover my middle as naturally as I can. After a few minutes, Peeta leans forward and stills my hands with his. But when our car comes to a stop half a mile back from the president’s mansion–the Capitol Building as it’s known now–my stomach drops. We’ve entered a lineup of cars dropping people off for the event. And lining every inch of the pathway to the doors are people with flashing cameras.

Inside the event, I’ll be able to arrange my wrap in photos to my heart’s content to keep our baby from becoming a major news story. But out there, we’re fair game. Out there, in motion, with cameras pointed at me from every angle…our baby will be public knowledge before we even reach the doors.

“Is there any other entrance?” Peeta asks the driver.

“Afraid not, we’ll be here for a few minutes,” he answers, mistaking our reluctance for impatience.

“No worries,” Peeta mumbles. 

Before I can say another word, Peeta unbuttons his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Effie looks like she’s about to have a fit over our ruined looks, but Peeta stops her with a look.

“We’ll put ourselves back together when we get inside,” he says firmly. “The only thing I care about right now is protecting us from those vultures.”

When our car reaches the front of the line, Haymitch steps out first and offers Effie his arm. We give them a bit of a head start, hoping to deflect some of the attention. Then Peeta steps out and helps me out of the car. You can hear the waves of realization roll through the crowd, so by the time I step out of the car the volume of the shouts around us triple in volume. Peeta wraps his arm protectively around me while I hold onto his jacket around me. Taking my cue from him, I arrange my face into an easygoing smile but stare straight ahead. That is, until a photographer steps out of line and directly in front of us. Then Peeta’s face goes immediately hard and angry.

“Back off!” he practically barks. 

Security swoops in and removes the man, but not before he snaps a photo of Peeta’s fury. I’m sure some Capitol tabloid will make a pretty penny spinning that photo into some story about Peeta being abusive or still not recovered from the hijacking. I hope for both of our sakes that article never finds us.

Inside, I return Peeta’s jacket and he drops a kiss onto my forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asks seriously. 

“I’m fine. My only problem is having to contain myself after seeing how sexy you just were protecting me,” I whisper.

Peeta laughs and gives an exasperated eye roll before offering me his arm. “Come on, let’s get in there.”

The banquet room is beautiful, though not quite as extravagant as it was on the Victory Tour. Good. Those parties were extremely wasteful. Almost immediately I find Johanna, Annie and Finnick. Not Finnick , I remind myself, Finn . It’s been so long since we’ve seen him and my heart aches to look at him; now, more than ever, Finn is the spitting image of his father.

“Wow,” Peeta says under his breath. We don’t get a chance to discuss further, though, as Jo half runs up to us.

“Oh my god!” Johanna exclaims, eyes trained on my belly. For a moment I think she’s actually going to say something kind, but then I remember it’s Johanna. So instead she adds, loudly, “You two finally had sex?!”

“Yeah, well, turns out we were just doing it wrong,” I joke, then drop my voice to a dramatic whisper, “Don’t bring it up, Peeta’s really embarrassed about it.”

Annie and Peeta laugh, and Finn looks horrified.

“Hey, Finn, let’s get these ladies some drinks so we can catch up,” Peeta says, clapping Finn on the back. 

Over the years, Peeta has taken on a kind of uncle role in Finn’s life as best as he can from across the country. They have regular calls and, especially in the past few years, Peeta has become Finn’s go-to person to talk about things he’s too embarrassed to talk to Annie about.

They’re not quite out of earshot when a concerned Finn asks Peeta, “How do you do it wrong?!”

The three of us burst out laughing.

“He’s scary, isn’t he?” Jo says to me, beckoning me towards their table. I don’t have to ask what she means. Annie and I nod in unison.

“It’s a good thing my flashbacks are few and far between these days,” Annie says. “I don’t know what I’d do if I came out of one and found the ghost of my dead husband walking around the house like that.”

I haven’t much considered who the baby will look like. It does strike me very suddenly that Peeta’s genetics could very well mean I could have my own little ghost wandering around the house. She could be all blonde hair and blue eyes like the aunt she’ll never know. The baby I couldn’t save.

“So, hey, what the hell?” Jo says, snapping me back to the present.

“Oh, yeah. I’m pregnant,” I say with a shrug.

“Were you planning to tell us?” Jo says.

“Yeah, tonight,” I say. “Surprise.”

“How far along?” Annie asks.

“Sixteen weeks,” I say.

Annie shakes her head. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe I didn’t find out about him until thirty weeks.”

“I can’t imagine having less than two months to prepare for a baby. I’ve had fifteen years and I still feel wildly unprepared,” I say.

“It’ll come naturally, don’t worry,” Annie says kindly.

Peeta and Finn return with glasses of something fruity and fizzy that Peeta assures me he checked several times to make sure there was no alcohol. He tries to drop into the empty seat between me and Jo but she shoots him a look.

“She’s saving that one,” I explain.

“No, I’m not. Take it, whatever, see if I care,” Jo snaps.

Peeta smirks and takes the seat to my right instead. “I saw Cressida over by the bar,” he says, taking a smug sip of his drink.

“Shut up,” Jo growls.

“Anyone else interesting here?” I ask while Peeta drapes his arm around me.

“I didn’t look too closely,” Peeta shrugs.

“From what I can tell it’s a mix of people they think they can get a lot of money from and people they think can convince them to give up their money,” Jo says.

“And which are we?” I ask.

“A bit of both, I think,” Annie frowns. 

We eat and drink and catch up for a while. Haymitch eventually joins us. Then Cressida a few minutes later.

“Aw, you save this for me?” she asks Jo as she takes her seat. Johanna shrugs as if she’s indifferent and not like she threatened to knife someone who asked if we were using that chair not five minutes ago. But even Johanna, with all her snark and indifference, can’t quite hide the blush on her cheeks when Cressida takes her hand.

Most of the night passes by in a blur of introductions and catching up and having the same conversation over and over and over. Yes, I am. Sixteen weeks. We’re so excited. Then Peeta tells some funny anecdote about me falling asleep on my feet or craving something strange, or if it’s someone we like he pulls out the ultrasound photo he has tucked in his pocket.

We wander around the silent auction. The only thing I want to bid on is Peeta’s paintings, though.

“What?” I say to Peeta’s bewildered grin. “I just want to make sure these sell for what they’re worth.”

“And what if we end up buying one of them back?”

“Well we were planning on making a donation anyway, and we already know we have room for it in the cellar,” I shrug.

In the middle of the room there’s a large table displaying the plans for the museum. It’s clever, I’ll give them that, using the tribute center at the foundation for the museum. It’s already divided into twelve floors, which they’ll use to honor the tributes and the history of each district. I also appreciate that they have a diverse sampling from every district on the planning committee. Paylor, although no longer president, is still actively involved in a lot of causes and I’m pleased to see her name on the list. And Plutarch, of course. I don’t know how much I’ll ever really trust him, but I at least trust that he has the right mindset to pull this off as something meaningful rather than just a cash grab. I tell him this much when we run into him.

We mingle. We eat. We make more polite pregnancy small talk. Then Peeta pulls me onto the dance floor when he can tell I’m at my capacity for dealing with people.

“If one more person touches my stomach, I swear, I’ll cut their hand off,” I snarl.

“Damn, I wish Cambric was here,” Peeta mumbles. I roll my eyes at him. “I’ll protect you from any more stomach touching, I promise,” he adds.

“Thanks,” I say, leaning my head down on his shoulder. It’s probably around ten o’clock. I’m usually fast asleep by this point.

“Are you going to make it until midnight?” Peeta asks.

“Probably not,” I yawn.

“When the clock strikes twelve, we’ll be in the year we’re going to meet our baby. Isn’t that wild?” he whispers.

“Very wild,” I agree. 

“Do you want to go back to the table and rest your eyes for a few?” he asks gently.

“No, I’m okay here,” I say sleepily. “Just hold me up if my knees go weak.”

“Can do,” Peeta chuckles.

I don’t think I really fell asleep, but I can’t say for sure that I didn’t. I’m just vaguely aware of swaying in Peeta’s arms for a while until I hit my second wind. Or, more accurately, until the baby forces me into a second wind by apparently putting her entire weight on my bladder.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, springing up from Peeta’s shoulder. “Be back in a sec.”

When I return from the bathroom, I’ve lost sight of Peeta. In scanning the room, however, I lock eyes with someone else I know. Gale is staring at my stomach with an almost comical look of shock on his face. When he meets my eye again, I give him a small wave and he starts walking towards me.

“You know, Rachel said you recommended some pills when you came to visit and I was hoping you’d be here so I could thank you,” Gale says. He looks down at my bump then back at my eyes. “Now you’ve got me worried.”

I give a soft laugh. “Those pills never failed me once in fifteen years. It’s when you stop taking them that you’ve got to watch out.”

“Congratulations,” he says with a small smile.

“Thanks,” I say.

I don’t really know what else to say, so we let the silence wash over us. It’s always going to be a bit awkward between the two of us. 

“Have you seen Posy lately?” I ask.

“A few months ago. Is her hair still green?” Gale says.

“No, it was bubblegum pink when she visited twelve a few weeks ago,” I say.

Gale scoffs. Clearly he’s not impressed by his sister’s latest attempt to “discover herself.” I become a little bit distracted by trying to find Peeta. I don’t like that I can’t see him.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Gale asks after a minute.

“A…baby?” I say, caught off guard.

He laughs. “I meant boy or girl.”

“Oh, a girl,” I say.

“He’ll do well with a girl,” he says thoughtfully. “Not that you won’t, of course. You’ve had practice. I just think some men are better suited to raising girls. My daughters scare the living hell out of me, but Peeta seems like the kind of guy who can handle it.”

“Yeah, he is,” I agree. “Have you seen him, by the way? I can’t find him.”

Gale nods in the direction my back is facing. “He’s up at the dessert table with a bunch of bakers.” 

I whip around and, sure enough, Peeta’s talking frosting again. “How does he always do this?” I groan. “You’ll have to excuse me, I have to put a stop to that before he gets them to box up samples to study again.”

“You say that like it’s a problem,” Gale frowns.

“It will be. Have you ever seen a pregnant woman in a train car full of cake she’s not allowed to eat?” I ask darkly.

“You haven’t learned the magic words yet?” he asks. I raise my eyebrows. “If you throw in a ‘it’s for the baby’, I guarantee he’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Really?”

“Definitely, if it worked on me there’s no way it won’t work on him.”

I laugh. “I’ll have to try that out. Good to see you, Gale.”

“See ya, Catnip.”

Sure enough, by the time I catch up with Peeta, he’s been given a stack of takeaway boxes and he’s carefully selecting his favorite little cakes from the selection. When he sees me, he smiles lopsidedly at me like he’s been caught. I roll my eyes but allow him to continue boxing up the cakes without complaint. I even help him carry them back to our table because I’m such a good wife and not at all because I’m planning to eat at least three of these little cakes on the train ride home.

“What would you like to do now?” Peeta asks. It’s still at least an hour until midnight.

A mischievous grin stretches across my face. I run a hand down his chest.

“Do you remember on the Victory Tour how we used to try and sneak away?” I ask innocently.

“I do…what are you suggesting?” he says, now matching my grin.

I shrug. “Just thought I’d remind you that I know all the best hiding spots in this mansion.”

“Then by all means, lead the way,” he says, taking my hand.

I start dragging Peeta through the maze of people towards a closet I remember being right off of the ballroom. I make sure the door is solidly locked behind us before we play out a scenario from our teenage years that was just pretend then, but very, very real now.

We manage to sort ourselves out again just in time for the countdown to midnight. We join in the outskirts of the crowd and cheer as the bell rings us into a new year. Then Peeta grabs my waist and pulls me into a kiss so firm and warm that I forget about everyone else in the room. Everyone else in the world. It’s just him and me and our little pear squished between us.

“Happy New Year,” I whisper when we part lips.

“Happy New Year, my love,” he whispers back.

I go up on my toes so my lips touch his ear. For all the sentimentality I’ve had recently, I realize that almost none of it has been directed towards Peeta. Now is my moment to rectify that.

“I love you so much,” I whisper. “And I know I’ve been sick and scared and a bit of a bear to deal with, but I also hope you know how excited I am to start parenting with you this year.” I kiss his cheek. “Loving you is the greatest joy of my life.”

“Mine, too,” he says, smiling. He has one hand firmly planted on my lower back, while the other drifts forward to rub my belly. I decide I’ll allow it without chopping off his hand. “I can’t wait to meet this little one and see you become the fantastic mother I’ve always known you’ll be.”

When our sentiments and kisses have run out for the moment we agree that it’s time for bed. We set out to find Haymitch, but it’s not too hard. He’s back at our table, looking tired and slightly bored and surprisingly run down. But far more alert than I would’ve expected to find him.

“Are you–“ Peeta stops. Sober is clearly the word on both our minds, but we’ve learned the hard way that pointing out Haymitch’s sobriety usually leads to him drinking out of spite. “–ready to go?”

Haymitch nods, and before we know it the three of us are back in our rooms, sound asleep.

We all sleep in after being up so late, but I sleep the longest. It’s early afternoon when I open my eyes. Thankfully, Peeta seems to have packed everything up while I slept. Our bags and the cake boxes are stacked on one luggage cart, while Effie’s dresses are neatly rearranged on the other.

I just have time to change my clothes and brush my teeth before Haymitch knocks on the door to collect us for the train.

“Will we have time to get these back to Effie?” Peeta asks as he lets him in.

“I’ll get them to her,” Haymitch says.

“Well, that doesn’t answer my question. We’re all getting on the same train.”

Haymitch sighs and steps fully into the room. 

“Take a seat, I need to talk to you about something,” he says.

Peeta and I sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at Haymitch feeling like school children about to be scolded for spoiling their dinner.

“Haymitch?” I ask nervously.

“I’m staying here for a bit. Got some business I need to take care of,” he says.

“What kind of business?” Peeta asks.

I can see Haymitch trying to spin a half truth, but I hold his gaze. Don’t you dare lie to me , my eyes challenge

Haymitch sighs. “I’m having a procedure done. I’m fine,” he assures us, “but I’ve done a lot of damage to my liver. Not sure how much longer it’ll hold out on its own. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s held out this long. I’ve been on a list for a transplant for a while, but I needed to be six months sober. The timing worked out that we were here when I hit the mark, and I got the call this morning that they found me a match.”

“But…what about the minibar?” Peeta frowns.

“I gave it all to Effie, mine too. She’s been acting as my accountability coach. Knew this weekend would present more temptations than most.” Haymitch leans back against the desk and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You okay there, sweetheart?”

No, I’m not okay. I’m chewing on my lip so hard it might start bleeding. But now all I can think about is Haymitch dying. Dying of liver failure. Dying from surgery complications. Of all the people who will never meet our baby, Haymitch is not supposed to be one of them.

“When will you come home?” is all I can manage to ask.

“It’s a slow recovery, but if all goes well I should be able to come home in a couple months,” he answers.

“We’ll stay here, then, help you recover,” Peeta says immediately. I nod quickly, but Haymitch shakes his head. 

“No, you two need to get home and start prepping your nest for your little bird,” he says.

“Is it risky?” Peeta asks gravely.

Haymitch shrugs. “Everything in life’s got risks. All things considered, my odds are better for doing this than if I don’t.”

I can see that Peeta’s just as unhappy as I am. I’m trying to hold back tears, determined to be strong. I don’t trust my voice, though, so I throw my arms around his neck.

“I’ll be fine, you hear me? I made a special kind of promise that I’d stick around as long as my family needs me,” Haymitch says.

“You’d better be prepared to stick around a long time, then,” Peeta says, voice catching.

“I am. Long as I’m able,” Haymitch agrees. He releases me to embrace Peeta.

“We love you, you know that?” Peeta says.

Haymitch lets him go and ruffles his hair. “I know. I love you, too. Against my better judgement.”

“Call us and keep us updated, please. Or have Effie call or just…don’t leave us in the dark,” Peeta says quietly.

Haymitch nods. “You got anything else you need to say, Sweetheart?” he asks.

“Stay alive,” I say with a little sniff. 

Haymitch breathes out a soft laugh and kisses my forehead. Then he squats down so he’s at eye level with my stomach and I almost lose it.

“I’ll see you soon, little one. Try and raise a little hell while I’m gone, give your mom and dad a taste of their own medicine for all the trouble they’ve put me through.”

The only thing that stops me from sobbing here and now is catching Peeta’s eye, where he shakes his head and mouths no ears . 

I hold it together down the elevator, in the car, through the train station. Only once Peeta and I are safely nestled in our compartment on the train do I fully break down.

“It’ll be okay, Katniss. This is a good thing,” Peeta reassures me.

I mostly sob incoherence into his shoulder. Eventually, though, I manage to get out one sentence that captures the heart of all my pain. 

“Peeta, I can’t put his page in our book.”

I feel Peeta’s tears leak down my forehead.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. It’ll be okay. He’s stronger than he looks.”

“That’s not saying much. He doesn’t look that strong,” I murmur. 

Peeta laughs. “Well, maybe he will once he gets a new liver,” he says.

“Promise me he’ll be okay,” I whisper.

“I can’t. But I can promise you that no matter what happens, I’ll be right here with you,” Peeta says gently. “We’ll get through this together. And one way or another, our daughter is going to grow up knowing everything there is to know about the grouchy, loving, wonderful man who raised us.”

We lay on the bed, holding each other until our tears run out, watching the sunset through the window.

“Peeta?” I whisper in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Six months ago. That would’ve been the summer festival, right?”

“I think so, why?” he asks.

“I told him we were trying that night. I’d bet anything that’s what made him stop drinking,” I tell him.

The silence hangs over us for a moment as bits of the conversation with Haymitch come back to me. He knew his liver was failing. He’s been on the list for years. He knew what he needed to do. We’ve watched him go through stretches of sobriety, never quite hitting this mark. Maybe that’s how he wanted it, to go quietly with the two of us grown and healed and together.

But then I told him we were trying to start a new life, and maybe he decided he would try too.

“He’s a good man,” Peeta sighs.

“Yeah,” I agree. “He is.”

Chapter Text

Delly, Clara, and I are all laying flat on our stomachs in the middle of Delly’s living room floor. Well, okay, I’m cheating by laying kind of twisted on my side. There’s no more flat on my stomach for me. 

“Are you sure this is good for her?” I ask. Clara is crying like the world is ending with her face down on her blanket.

“Yes, she’s fine. She’s just being dramatic,” Delly assures me. “Come on Clara Bear, just pick your head up.”

But less than a minute later, Delly sighs as Clara cries harder and she gently turns the baby’s head so she can see her mama. Clara’s cries dissolve into little whimpers.

“There we go, now you just need to do it yourself ,” Delly chastises lightly. She passes me a rattle. “Let’s see if you can find Aunt Katniss now.”

“So how often are you supposed to torture the baby like this?” I ask, shaking my rattle dutifully. 

“We’re working on about twenty minutes a day right now, it varies with age.”

Now that it’s too cold to hunt comfortably, I’ve been spending a lot of time at Delly’s house. The nice thing about having Clara around is that she’ll always be ahead of my baby, so I can get a glimpse of what my life will look like in seven or so months. 

“Do you just know all this?” I ask.

In general, I feel like I know how to take care of a baby. Feed it, burp it, soothe it. But I know nothing about “tummy time” and how long they should be doing it based on their age or any of that.

“Well this is my fourth time around, so yeah,” Delly chuckles. “But the first time around I studied those books like I was going to be quizzed.”

“What books? Can I borrow them?” I plead.

Delly gives me a funny look. “I gave them all to Peeta weeks ago.”

“Really?” That’s news to me. I don’t know why he’d hide that from me. Not that he is, necessarily. It just hasn’t come up, I guess.

We’re both distracted by Clara who, in search of the rattle, turns her head and lands once again face down on the blanket. She resumes screaming her head off soon after.

“Alright, alright, valiant effort,” Delly concedes, sitting up and plucking Clara up onto her lap. “Let’s take a break.”

“Good, I couldn’t lay like that much longer either,” I admit. My back aches on a good day, I don’t know what I expected would happen by twisting it like that.

Delly passes Clara off to me so she can prepare a bottle, and I bring her with me to the couch. I prop up my legs so I can position the baby facing me and talk at her. Pretty soon she starts kicking her little legs right into my bump.

“Excuse me, missy. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I tease her. “Your little cousin in there is the size of a cucumber this week. Which, for the record, I think is a silly measurement, because cucumbers come in many sizes.”

Clara looks at me like she simply couldn’t care less, and continues to kick my stomach.

“See, imagine those feet inside of you and maybe you’ll have some sympathy for why I was so grouchy those last weeks,” Delly says. She holds out the bottle to me and I nod, immediately shifting Clara in my arms to feed her. It works out for both of us; I want the practice and Delly doesn’t mind having some time with her hands free.

“Have you felt her kick yet?” Delly asks. I frown. “Your her, not my her,” she clarifies. “Mine doesn’t stop kicking.”

“No, should I have felt her already?” I ask.

Delly shrugs. “No, not necessarily. It’s still pretty early. I felt them all at different weeks. And the first time’s the hardest because you don’t really know what you’re feeling for.”

“My pregnancy book describes it as flutters,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a fluttery, bubbly, gurgly…it’s hard to describe. You’ll figure it out,” she says. Then she sighs wistfully and leans down to kiss her baby’s feet. “I loved those little flutter kicks.”

Clara goes down for a nap soon after her bottle and Delly admits to wanting a nap too. I say my goodbyes for the day and make my way to the bakery. Peeta told the rest of the staff about the baby last week, and they were all so excited for us. Cambric’s working the counter when I walk in. I give him a wave before I duck behind the counter and contemplate the display case. 

My stomach rumbles in protest of not being fed in two hours. Peeta’s added quite a few pastries I’ve never seen before. Something called a sugar plum tart and cinnamon twists and some sort of chocolate orange concoction. The new additions are intriguing, but with my stomach grumbling the way it is it’s probably safest to stick with something tried and true. I land on a double chocolate muffin, and start digging into it immediately.

“How’s it going, Cambric?” I ask through a mouthful of muffin.

“Oh, I’m right as rain. My girl’s coming back home,” he says.

“Sadie’s visiting again?”

“Not visiting. Coming home,” Cambric says brightly.

“Oh, did she finally discover herself?” I ask. 

Cambric chuckles. “Guess so.”

I’ve shoveled about half of the oversized muffin in my mouth when I need to take a break. I can feel gas bubbles settling in my stomach and realize I’m probably eating too fast. I duck my head into the kitchen but I don’t see Peeta.

“Is my husband around here somewhere?” I ask.

“In the office, he’s been back there a while,” Cambric says. “I think the schedule’s stressing him out. Scarlet’s taking a week off and it’s during your next scan.”

“Don’t four other people work here?” I frown.

“That’s what I said, too,” he scoffs. “He’s going to need to get used to relinquishing some control once your little one arrives.”

“I should go check on him,” I say.

When I walk in the office, Peeta looks up from his desk and smiles warmly at me.

“Hey, you,” he says.

“Hey,” I lean across the desk to kiss him. “Cambric said you’re stressed about the schedule.”

“What?” he furrows his brow. “Oh, no. I worked it out. I was stressed for like, five minutes. I’ve just been on the phone with Haymitch.”

“How is he?” I ask urgently. Last we heard Haymitch was still in the hospital. Recovering, but not as quickly as they’d like.

“He’s good, finally got discharged from the hospital. He’s in a bit of a mood, but that’s to be expected. They replaced a major organ,” Peeta says.

“When will he come home?” I ask. More bubbles shift in my abdomen and I’m starting to wonder if that muffin was a bad idea.

Peeta shrugs. “Don’t know yet. He’s staying with Effie until the doctor’s clear him to live on his own.”

“I wish he’d reconsider staying with us. I can’t imagine living with Effie is going to do much to improve his mood,” I say. 

Peeta says something in response, but my ears are ringing as the realization hits me. Fluttery, bubbly, gurgly. I press a hand to my stomach, concentrating hard on the feeling. Fluttery, bubbly, gurgly . Without a doubt, the baby is moving.

“Katniss?” 

The next thing I know, I’m outside. Kneeling on the ground, the only thing tethering me to reality is the stinging in my hands where they dig into the snow.

“KATNISS!” Peeta shouts. 

Slowly, the world starts to shift back into focus. I’m behind the bakery, I must have run out the back door. And Peeta followed. He’s crouched down in front of me, terror and concern etched into his face.

“Katniss, talk to me!” he yells.

My breath is coming out shallow and rapid. “I can’t…I…I can’t…”

“Are you in pain?!” he asks desperately.

I shake my head.

Peeta studies me for a moment, then his expression softens.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” he says quietly.

On rare occasions I’ve seen this happen to Peeta. I’m certain that’s what’s happening to me now.

I nod.

“Tell me five things you can see,” Peeta says softly.

“What?” I breathe.

“Tell me five things you can see. The first five you can find,” he coaxes.

“Um…you?”

“Good, that’s one.”

“Back door. Garbage can. Snow. Tree.” My breathing starts to even out.

“Good, now four things you can feel,” Peeta continues.

I look down at my hands, still buried in the snow and bright pink.

“Cold snow.” Peeta takes my hands and starts to warm them up with his oven-like body heat. “Warm hands.” Peeta kisses the back of my hand, and I manage the hint of a smile. “Soft kiss.”

I feel it again. Fluttery. Bubbly. Terrifying. I feel tears pour down my cheeks and my smile is gone. “Moving,” is all I can manage to say.

“She’s moving?” Peeta asks. His eyes look much more hopeful than I feel. I can tell it’s taking every ounce of self control he has not to put his hand on my belly.

I nod.

“Do you want to finish the exercise or go back inside?” he asks. 

“Inside,” I say.

Peeta helps me to my feet and guides me back through the bakery with an arm around me. I can feel the eyes of the staff on me, I must’ve been quite a sight running through here. He gets me settled on the couch and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. Then he takes my hands and continues rubbing warmth back into them.

There’s a soft knock on the door, then it’s immediately cracked open without waiting for response.

“Do you want me to call the hospital for you?” Shiloh asks in a solemn voice. It’s especially jarring since Shiloh is rarely serious.

“No, we’re okay,” Peeta says. He surveys me again, a soft smile on his lips and pity in his eyes. “We’ll be okay. Thank you, though, Shiloh.”

The door shuts again and I collapse into sobs. Peeta holds me tight against his chest, stroking my hair and whispering soothing words. He holds me until I’ve cried myself out.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t apologize, just tell me what you’re feeling,” Peeta requests.

“I…I don’t know,” I sniff.

Peeta grabs a box of tissues from his desk and hands it to me. 

“You felt the baby move and you had a panic attack,” Peeta says matter-of-factly.

I nod miserably.

“Are you regretting this decision?” Peeta asks. He says it in a fairly neutral voice, but his eyes look sad.

“No!” I answer immediately. “No, Peeta, I want her. I already–” my voice cracks, and the tears return, “I already love her so much,” I whisper.

“Good. Katniss, that’s a good thing. We’re supposed to love her,” he says, taking my face in his hands.

“What if something happens?” I say for probably the fiftieth time this pregnancy.

“What if it doesn't? What if we have a healthy, happy baby and we keep her safe for the rest of our lives?” Peeta challenges. “Are you considering that possibility even half as much as you’re worrying about worst case scenarios?”

“Last I checked, a lot of my ‘worst case scenarios’ are things that we’ve actually lived through,” I remind him testily.

“I know. But we got through them,” he says. 

“Barely,” I mumble.

Peeta sighs. “Darling, I’m not trying to minimize your fear. Please, if you take nothing else away from this conversation, please hear me when I say I understand why you’re scared. I understand better than anyone else. Believe it or not, I’m scared too.”

“Not like this,” I say. Embarrassment starts to creep in at my panic attack. At the way I ran past half of the staff in my flight. At the way Peeta has to keep consoling me. 

“Well I’m not the one growing a human,” he says gently. “Not to mention the fact that all of those hormones can’t be helping the situation.”

I huff. He’s right, I know. But I’m still so embarrassed and tender and exhausted that I don’t feel up to admitting that. So I lean forward and grab the remaining half of my muffin from his desk and start picking at it.

“What kinds of things are you afraid of?” I finally ask.

“Well, all the same things as you, I imagine. I worry about losing the baby and how that would affect us,” he says. “But it should help now that she’s moving, shouldn't it? So now you know she’s alive and well?”

“I guess, but now I’m going to worry when she’s not moving,” I say. “And it feels weird. Delly made it sound more…exciting.”

“Well Delly sugarcoats her sugar,” Peeta reminds me with a soft laugh.

Sugar…sugar plums…Peeta invents new pastries when he’s anxious. Maybe it isn’t fair of me, but suddenly I smile at the memory of that display case full of new creations. He’s not just saying he’s scared to make me feel better, he’s telling the truth. It’s comforting to not be the only one who needs comforting. Less lonely.

“What else scares you?” I ask. I wrap my arms around his bicep and curl into him more.

“Not being a good dad,” he answers immediately.

My face falls. For all the times he’s reassured me that I’ll be a good mother, have I ever done the same for him? If I have, it’s not nearly enough.

“Oh, Peeta, you will be,” I tell him.

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I think sometimes you think too highly of me. I like kids but I…I don’t know the first thing about raising them.”

“You’re great with kids,” I say in disbelief. 

“I know how to talk to them, I know how to be fun. But actual parenting is something different. And it’s not like my parents were the best example…” he trails off.

I kiss his cheek, then run my nails along his arm. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told you before because I was afraid you’d make some stupid joke,” I say.

Peeta raises his eyebrows in intrigue.

“You remind me a lot of my father,” I say quietly.

“Wow, that’s high praise,” Peeta says reverently, kissing my forehead. “That does make us having sex kind of awkward, though.”

“Peeta!” I screech, smacking him in the stomach.

“Well now you’re reminding me of my mother,” he says.

I let out a gasp and Peeta pulls me so close I’m pretty much on his lap. He buries his face in my hair and plants a long kiss there.

“I’m joking, obviously,” he whispers. “You are absolutely nothing like my mother, and if I’m half the man you’ve described your father to be, between the two of us this kid’s going to be in good shape.”

I give a soft laugh into the crook of his neck.

“Is this why you didn’t tell me Delly lent you a bunch of baby books?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly. “They’re in my studio, I’ve been reading them most of the time you’ve thought I was painting.”

“Well knock that off, I need to learn too!” I exclaim indignantly. “This is also my first time being a parent!”

Peeta laughs and kisses my forehead. “Okay, sorry. As soon as we get home the books will become a communal resource.”

The baby starts flutter-kicking again, and I wrinkle my nose while placing a hand on my stomach.

“Are you going to be okay?” Peeta asks softly.

I shrug. “I guess I have to be. Not much else I can do about it.”

“Can I…” Peeta hesitates, then tries again. “Can I feel?”

“You can try, but I’m not sure there’s anything to feel from the outside yet,” I warn him.

Still, Peeta eagerly places a hand on my stomach and I put mine on top of his to help position it. I close my eyes and concentrate on the tiny movement, adjusting his hand slightly into the optimum position.

“Is she moving right now?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. 

Peeta lets out a small, disappointed sigh. “I guess you’re right, it’s too early.”

“Sorry, love. If I could reverse our roles here I would,” I joke halfheartedly.

“I know,” he says.

Even though he can’t feel her moving, I don’t push Peeta’s hand from my belly. Instead I intertwine our fingers so I can guide him in rubbing my bump slowly and soothingly.

“It feels like it’s getting real now,” I admit in a whisper.

“We’re just about halfway there,” he agrees. 

“I’m scared,” I say.

“I know. Me, too,” he says.

Peeta kisses my lips, my belly, then my lips again. Then he rises from the couch.

“I’m going to fill them in a little out there, just enough that they know everything’s okay,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Then we can head home?”

“Yeah, home sounds good,” I say.

So Peeta fills in the staff, I fill a takeaway box with some of Peeta’s new creations (my official role at the bakery is taste tester, after all) and we make our way home hand-in-hand.

“Let’s play a game,” Peeta says as we walk. 

“What kind of game?” I ask skeptically.

“A variation of your ‘good things’ game, but we’re going to say all the good things we can think of that we’re excited to do with our baby,” he says.

“You know, your idea of a game is usually just making some kind of list,” I point out.

“Yep. And I’ll go first. I’m excited to get started on the nursery,” he says.

“Will you paint something special on the walls?” I ask.

“Of course, if you want me to.”

“I do.”

“Good,” he smiles. “Your turn.”

“I’m excited to…give her a bath in the sink,” I decide.

Peeta smiles wider. “And dress her in little footie pajamas after.”

“Then snuggle her on the couch so she’s nice and warm,” I add.

Here it’s safe, here it’s warm… the song worms its way into my head without my permission. The words I sang over my fretful baby sister when she couldn’t sleep. The words I sang over a dying girl.

“Don’t do that, we’re only thinking of good things right now,” Peeta says, catching the expression on my face.

Right. Good things. Peeta was right, I’ve barely allowed myself to really hope for anything beyond a safe and healthy baby. I haven’t really stopped to imagine our life with her.

“The first time she brings you a picture to hang in your office,” I say softly.

“The first time she sings a song like her mama,” Peeta counters.

We continue going back and forth until we reach our front door, pausing only momentarily so Peeta can feed the geese for Haymitch. By the time I land on the couch, the full force of my panic attack has caught up with me and I’m exhausted. Peeta takes one look at my heavy eyelids and gives me a soft smile. He takes the bakery bag from my hand and gently tucks me in on the couch. 

“Go to sleep, my love. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he whispers.

True to his word, when I open my eyes again Peeta’s sitting on the floor in front of me with his sketchbook on his lap. Stacks of baby books have been set out on the coffee table. I reach over and run my fingers through his curls, then he tips his head back to look at me.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Better,” I shrug, pulling myself upright. I pat the couch next to me for Peeta to join me. “What are you drawing?”

“Just sketching some ideas for the nursery walls,” he says.

He hands the sketchbook over to me for me to flip through. The sketches seem primarily nature themed, some depicting the forest or the meadow, one sketch a collection of woodland animals. There’s also a quick sketch of me asleep on the couch, hand on my stomach, with the words sleepy mama written in small letters above my head and wiggly baby written by my stomach.

“Anything standing out to you?” Peeta asks.

“They’re all great, really. I’m inclined to just give you free reign and let you paint your heart out,” I say.

Peeta smiles softly and kisses the top of my head. “Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe…cookie dough?” I ask, eyes widened innocently.

“Anything but that, nice try,” he says.

“Pleeeease,” I beg, “it’s for the baby !”

Peeta rolls his eyes at me then leans down to address my stomach directly. “Stop giving your mama bad ideas,” he chastises our daughter. “She can’t have cookie dough and you know it.”

“That won’t work because she still can’t hear you. Baby says cookie dough, and it’s two against one,” I say stubbornly.

“I guess I can mess around with some kind of pregnancy safe cookie dough,” Peeta muses. 

He rises from the couch and I follow him into the kitchen. I know he expects me to sit at the island stools but instead I pull myself up to sit on the counter near him. To his credit, the look he gives me is probably only half as exasperated as he feels.

I watch him as he pulls out bowls and ingredients. Most of it is muscle memory, but every now and then he pauses and his face takes on that special look of concentration I love. 

Little Miss starts flutter kicking again. “Good morning,” I mumble, rubbing my stomach. This breaks Peeta’s concentration momentarily for him to smile at me. A few minutes later he presents me with a bowl of a cookie dough-like substance. It’s not quite the same, but good enough for the time being.

“What are you going to do about the bakery when she’s born?” I ask. I’ve been wondering about it for a while, I just hadn’t gotten around to asking the question.

“The staff knows what they’re doing,” Peeta shrugs. “They can certainly run the place without me. I’ll go back when I’m ready but I want to spend plenty of time home with you two first.”

“Are you leaving someone in charge or are they forming a democracy in your absence?” I ask.

Peeta hesitates a moment. “Do you think it’d be crazy for me to leave Shiloh in charge?”

I get where he’s coming from. Shiloh’s been with us since he was fifteen. Of the bakery’s five employees, Shiloh definitely has the best combined experience and expertise. He was a bit of a wildcard in his teens, causing multiple new hires to quit after he slept with them then broke their hearts. But the staff hasn’t really changed in over a decade, and there’s no risk of Shiloh sleeping with any of them. Rory and Ember are happily married, Scarlet’s engaged to the girl she’s been with for almost ten years, and I don’t think Cambric’s his type. 

Besides, come to think of it, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard about Shiloh having any disastrous romantic involvement. Maybe he finally mellowed with age. I think back to how calm and mature he was this afternoon when they thought I was losing the baby. We’ve been doing him a disservice by not letting him outgrow the image we had of him as a kid.

“I don’t think that’s crazy,” I answer. 

“Is it offensive to Cambric? He’s older,” Peeta says.

“But he knows he’s not the strongest baker,” I remind him. “Shiloh will make better calls about inventory and such.”

“That’s true.”

“I know Cambric’s your closest friend, but I don’t think this will offend him,” I assure him.

Peeta nods. Then he nudges his way towards me so he’s standing between my knees. I drape my arms around his neck.

“It might be time to start acting like we’re having a baby,” I say quietly.

“What, guilting me into making you whatever food you want isn’t acting enough?” Peeta says.

I laugh. “No, it’s not enough, which is why I intend to do it even more,” I smirk. “But I meant…the only proof we have that we’re having a baby is a stack of borrowed books and a picture on the fridge.”

“We’ve also got this ,” Peeta says, grabbing my belly with both hands.

“Well, that’s true,” I say. “But that is already about halfway cooked, and in twenty-two weeks we’re going to need to put her somewhere.”

“Are you ready to set up the nursery?” Peeta asks.

“I’m ready to clear it out, at least,” I say. Part of me is still scared to set up a room for the baby and then lose her. But I have to take this one day at a time. “Better to clear out the furniture now while I can still help.”

Peeta scoffs. “I’m not letting you move furniture no matter what.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll let you move all the furniture if you do it without a shirt on. Deal?”

“Deal,” Peeta laughs.

Chapter Text

Peeta and I had laughed when we read that pregnancy can cause nightmares. “At least we’re already prepared for that one,” Peeta had joked.

But I’m not laughing anymore, it turns out pregnancy nightmares are no joke. All of my dreams center around one of two things: losing the baby, or losing Peeta. They’re creative and so incredibly vivid. The other night I dreamt of Peeta cheating on me with another woman, and it was so realistic I didn’t speak to him for half the morning. 

The content of my nightmare tonight, however, is much more disturbing. By the time I awake, sobbing, the finer details have already begun to fade. I just remember seeing our little girl, with her dark hair braided into two pigtails, covered in blood.

“It’s okay, love,” Peeta whispers. “It was just a dream, we’re all safe.”

I continue to sob into his chest.

“You’re not mad at me again, are you?” he asks.

I shake my head and Peeta pulls me tighter against him until I’m cried out. Then he goes and gets me a glass of cold water and a warm, damp rag for my eyes.

“There we go,” he whispers, gently rubbing the cloth along my face. “It’s alright, everything’s alright.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Of course,” he whispers back.

I take a big sip of my water, and a few moments later the baby starts wiggling. Sometimes she wakes up when I eat or drink. I instinctively put my hand on my belly. Her little kicks have gotten stronger, not by much but enough to be easily distinguishable from gas bubbles now. I still can’t say I love the feeling, but I like knowing she’s alright after dreams like tonight.

Peeta puts a hand on my stomach and I do my best to guide it to the spot where she’s kicking, but it’s pointless. Her kicks still aren’t hard enough for him to feel. After a minute he shakes his head and gives a little shrug.

“Oh well, at least I’ll get to see her moving today,” he says. 

The sun hasn’t started to rise yet, but it will soon. In a few hours we’ll be heading to the hospital for my twenty week scan, the next thing in my ever evolving list of fears. Today they’ll check her growth and all of her organs. And even though I have the reassurance of her movement, the doctor could very well tell us today that something’s wrong. That something isn’t growing right, and she won’t be able to survive on the outside.

“We can’t wait to see how big and strong you’re growing,” Peeta says to my stomach. “You are so loved, sweet potato,” he adds, dropping a kiss onto the spot I held his hand to. Then he sits up and kisses my lips. “So are you, Swamp Potato.”

I roll my eyes at the nickname pulled from the plant book. “Don’t you have some bread to bake?” I ask. 

“That I do,” he says regretfully. “Are you stopping by the bakery or should I meet you at the hospital?” 

“Probably the hospital, depends on how late I sleep,” I say with a yawn. 

“Okay, love, get some rest. I’ll see you there.” A kiss on my forehead, then another to my stomach. “And I’ll see you there.”

So I fall back asleep, Peeta goes to work, and I meet him at the hospital later in the morning. We weren’t able to get the earliest appointment this time around, but it hardly matters. I’m showing and everyone we care about already knows about the pregnancy. And those who don’t already know have at least guessed based on seeing me around town or watching the Capitol gossip shows after the museum event.

I know the drill once I’m brought back to a room. Vitals are taken, pleasantries are exchanged, cold gel is deposited onto my belly. The screen comes to life and our little girl appears. She’s so much clearer than the little blob we saw last time. Looking at her now, I realize most of the things we claimed to have seen before were probably just our imagination.

Now I can make out the perfect outline of her side profile. Count her fingers, if I wanted to. See the little feet that have been kicking me, just as they are now.

Peeta’s eyes are wide as he watches the screen.

“Can you feel all that movement?” he asks.

I nod. There’s something about watching and feeling the movement in tandem that unlocks something new in my brain. It’s like this entire time I’ve been prepared for the concept of a baby, but suddenly a switch has flipped and I fully understand that I’m having a baby. A real, live baby.

Panic starts to creep in again, but unlike when I first felt her moving, this panic is more tangible. And rational, if I’m being honest. In a few months we will have a real life baby in our arms. One who will sleep in a crib we haven’t bought. Who we will need to dress in clothes we don’t have. Peeta and I have talked about the nursery, but it’s still been more about cleaning the room and deciding what to paint on the walls. But babies need things . And right now the only thing we have for her is a set of pajamas that are nearly thirty years old.

“You’re panicking,” Peeta whispers in my ear.

I shake my head. “I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking about how panicked you are?” he asks.

“Thinking about how much we need to do,” I answer.

“Like what?”

“Set up her room, buy her clothes, buy her diapers, buy her a bunch of other things we probably don’t even know we need yet,” I tick off on my fingers.

Peeta laughs. “If we don’t know we need it, we probably don’t,” he reminds me.

“We have resources on recommended items for first time parents I can send you home with,” Dr. Elliot chimes in. “But he’s right, less is usually more when it comes to babies. There’s lots of things out there that you’ll never need.”

We continue to alternate between making plans for the house and watching the screen and pointing things out. It’s a long appointment and Dr. Elliot is mainly focused on checking the baby’s organs, so we try not to distract her by asking too many questions. But towards the end I need help making sense of what I’m seeing on the screen.

“What am I looking at? I can’t get the perspective,” I say.

“There’s her head,” the doctor points on the screen. “She’s sort of facing towards us here. And that there’s her arm, she’s sucking her thumb.”

An image flashes through my mind. A toddler with two little blonde pigtails, walking beside me with her tiny hand in mine–only slightly bigger–and her other thumb in her mouth. I had forgotten until this very moment how often Prim sucked her thumb. How she had wailed when our mother tried to break her of the habit. How sometimes when she’d wake from a bad dream I’d let her indulge in the self-soothing technique, like it was our little secret.

“Can you get a picture of that?” Peeta asks quietly. I realize my eyes are filled with tears.

“Already done,” Dr. Elliot smiles.

At the end of the appointment we’re given a folder of new photos and pregnancy resources and anticlimactically informed that everything looks good. Just like that, another obstacle cleared. Her organs are developing, she’s growing appropriately. She’s okay.

Peeta takes a second to hug me when I’m left alone to clean the gunk off of my belly and redress. We breathe a mutual sigh of relief in each others’ arms. She’s okay . Then we head to the desk and book our next appointment before we’re on our way.

“Are you going back to work?” I ask.

“No, I took the rest of the day,” Peeta says. “You have any plans for the day?”

“I was thinking we could walk around the Hob a little, maybe start stocking up on baby supplies?” I suggest.

Peeta is thrilled to indulge this request. So I take his hand and we make our way to the Hob. Now that it’s more of a public market than an illegal trading center, there’s a much wider range of offerings. Sometimes women set up shop for a day or two to trade old things their babies have grown out of, or others use their sewing skills to sell new clothes and handmade toys and blankets.

Peeta and I agree not to go overboard with clothes, since Delly’s promised us all of her old baby things. I guess she was serious about being done having kids, since she “strongly encouraged” Briar to get a surgery to prevent pregnancy along with getting her shot. Anyway, I’m grateful for the hand-me-downs, but I still want our baby to have some things that are just her own. Maybe it’s silly, and part of me feels guilty, the way I always do when spending money in excess of what’s necessary.

“It’s not a waste to clothe our child,” Peeta reminds me, after we buy a pack of little onesies with different plants embroidered on each one.

“It’s a little wasteful if we’re going to get everything the Penn children have ever worn,” I shoot back.

Peeta gives me a tender look and pulls me slightly to the side. “Look, I know you’re always going to be weary about money, but it’s okay,” he reminds me. “We have lived well under our means these past fifteen years. We don’t have to choose between clothes and food. And I know it’s going to be hard for you, but I need you to be okay with spoiling our daughter every now and then.”

“I’ll try,” I mumble. The image of Peeta spoiling our daughter rotten is enough to make me bite back a smile as I pull Peeta toward the next stall.

“Have you thought about names at all?” Peeta asks.

The truth is that I stored a name away in my heart years ago, in case I ever changed my mind. But I’m still afraid to give that name to this child. I don’t know if I’ll be ready for that until she’s in my arms.

“Not really,” I shrug. “Have you?”

“Just a little,” he says. Knowing Peeta, “a little” means he has a comprehensive list stashed somewhere in the house.

“I might not want to name her until she’s born,” I admit. 

“That’s okay,” he smiles.

We make a few other purchases: a blanket, some books, a little plush rabbit. We pick up a few frames, some to hang Peeta’s art in her room and a couple more for us to frame her new pictures from today. I agreed that Peeta could put one of the ultrasound photos on display in the bakery to officially announce the pregnancy to anyone who hasn’t caught on yet.

Peeta suggests stopping by the bakery on our way home to grab dessert, and I’m certainly not one to ever turn down that idea. While we eat in his office, he chooses an ultrasound picture to frame and ponders it for a while.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“I want to write something on it, I’m just trying to decide,” he says contemplatively. “Is it too cheesy if I say ‘Our little bun in the oven?’”

I laugh and roll my eyes slightly. “Go for it,” I say.

So Peeta writes his joke above the photo and “Baby Mellark, coming this June” below it and leaves it up by the register. Eventually we’ll hang the frame on our gallery of family pictures, once we have a photo of her on the outside.

On Peeta’s next day off, I decide it’s time to start the nursery once and for all. Peeta and I both stand in the middle of the room, surveying it.

“Where do you want to start?” Peeta asks.

“Well, first, I believe we had an agreement,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

Peeta frowns, then a smirk crosses his lips as he remembers. In one movement he pulls his shirt over his head, balls it up, and throws it at my face.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much,” I say.

“Okay, now second order of business?” Peeta says, as I’m openly staring at his naked chest. “Katniss, stay focused!”

“I’m very focused,” I argue, not lifting my gaze.

“On the room, Katniss,” he admonishes. “We need to make some progress here.”

I groan and drop onto the foot of the bed. “Okay, fine. We’ll need everything out of here to paint, right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s start with that today, maybe get a first layer of paint done, then we can go to our room so I can have my way with you,” I say.

Peeta lets out a loud laugh and holds out his hands to pull me back to my feet. I nestle my face in between his collarbones and run my hands along his chest, nearly dizzy with want. I’d blame the hormones, but honestly, it’s just the effect Peeta has on me.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Peeta whispers into my hair. “I’d better get started.”

Peeta moves the dresser into the hallway temporarily. I take some time to arrange our girl’s new clothes in the drawers while Peeta disassembles the bed. We agreed to store it in the cellar for our daughter when she gets older. It’s a fine bed, really, and it’s barely had any use. Then the only thing left is Prim’s hope chest, which takes me a little longer to make a decision about. Eventually I decide to move it to the other bedroom upstairs, the one that was once my mother’s. 

Peeta brings some of his paints and his sketchbook up to me and we sit in the middle of the now empty room as he swatches sample colors for our consideration. I flip through the sketchbook again, but ultimately I decide I trust Peeta’s artistic vision enough to surprise me.

“I think you should do whatever you’re going to do there,” I say, pointing to the blank stretch of wall to my left, Peeta’s right.

“I thought that’s where you wanted the crib?” he clarifies.

“It is, but I think it’d be nice to have your painting be the first thing she sees when she wakes up. Does that mess with your plans?” I ask.

Peeta considers the wall a moment, maybe trying to visualize the crib. But then he smiles. “No, I think that’ll look great.”

We talk through the layout of the room a little more. It feels much easier to think about now that it’s a blank slate rather than a halfhearted memorial to my dead sister. The one thing I know for sure is that I want it laid out completely different from when it was Prim’s room. The dresser can go near the crib instead of by the door. We’ll get a bookshelf and put it where the dresser was. And a big comfy chair, a rocker, preferably, for nighttime feedings and storytimes.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Peeta says admiringly. “And I’m thinking about this for the walls?” He holds up a swatch that’s a light, pale green. 

“I love it. Green’s my favorite color, you know?” I smirk.

Peeta drops his sketchbook and grabs me by the waist. “Yeah, I heard that somewhere.”

He peppers my face with soft kisses until his lips meet mine. I trap his face with my hands, not letting him get away before I can deepen the kiss. Not that he’d try, anyway. He snakes a hand into my hair and tightens the other around my waist so I’m as flush against him as my bump allows. It’s then that I remember he’s still shirtless and I trail my fingers down his chest, around his sides, then up his back.

“I should probably run to the hardware store soon so I can get started today,” Peeta mumbles as he pulls away.

“Do you have to go now ?” I ask, pulling his lips back down to mine another minute. “Stay with me,” I whisper.

“Well, you know I can’t resist that,” he smiles.

So Peeta and I kiss and fumble our way across the hall so I can make good on my promise to have my way with him. After two rounds and a shower, I’m finally satisfied and I reluctantly allow him to go pick up paint while I make us lunch. 

As I’m bustling around the kitchen, I feel a sharp kick. Stronger than any of the others so far. So strong, in fact…I rest my hand on my stomach as another kick comes through and confirm what I had guessed. I can feel the kick on my hand. I feel a couple more as I’m finishing putting our lunch together, but by the time Peeta comes back through the front door she’s settled in.

“You’re going to be so mad,” I tell him.

“Why?” he asks.

“I felt her kick from the outside,” I say apologetically.

“Really?” Peeta says, face falling. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look genuinely disappointed about missing her movement.

“It’s okay, it was just a few kicks,” I console him. “It just means you’ll get to feel her soon.”

But over the next several days, our daughter proves to be something of a troublemaker. Her kicks continue to increase in intensity, but it’s like she’s bound and determined not to let her father feel them. Not when we’re cuddling in bed, not when I’m at the bakery, not even when I’m sitting and reading chapters aloud from our parenting books while Peeta paints the walls of the nursery. I try my hardest to get him in time, but she always stops as soon as he touches my stomach.

One night I’m nearly asleep when she repositions herself on my bladder, and I have to get back up to take care of business. When I settle back into bed, I feel a hard kick near my belly button.

“Peeta? Are you awake?” I whisper urgently.

“Noooo,” he responds in a half whine, half groan.

I chuckle. Peeta is generally so patient, and he’s more than used to me waking him up at all hours of the night with my nightmares. But I’ve found that there’s this certain spot in his sleep cycle that makes him incredibly grouchy if I wake him up.

“I’m sorry, I promise it’s worth it,” I whisper.

I grab his hand and quickly position it over the baby’s feet. To both of our luck, she gives another hard kick right into his palm. Peeta’s eyes fly open, full of awe.

“Was that her?” he asks.

“That’s her,” I confirm.

“Woah,” he whispers. “That’s crazy.”

“I know.”

With his hand still frozen on my stomach, Peeta leans forward and kisses me deeply. I smile against his lips when the baby kicks him again.

“Thank you for waking me,” he says.

“Of course, I didn’t think you’d want to miss this,” I say.

She kicks again, the hardest one yet.

“It’s amazing,” he whispers.

“If you say so,” I reply faintly.

Peeta laughs softly. “No, I imagine it’s not as fun when it’s happening inside you. But you’re doing so well, you know that?”

“Like I have any choice,” I shrug off his compliment.

He frowns slightly. “You chose to have her, didn’t you?”

“I did…I still do. I just wish we could skip ahead to the part where she’s here,” I sigh. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Peeta smiles. “We’re halfway there.”

“Halfway there,” I echo. 

We say our goodnights again and I roll over in Peeta’s arms so he’s enveloping me from behind, hand still hovering over the spot she was kicking. Evidently she’s done being a stinker for no, because she gives Peeta another kick as we all fall asleep.

Chapter Text

It’s late February when my depression returns yet again. I try my hardest to get up, to get moving, to force myself back to normal. But it’s no use. I lay in bed long after Peeta’s left for the bakery one Saturday morning. And I’m still there when he comes home later in the day.

“I know that face,” Peeta says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to me.

“You’d better, you’ve been waking up next to it for nearly sixteen years,” I mumble.

Peeta rolls his eyes. “Are you low right now?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “It’ll pass.”

“You should’ve told me,” Peeta sighs. “What can I do? Run a bath?”

“I don’t want a bath ,” I snap. I try to take a deep breath to rein in my irritability, but tears leak from the corners of my eyes on the exhale. “I’m exhausted, Peeta. And I feel huge , and my feet hurt, and then you add in the depression on top of that. I just don’t want to do anything right now, okay?”

He leans down and gently kisses my forehead. “Just come downstairs with me, I promise that’s the only thing you’ll have to do,” Peeta says, wiping away my tears. “I’ll make you some food and rub your feet. We can watch some mind-numbing garbage on TV until you fall asleep. I just want you to get out of this room for a while. I’ll take care of you, you just have to do one thing.”

I reluctantly agree and follow Peeta down the stairs. He throws some cheese buns in the oven and I find something stupid and lighthearted to watch on TV. Peeta massages my feet for a while without complaint.

“Anything else hurt?” he asks after a while. 

I take stock of my body. Everything’s a bit sore, but only one place is screaming in pain besides my feet. “Just my breasts,” I say.

“Well, I mean, I’d be more than happy to help with those if you’d like…”

“I think I’m okay, thanks,” I laugh.

The timer dings in the kitchen and Peeta returns a few moments later with a plate of warm cheese buns. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch so I can lay my head on his lap without having to move. I eat while he strokes my hair. I doze on and off on his lap for a while. Then the movie ends, and I look up at him.

“Should we find something else to watch?” Peeta says lightly.

“I should get up,” I say.

“You got somewhere to be?” he asks, slightly amused.

“No, I just need to take care of myself,” I say.

“Have I not been doing a sufficient job taking care of you?”

“I need to be able to do things for myself!” I cry out, exasperated. 

Peeta frowns at me. “Where is this coming from?”

“We’re having a baby, Peeta.”

“I know that.”

“So what happens when she’s here and I’m depressed and you’re at the bakery?” I ask.

“Then I would come home,” he says simply.

“But what if you can’t? What if I’m here alone with her and she’s hungry and I can’t–what if I can’t–” I feel myself start to hyperventilate.

“Katniss, breathe. Please,” Peeta says gently. “You’re going to work yourself into another panic attack.”

Peeta models a few deep breaths and I match him until I’ve calmed down a bit.

“I know what happened with your mother was horrible for you, but our daughter’s never going to experience that,” he says firmly. “If she’s hungry, you’ll feed her. And if you can’t, I will.”

I bite my lip, taking in what he said. 

“I don’t want her to see me like this,” I whimper miserably.

“Okay, then she won’t. I’ll bring her to the bakery when you’re low.”

“That’s not fair to you,” I say.

“Spending time with my daughter isn’t…fair to me?” he asks wearily.

“Not if you’re also working,” I argue.

The phone starts ringing and Peeta rises to grab it.

“I’ve got a staff, Katniss, if they need to pick up the slack some days they can. I’ll make it up to them other days,” he says.

Peeta comes back into the room, the phone still ringing in his hands, and I nod at it to tell him it’s okay to answer. We’ll finish this discussion later.

“Hello?” Peeta answers. “Oh, hey! How’s it going?”

He takes his spot on the couch again and mouths Haymitch . I nod and rest my head on his shoulder while they talk. I can’t hear Haymitch and Peeta seems to be doing more listening than talking. 

“Okay, yeah, get some rest. We’ll see you soon,” Peeta says before hanging up the phone. “Guess who’s coming home?” he turns to me.

“Really? Is he okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, sounds like it. He did warn that he looks a little scary. Lost a bit of weight, apparently. But the doctors say he’s doing well and he’s safe to come home,” Peeta relays.

The news of Haymitch’s return perks me up a little, though not by much. Over the course of the next several days Peeta and I prepare for him to come home. Peeta recruits Delly and the two of them prepare dozens of easy meals to fill Haymitch’s freezer. I recruit Posy, May Belle, and Sadie–now officially home from their adventures around Panem and on the lookout for jobs–to deep clean his house.

A couple days later Peeta and I walk hand-in-hand to the train station after dinner and wait on a bench for Haymitch’s train to arrive. The trains mostly run like clockwork these days, though the trains to Twelve are still far less frequent than to most of the other districts. Occasionally there’s still a delay for fuel or maintenance, which seems to be the case today. It’s twenty minutes later than the schedule stated when we hear the blow of the train whistle.

Haymitch is first off the train when the doors open. He gets down the steps with the help of an attendant and a cane. Another attendant trails behind him, unloading suitcase after suitcase. It’s not until the other passengers start to deboard, bags in hand, that I realize all of these bags belong to Haymitch. 

Peeta gets to him first, wrapping him in a big hug. When it’s my turn I try to hug him I try to be as gentle as I can, taking great care to assure my stomach doesn’t knock into his tender abdomen.

“Well, look at you. You’re twice the size you were when I last saw you,” Haymitch says to me.

“Well you’re half the size you were,” I snipe.

“Katniss!” Peeta exclaims.

“ Katniss?!” I repeat indignantly. “He called me big!”

“You’re pregnant. That’s a compliment, Sweetheart,” Haymitch reminds me.

I glare at Peeta with a look that says be on my side . Instead he looks at all the surrounding baggage and changes the topic.

“I didn’t realize a liver transplant required so much…stuff,” he says, perplexed.

Haymitch shakes his head and points to a small duffel bag. “That bag’s all my medical supplies. The rest is for you.”

“For…us?” Peeta asks slowly.

“Well, the baby, technically,” Haymitch says.

“Our baby?” I ask.

“Well I don’t know any other babies, do I?” Haymitch shoots back.

“But…why?!” I say.

“Oh, you know…Effie…got carried away…” Haymitch mumbles vaguely.

Peeta laughs and shakes his head as he finds a cart used for supply shipments to load up the bags. We walk Haymitch back to his house, and the geese lose their damn minds when he reaches the front yard.

“Glad to see someone missed me,” Haymitch mumbles.

“ We missed you,” Peeta scowls. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at our house?”

“I’m sure, I’ll be fine. I expect the two of you won’t leave me alone for long.”

Peeta agrees and walks Haymitch into the house to make sure he’s settled. I go home and crawl into bed. Soon Peeta joins me and we turn in early for the night.

In the morning I wake up cuddling Peeta’s pillow as if it was him. I snuggle further into it for a moment, before I catch movement in the corner of my eye and just about jump out of my skin.

“Haymitch! What the fuck are you doing?!” I shout. He’s pulled up the armchair from the corner of the room to the foot of the bed. He’s got some kind of puzzle book and he looks up at me as if bored by the inconvenience of interrupting him.

“The boy said you’re worried about checking out when the baby comes, wanted to test out some new protocols,” he says.

“So he told you to come into our room and watch me sleep?”

“He told me to keep an eye on you,” he shrugs.

Once my heart rate has returned back to normal, I roll onto my back and push myself–with slight difficulty–into a sitting position. It’s then that I become aware of the periodic twitch in my stomach.

“You gave her the hiccups,” I groan. 

“Well you shouldn’t startle so easily,” he counters. I remain sitting in the bed while Haymitch goes back to his puzzle without another word. After a few minutes he shuts the book and looks up at me. “Have you eaten today?”

“Not much,” I admit. Peeta roused me and made me eat some toast before he left for work, I’ve pretty much been sleeping ever since. “You?”

“Bit of toast,” Haymitch says. Guess Peeta got to him too. “Let’s see what he left us for lunch.”

“Okay. Can you do me a favor and go into the second drawer–”

“I’m recovering from major surgery, do it yourself,” he snaps at me.

“Well I’m not wearing pants, so either get them for me or get out!” I growl at him. 

Haymitch mutters something under his breath and goes to the dresser, opens the second drawer, and throws the first pair of pajama pants he sees at me. They’re Peeta’s but it doesn’t matter. His fit me better these days, anyway. I’m pretty much exclusively wearing his clothes now, actually.

“Put on some damn pants,” Haymitch says, keeping his back to me as he leaves.

“Get out of my damn room!” I call after him.

Downstairs, we find a plate of cheese buns and a pot of tomato soup in the fridge. Haymitch offers to help heat up the food, but I can tell that the walk down the stairs took a lot out of him, so I send him to the couch. We sit side by side, dunking chunks of our cheese buns into the soup.

“So, what’d you do in the Capitol?” I ask.

“Not much. Sat around Effie’s place. Watched crap TV.” He slurps his soup loudly. “Anything new here?”

I shrug. “The baby’s kicking. I had a panic attack. Painted the nursery green.”

Haymitch nods. Probably he knew all this from talking to Peeta, he always seemed to call when I wasn’t around. We sip our soup and pick at our buns in silence for a few more minutes. When it becomes clear that neither of us are feeling chatty, I click on the TV and find a channel showing reruns of the music show I like to make fun of. This episode’s at least ten years old.

“Oh, boy, hope she doesn’t start crying,” Haymitch mutters under his breath. As if on cue, the girl on the screen begins to weep dramatically. A small smile creeps onto my face. “I told you, I watched a lot of TV,” he says.

“She deserved to go home, anyway, she was always somehow sharp and flat,” I say. Haymitch guffaws, but then gives me a surprised look. “Big deal, you watched a lot of TV for what, two months? I’ve been depressed for sixteen years . I watched this one live .”

We spend the better part of the day watching the rest of this season and critiquing the singers. I think Haymitch is in a lot more pain than he lets on, so I make a habit of cleaning up our dishes or refilling our water cups or scrounging up dessert on the advertisement breaks. Anything to keep him from needing to move too much. 

Peeta comes home later in the afternoon and smiles at the sight of both of us on the couch.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. “Thanks for the soup. It was good.”

“Yeah? I tried Delly’s recipe, I like it better than the old one,” Peeta says.

“Agree. I don’t know why we didn’t defer to the tomato expert earlier,” I say.

Peeta leans over the back of the couch and kisses me on the forehead. Haymitch clears his throat and Peeta looks amused.

“Sorry, did you want a kiss, too?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” Haymitch sneers. “I should probably head home.”

“Stay until dinner,” Peeta insists.

“I’ve got plenty of food at home, I don’t need to intrude on your night any more. I imagine she’s sick of me,” Haymitch says.

“You can stay,” I shrug. “We’ve still got the finale.”

Haymitch studies me for a moment, then sits back again. “Alright,” he says.

Peeta decides to take the opportunity to get some work done on the nursery mural. He won’t let me see it until it’s done, but he’s been putting it off since usually when he’s home he’d rather spend his time with me. I think he was hoping he’d get some work done when the weather started to warm up and I went back to the woods, but this works too.

“That’s for the best,” I whisper when Peeta goes upstairs. “He doesn’t like it when I’m mean to the singers. It’s always something about them trying their best and it being their dream .”

Haymitch scoffs. “It’s midday garbage airtime filler. Dream bigger.”

I let out a laugh, my first real one all day. For a moment I let my head fall onto Haymitch’s shoulder. Just for a moment.

“I missed you,” I admit.

Haymitch kisses me on the head. “I missed you too, Sweetheart.”

Over the course of the next several days, we all fall into an easy routine. Haymitch comes over for breakfast that Peeta serves before heading off to the bakery. Haymitch and I keep each other company until he returns, and a while past it as Peeta retreats upstairs to paint. As I learn more about Haymitch’s recovery plan and realize he’s supposed to be exercising a bit everyday, I start making us go on walks around the Village before lunch. But most of the day is still spent giving our most colorful commentary to whatever’s on TV, usually our music show.

“You think my father would’ve gotten a kick out of this?” I ask out of the blue one day. 

Haymitch laughs. “Burdock would’ve been first in line for the auditions. That boy never saw an opportunity to sing that he didn't take.”

“Plutarch spent five years trying to get me on this show before he finally gave up,” I note.

“Yeah, he’s a persistent one,” Haymitch mumbles. 

Eventually I signed some papers to let him use old clips of me singing to air on the show. It was enough to get him to leave me alone. On that topic, at least.

“Do you think she would’ve auditioned if she was alive?” I ask absentmindedly. When Haymitch frowns I elaborate, “Your girl.”

He smiles fondly for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. She didn’t like singing for an audience without a good reason.”

“Sounds like me,” I say.

“Well, she would’ve been your aunt or something. Though if I’m being honest I never quite worked out how exactly she and Burdock were related,” he says.

We’re both quiet for a moment as it hits us that there’s no one left alive we could ask for clarification. My mother, maybe, but I doubt she knows. It’s strange sometimes to think about how many connections Haymitch and I had apart from the Games. In a way, it was almost more inevitable that he’d end up in my life than it was for Peeta and I to end up together (though I don’t like thinking about any scenario where we didn’t). Without the Games, Haymitch almost certainly would’ve ended up being my uncle, whether by marriage or just at my father’s insistence that he was like a brother. Like the way Peeta and I are uncle and aunt to Delly’s kids.

Having Haymitch home really is good for me, though I’d never tell him as much. With the winter and the depression and the isolation of the Village, I was beginning to forget that Peeta and I aren’t alone in this. Our little girl is going to be surrounded by love. We might not be the most traditional family, but it’s family nonetheless.

“I bet he’ll try to get you again for the twentieth,” Haymitch says, jolting me from my train of thought.

“What?”

“The twentieth anniversary. Better be on guard, he’ll probably try and get you on the show then. Especially since you’re the last remaining Covey,” he says.

I roll my eyes slightly. Plutarch loves to tie in random bits of history whenever he can, to pretend like his show is anything other than mindless garbage and mediocre singers. Still, it’s a bit ridiculous that I’m expected to represent a whole culture I knew nothing about for most of my life and family members I never knew.

Then a small smile creeps onto my lips. “No, I’m not,” I say quietly.

Haymitch frowns until I point to my belly, then his expression goes soft.

“Oh, I guess you’re not,” he says.

The baby takes offense to my poking her, and jabs her tiny fist at my stomach. Haymitch’s eyes go wide on the spot where her punch rippled through my skin. It’s one of the rare days where I attempted to wear my own clothes, meaning my shirt is tight against my stomach and a good portion of my belly is just hanging out.

“Might be time to think about trying some maternity clothes,” Haymitch says dryly.

I scoff as I bring our dishes from lunch into the kitchen. “Waste of money. Why would I buy a bunch of clothing I can only wear for a couple months and then never again?” I challenge.

“You’re not having any others?” Haymitch asks, sounding surprised.

That draws me up short. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say after a beat. “I think I’m going to see how this one goes, first.”

“Well, if you ever unpack those bags you’ll see that you don’t have to waste your own money,” Haymitch says, nodding at the pile of bags still stacked in the corner. I figured there was no point in opening them until the nursery was fully painted.

“Effie bought me maternity clothes too?” I say, shocked. 

“I think they’re in that one,” Haymitch says, pointing to a bag. I walk over and grab it from the stack.

“I’m not sure I trust Effie’s judgement here. I don’t really want to be wearing Capitol dresses for the next several months,” I say.

But as I go through the bag I find that it’s all so…practical. Loose, comfortable shirts and pants very much like my normal hunting clothes, just with some added stretch. A set of overalls with ample space in the belly. A few dresses, but nothing overly extravagant.

“My apologies to Effie Trinket,” I mumble. “I should really call her and thank her.”

“No, it’s fine,” Haymitch says quickly. 

I give him a bewildered look. “You’ve met Effie, right? I’m probably already irredeemably rude for not calling,” I say.

“She knows you’re busy. I’ll…I’ll pass along the thanks,” he says.

I shrug off his bizarre reaction and resolve to call Effie sometime when he’s not here. It isn’t until we’re halfway through the next episode, when Haymitch makes a passing comment about one of the commercials, that it hits me.

“You bought all this stuff!” I blurt out.

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. That’s why you don’t want me to call Effie, because it’s not from her!” I say, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Haymitch groans and throws his head back. “Fine. Look, I was bored out of my mind sitting around all day, and surrounded by all of Effie’s catalogs, and I might have gotten carried away.”

“Haymitch, this is too much,” I insist.

“Well, tough. I can’t take it back now,” he says gruffly. “I know you’re too stubborn and practical to buy most of this stuff or let the boy buy it. But you can’t tell me what to do with my money and I’ve got an abundance of it now that I’m not spending it all on liquor and– oof, ” Haymitch is cut off with a grunt as I throw my arms around him.

We’re both alarmed to find that I’m crying when I pull away.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice cracking.

“It’s nothing. What on earth are you crying about?” Haymitch says uncomfortably.

“It’s just…family…and we don’t…and you…” I blubber incoherently.

Luckily, I don’t have to sort out my thoughts enough to form real words as Peeta comes through the door. He stops short at the sight of me crying.

“What did you do to her?” he says reproachfully to Haymitch.

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one who knocked her up and put all those hormones in her,” Haymitch says.

He leaves Peeta to deal with me and promises to see us for dinner tomorrow. It’ll be Sunday, so the bakery’s closed and he says he doesn’t want to intrude on our time together.

Peeta takes Haymitch’s spot on the couch and I tell him all my thoughts on family and Haymitch and the stack of bags in the corner. Peeta’s just as touched by it all as I am, just without all the crying. We pick another bag from the stack to go through before turning in for the night. It’s full of bibs and swaddles and plush animals, including a little goose.

Eventually we head up to bed, and I find myself relieved that Peeta and I will get a day mostly to ourselves tomorrow.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you this week,” I say, raising the covers for Peeta to climb into bed.

“I know, sorry. I’m glad I’m finally making progress on the painting, though,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed to disconnect his prosthetic before settling in beside me.

“Can I see it yet?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says. “It’s about ninety-percent done. Though there’s a chance I might scrap the whole thing and start over.”

“Peeta!”

“I’m kidding…I’m almost entirely kidding.”

I groan and roll into his arms, which he wraps tightly around my waist.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

“A little better, but not by much,” I confess. 

Peeta pulls back slightly and studies my face. Then the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, “it’s just…I may have been preparing to prove a point this past week with you and Haymitch and I’m glad I was right.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What point is that?”

“My point,” he says, “is that you’re going to do a fantastic job taking care of our child, even when you’re depressed.”

“And this is based on what? Your unwavering faith in me and unbridled optimism?” I ask.

“This is based on the way you’ve been doting over Haymitch for the past week,” he smirks.

“I’m not doting ! I’m just keeping him company while he recovers,” I argue.

“And you’re making him meals and helping him exercise and cleaning his dishes…” Peeta lists.

“Okay, fine. I’m taking care of him, what’s wrong with that?” I say.

“Nothing’s wrong, Katniss,” he says, shaking his head in a half exasperated, half amused way. “Not wrong at all. I’ve just seen you depressed for many, many years. And normally you can’t bring yourself to take care of yourself and I know that makes you scared that you’ll neglect the baby. So I’m pointing out that you’re good at taking care of others even when you can’t take care of yourself. And if you’re doing all this for Haymitch, who is a fully functioning adult, I have no reason to believe you won’t rise to the occasion time and time again for our child.”

I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He’s right, I’m much better at taking care of others than I am myself. For the first time, I feel emboldened in spite of my depression. Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe we’ll be alright.

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that Haymitch is a fully functioning adult,” I mumble.

Peeta bursts out laughing and pulls me tighter against him. After a minute he starts peppering my face with kisses until he reaches my lips. We’re locked in our embrace for quite some time, kissing leisurely but passionately.

“Thanks for loving me so well,” I whisper, forehead pressed to his.

“Oh, I assure you it’s my greatest pleasure,” he says.

We settle in for the night, face to face, fingers locked together between our pillows.

“Since you let me in on your little experiment, it only seems fair that I let you in on something that’s going to make you very happy,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, intrigued.

“I looked ahead in the pregnancy book–”

Peeta gasps. “Cheater!”

“Hush, you’ll get to read it tomorrow. Do you want to hear what I found out or not?”

“Fine,” Peeta huffs, still slightly put out.

I roll my eyes. “Baby’s ears are fully developed. She should be able to hear outside sounds any day now.”

Peeta’s face lights up, as expected. “Really?”

“Really,” I say. “I thought you’d want to know so you could read tomorrow's chapter out loud to her.”

He beams at me and plants another long kiss on my lips. Then he scoots down the bed and kisses my belly.

“Good night, little girl,” he says against my skin. “I’m going to talk to you sooooo much now that your mama can’t shut me up by saying you can’t hear me. Be prepared to be sick of me. ”

“She’ll be fine, you talk to me a lot and I’m not sick of you yet,” I say.

Peeta laughs as he settles back on his pillow, on his back now so I can take my spot on his chest.

“Good,” he whispers. “Good night, my love.”

“Good night, my love,” I repeat with a yawn.

Chapter Text

“Are your eyes closed?” Peeta asks.

“I don’t see why it matters, you’re covering them anyway,” I say.

“Well I need to let go to make one final adjustment, so keep them closed.”

“Fine,” I huff. I wait in the middle of the nursery, eyes shut and the smell of fresh paint drifting in my nose. The third–and final, Peeta insists–iteration of the mural was completed this morning. I’m inclined to believe that he’s really done this time, considering how excited he was to bring me up here.

“Okay, ready? Open them,” he says.

I open my eyes and immediately my breath is taken away. It’s gorgeous. The pale green paint we picked out is accentuated on one wall by larger than life wildflowers blooming above and around the crib, where Peeta has propped up the little stuffed rabbit we bought against the bars.

The crib was a gift from Johanna. It arrived about a week ago with a note saying she had built it herself and had several reliable sources confirm it was safe. Then she said she’d have brought it herself, but “pregnancy wigs her out.” She promised to visit once the “little sucker” arrives.

I take a step closer to the wall to admire Peeta’s work. The style is more relaxed than Peeta’s normal paintings, less realistic and more loose like when he brings out his watercolors. The scale of it is perfect, too. It’s as if the baby will be falling asleep laying in the cool green grass of the meadow. The entire thing gives off the impression of waking up from a soft, sweet dream.

Peeta comes up behind me, slowly tracing his hands from my sides until they’re wrapped around my belly. “What do you think?” he asks.

“You’re amazing,” I whisper. “Peeta, it’s perfect.”

“Are you sure? I can repaint it if you want–”

“No!” I exclaim, laughing a little. “Do not repaint this wall again. Ever.”

With the painting completed, the real fun can begin. Peeta carries the many bags from Haymitch up into the nursery and I spend my days sorting through them. Clothing gets piled up to be washed, toys and books are dutifully arranged atop the dresser, and any other baby supplies are set aside for future consideration.

I get Effie to send me some of those catalogs Haymitch mentioned, and they arrive in a box along with several sets of brightly colored footie pajamas. In the evenings, I lounge with Peeta on the couch and pour over the catalogs while he rests his head on my lap and tells me and the baby–mostly the baby–whatever’s on his mind.

“Are you listening at all?” Peeta says one evening.

“Hm?” I hum distractedly, folding down the corner of a page in a furniture catalog. “No, I wasn’t. What do you think of this chair?”

Peeta laughs and plucks the catalog from my hands. “Shop later. What was the last thing you heard?”

“Um, you were telling the baby how nice the weather was today,” I say.

“Katniss, you just missed a week's worth of gossip updates,” Peeta groans. “And some of it was juicy.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me,” I apologize. “Give me the speed run, but then I really do want your opinion on that chair.”

“Okay, fine,” Peeta chuckles. “Speed run. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Finn has a girlfriend.”

“He can’t,” I say. “Isn’t he, like, twelve?”

“Fifteen,” Peeta corrects.

“Too young,” I mumble.

Peeta laughs. “I’m hiring Sadie part time at the bakery to help when the baby comes.”

“Isn’t she twelve?!”

“Katniss, she’s twenty-two.”

“Since when?” I demand.

“Since her last birthday, I imagine,” Peeta jokes. 

I groan and make a swipe for my catalog again, but Peeta holds it out of my reach. My sudden movement wakes the baby up, and she stretches and kicks, landing a foot directly in Peeta’s face, though my stomach absorbs most of the blow.

“Excuse me, don’t kick your father,” Peeta says in feign annoyance, while also leaning in and kissing the spot she was just kicking.

“She’s annoyed that you haven’t looked at that chair yet,” I mumble.

“No, she’s probably annoyed that she’s had to hear the same gossip on repeat because her mother wasn’t paying attention,” Peeta retorts.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anything else new?”

“The butcher and his wife have begun divorce proceedings,” he says.

“ What ?!” I gasp.

“See! That’s how I knew you weren’t listening to me,” Peeta says, looking far too vindicated for my liking.

“What happened? Did he finally leave her because she’s a rotten witch who can’t mind her own business?” I ask.

“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” Peeta deadpans. “The stories are widely varied. Posy’s going to do some digging. Sadie said she’s the best at tracking down a story. Some say he cheated, others think they just realized they didn’t like each other now that she’s no longer popping out a kid every ten minutes.”

I laugh. Peeta sits up and pulls my legs onto his lap, dragging me towards him slightly.

“Are you going to stop liking me when I’m done popping out this kid?” I tease.

“Darling, I loved you long before kid-popping was part of the equation, and I’ll love you long after,” he answers easily. Then, finally, he returns my catalog to me. “Now show me this life-changing chair I keep hearing about.”

I begin to become a little obsessed with getting the nursery perfect now that it’s started. Haymitch makes a lot of unhelpful comparisons to his geese when they’re building their nests, but surprisingly my pregnancy book draws a very similar comparison. I’m a mama bird building my nest for my baby, and I’m not to be messed with. Poor Peeta is learning this firsthand, between my persistence with finding the perfect nursing chair and the whole debacle where I brought in a large fallen tree branch from the woods and insisted it was perfect for the wall of the nursery.

It looks exactly how I imagined it, by the way, hanging on the wall above the bookshelf we picked up at the Hob. It’ll look even better when Peeta hangs the shelves around it like I want, but I’m still not convinced he knows what the hell I’m talking about. He’s just smart enough to do as he’s told.

One Saturday Peeta begins washing all of the new baby clothes and bringing them up to me in loads. Between Haymitch, our own shopping, and the first round of Delly’s hand-me-downs, we’ve accumulated quite the collection of clothes already. When Delly brought her tub of 0-3 month clothes I had commented that we probably had enough to last quite a while. Delly had just laughed. I end up spending most of the morning arranging clothes in the drawers and making small adjustments in the room.

“Haven’t heard that one in a long time,” Peeta says, leaning against the doorway, a basket of fresh laundry under one arm.

It’s become an unconscious habit for me to hum as I’m working in the nursery. And more often than not, it’s the Meadow Song.

“Well you’ll probably hear it more often, it’s been stuck in my head for days,” I say. “I think the painting reminds me of the song.”

“That’s what inspired it. I didn’t want to tell you, in case it upset you. But it seems like you made the connection anyway,” Peeta admits. “The lyrics…it seemed like such a peaceful idea. To sleep in the Meadow, guarded from harm. To know you’re safe, and loved. It seemed like everything we want for our child.” 

I smile to myself. “A long time ago I dreamed that your children would be safe somewhere like the Meadow,” I confess in a whisper.

“ My children? Don’t you mean our children?” he says.

“Not then, it couldn’t be,” I say.

Peeta gives me a curious look. “When was this?”

I shake my head clear of the thoughts, realizing I’ve already said more than I meant to.

“Is this the last of the laundry or is there more coming?” I ask.

“I’ll get the rest in a minute, don’t change the topic,” Peeta says. “When were you dreaming about my children that weren’t yours?”

“Quarter Quell,” I mumble.

“What was that?”

“In the Quarter Quell, okay? After we kissed on the beach!” I blurt out.

A slow smile creeps onto Peeta’s face. “Oh, I see. So after we made out, you just couldn’t help but picture me raising some children in a peaceful world?” He’s getting far too much enjoyment out of this. “Who was the mother, Katniss?”

“I don’t know,” I say in a clipped voice, turning my back to him so I don’t have to look at his smug face. He takes it in stride, wrapping his arms around me and burying his face in my neck.

“You looooved me,” he teases in a singsong voice. “You wanted to have my baaaabies .”

“I do love you, and I am currently having your baby,” I remind him flatly. 

Peeta’s laugh rumbles through me. He kisses a messy line up from the base of my neck to my ear, then whispers, “It’s okay, I wanted to have your babies too.”

Now I’m the one laughing, loud and confused. Eventually I nudge Peeta gently in the ribs with my elbow. “Can you just get the rest of our daughter’s clothes, you ridiculous man?”

Peeta brings the final load of laundry to me then starts making lunch. We end up eating sandwiches cross legged in the middle of our daughter’s room because I’m still tackling the small mountain of baby clothes to fold. So Peeta folds alongside me while we continue to eat and I continue to hum.

At one point I look up and catch Peeta staring at me, all pretenses of folding clothes completely abandoned. He’s just watching me with a soft smile on his face, one that I realize I was mirroring until I started to scowl from his attention.

“What?” I ask.

“This is nice,” Peeta says quietly. “We haven’t had a lot of nice lately.”

My frown deepens. 

“That came out wrong,” he says immediately. “I just meant…I know pregnancy’s been really hard on you and it feels like it’s just been one thing after another. Understandably!” he adds quickly. “I’ve just been worried that you’ve been too miserable to enjoy any of it, so it’s nice seeing you like this.”

“This is…more what I imagined when I thought about being pregnant,” I admit. “Baby kicks that don’t make me cry. Having a cute little belly that’s not too much of a hindrance. Getting to set up the nursery with you.”

“Did you anticipate getting this invested in the nursery?” he teases.

“No, that came as a surprise,” I laugh. “Sorry you have to put up with this.”

“Don’t apologize, I’m having lots of fun,” Peeta assures me.

“Even when I made you nail half a tree to the wall?” I ask, still laughing. 

“Even then,” he says with a soft laugh. He leans forward and places a lingering kiss on my forehead, and we both revel in the closeness for a second. “Speaking of which…do you mind explaining your vision for the tree shelves again? Because if I’m being honest I still have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

For a while we’re just a pair of idiots laughing our heads off in the middle of the floor. I have to clutch onto his elbows to keep myself sitting upright, and we both fall into a loop where one’s laughter sets the other off again. Eventually we’re able to pull it together and Peeta grabs a sketchbook. He draws a rough sketch of the branch on the wall and I add to the drawing until Peeta and I are on the same page.

“Oh, that’s cute!” Peeta says.

“I know it is,” I say indignantly. “I didn’t lug this thing back from the woods just for it to be ugly.”

The next morning begins like every other Sunday morning, with Peeta and I huddled together, reading the baby book. There’s a lot of ground to cover because this week includes a broader overview of the third trimester as well. We don’t make it through the chapter, however, because there’s a section on intimacy in the third trimester and, well, Peeta thinks we ought to practice some of the ideas. Just to make sure they really work before my belly gets any bigger.

Afterward, Peeta reaches across me and retrieves the book from the nightstand. He drops it in front of me while he makes himself comfortable, wrapping his arms around me from behind and nuzzling his face into my neck. I read aloud to him about practice contractions, birth plans, and our cabbage sized baby until I declare that I need to eat. Baby kicks Peeta’s hands to back me up.

“So, do you have any thoughts on that birth plan thing it was talking about?” Peeta asks once we’re in the kitchen and he’s flipping pancakes while I snack on a bowl of fruit.

“I mean, I’m definitely planning on giving birth,” I say with a shrug. “Haven’t thought much about the specifics.”

“Okay,” he says. “Well what would be your ideal birth?”

“They sedate me and I wake up with a baby in my arms and no pain,” I deadpan.

Peeta laughs. “Alright, noted. What’s your second choice?”

I twirl a strawberry stem between my fingers and consider it a moment. “As much as I’m not excited for the pain…I do think I’d rather do it unmedicated,” I say slowly.

Peeta nods like he was expecting this. I think back through everything I’ve heard from Delly about birth. She was more than happy to be fully numbed for her labors. And while I’m glad that worked for her, I think it would stress me out more than it would help. In all honesty, I’m having a hard time imagining having the baby in the hospital at all. The medical advancements we have now are beneficial in a lot of ways, but I think it complicates the process quite a bit, too.

Things were much simpler growing up. When a woman would give birth in her home on her own or with her husband, and sometimes my mother if she needed some extra help. I remember how women would come labor on our kitchen table when there were complications, how my mother would calm them and ease them through birth in that quiet, determined way of hers.

When I was little, before I had the freedom to run off to the woods when the sick came to our home, I remember how Prim and I would flitter about when we saw a pregnant woman come through the door. I still didn’t like the bloody parts of it all, but all things considered I liked labors the best of the medical crises my mother undertook. When all went well, Prim and I would be given the very big job of singing to the baby while my mother attended to the new mother. Then we’d usually spend the rest of the afternoon playing birth, with Prim and I alternating who was the mother and who was the healer.

And when things didn’t go well…I would take Prim out to the Meadow to shield her from the anguish inside. I’d keep her busy by picking flowers and we’d give them to the mother before she left.

I sigh. “Would you think I’m crazy if I said I don’t want to have her in the hospital?” I ask Peeta.

He smiles softly. “No, I wouldn’t. I had a feeling you might end up leaning that way, that’s why I wanted to start talking about it now,” he says.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” I ask.

“No, ultimately you’re the one who’s doing the work and I want you to be comfortable,” he says. “I’m just a bit hesitant to commit to delivering a baby. I want to be as present as I can be for the birth, but if there’s blood I can’t rule out the possibility of having a flashback. And if anything…” he trails off.

“If anything goes wrong, we’ll go to the hospital,” I finish for him. “I’ll be more comfortable at home, but I’m not prioritizing comfort over safety.”

“Okay, good,” Peeta agrees. “I just don’t know that I’m qualified to know if something is wrong.”

The conversation pauses while we doctor up our pancakes and dig in, but all the while I continue to think about my “ideal birth.”

“What I’d really like is for my mother to deliver her,” I admit out loud.

Peeta looks up in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Is that so surprising?” I ask.

“No, not when I think about it. I just never really know where you stand with her,” he says.

“I call her every week,” I say, frowning.

“She calls you every week,” he points out.

I bite my lip. I guess he’s right, after all this time I still have a hard time reaching out to my mother.

“Do you think she’d come if I asked?” I say.

“Absolutely. Honestly, I think the reason she doesn’t come more often is because you don’t ask,” he says gently.

So after breakfast I call my mother before I lose the nerve to ask this of her. She answers almost immediately.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Katniss! Is everything alright?” she asks, frantic.

“I’m fine, Mom. Are we ever going to reach a point where I can call you without you thinking something’s wrong?”

“Probably not, you’re prone to trouble,” she says. “What do I owe the pleasure of this phone call so soon after talking last night?”

“I wanted to get your opinion on having the baby at home instead of the hospital,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “As long as everything seems healthy, I don’t see why not. I had both of you girls at home, and I’m sure you remember all the women who had babies in our house.”

“I remember,” I say quietly.

“Having a baby at home can be a very enriching and intimate experience. Although, as a medical professional I do feel obligated to strongly recommend having someone there that knows what they’re doing,” she says.

“Yeah, Peeta and I were just talking about that. Mom, would you…” I take a deep breath to steal my nerve. “Do you think you could come here to deliver the baby”

She’s silent for so long I’m afraid my own mother is about to reject me. But then she sniffs.

“Of course, I’d be honored, if that’s what you want,” she says quietly.

“That’s what I want,” I confirm.

“Then that’s…yes, of course,” she says, sniffing again. “I’ll need to make some arrangements with the hospital here…but I’ll make it work. I’ll be there,” she promises.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say.

“Thank you ,” she says. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Well not too soon,” I say faintly.

“Sooner than you think, that last trimester’s going to pass in the blink of an eye,” she says.

I give a weak chuckle, not sure if I’m ready for it to fly by like that.

When we hang up the phone, I head into Peeta’s studio to find him. I rest my chin on his shoulder from where he sits in front of an easel.

“Hey, how’d it go?” he asks.

“She’s in,” I say. “That’s pretty.”

On a canvas no bigger than a sheet of paper Peeta painted a bundle of primroses and buttercups. There’s another one drying on a table off to the side. I can easily identify my namesake flower intertwined with dandelions.

“I’ll do another one for your parents, too. I thought maybe these would be nice to put on some of those tree shelves. You know, like a family tree,” he says, eyes seeking approval for his joke.

“Very nice,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Is this your official campaign to give her a plant name?” I tease. 

“Not necessarily. Pumpernickel’s starting to grow on me,” he says.

“No bread names!” I remind him.

“No bread names,” he agrees, pulling me down onto his lap and kissing me until he’s forgotten all about his painting.

Chapter Text

The weather’s finally consistently nice enough for me to get back into hunting. It’s slow going with my ever-growing stomach, and I can’t really climb anymore, but I was pleasantly surprised with my rewarded efforts this morning.

Of course, all that exertion tired me out to no end, and I’m so hungry I could eat my weight in baked goods. So it’s not long before I find myself at my stool in the bakery, with Peeta working the counter.

“Hello, my love,” Peeta says, leaning across the counter to kiss me. “How’s your day going?”

“Good, I shot a whole bunch of squirrels,” I say happily. 

“That’s great! Well, not for the squirrels,” he grimaces. “Anyway, are you here for food or my delightful company?”

“I wouldn’t kick either out of bed,” I say. 

Peeta laughs and heads over to the display case as I call out my order. Two cheese buns and an apple tart.

“Anything else, love?” Peeta asks, amused.

“No I’m–ooh wait. A soft pretzel!” I change my mind suddenly. 

“I don’t have any pretzels made.”

“Please! It’s for the baby!” I whine.

Peeta leans his elbows on the counter and runs his finger through his hair, releasing a long sigh.

“I’ll make them, but I want you to ask the baby if she’s really, truly sure before I commit to the time and effort pretzels require,” he says warningly.

I make a show of prodding my belly and smoothing my shirt against my bump. “What do you think, baby? Kick once if you want a pretzel.” 

I couldn’t have timed the kick that pokes through my stomach better if I had planned it myself. Peeta stares for a moment and shakes his head in disbelief.

“You two are already teaming up on me,” he says. “Run the counter if anyone comes in, I have to make the dough.”

No one comes in, though. It’s Tuesday, after all. So I sit at the counter and eat my first course of pastries until Peeta comes back.

“It’s your lucky day, I forgot I had a batch in the freezer. They need some time to thaw before I bake them but that will be significantly quicker than making them fresh,” he says.

“You’re so sexy when you find efficient ways to feed me faster,” I say.

Peeta laughs and leans forward just enough for me to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer to me. I capture his lips against mine and we remain locked in this position for quite some time, until the bell over the door rings and we reluctantly pull apart.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Shiloh says, already jumping over the counter and ignoring us completely. “I’m just grabbing food then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Shiloh grabs a takeaway box and begins filling it up. All of the bakery employees eat free here. It’s not unusual to see one of them pop by on their day off for food, which is why I’m confused to see Peeta frowning at the box in Shiloh’s hands.

“You two talk about Sunday yet?” Shiloh asks.

“Oh, not yet. I’ll let you know,” Peeta says. “Did you just take a strawberry scone?”

“Yeah, why? Were you saving it?” Shiloh says.

“No. Who’s that for? You don’t like strawberries,” Peeta says with narrowed eyes.

Shiloh jumps back over the counter and raises his eyebrows. “You need to know less about your employees, man,” he says, then walks out of the bakery without another word.

“That’s suspicious,” Peeta says.

“Probably trying to win over some girl,” I shrug. “It’s Shiloh.”

“Maybe…but I don’t think he’s dated in a while. At least not that I know of,” Peeta says.

“Or he just finally learned how to date outside of this place,” I remind him. “And keep it to himself since his boss is always breathing down his neck, memorizing his food preferences.”

Peeta purses his lips, apparently unable to come up with a good retort. I nibble on a cheese bun triumphantly as he heads back into the kitchen.

“What’s happening Sunday?” I call to him. 

“Oh, yeah. Shiloh wants to have an all staff training. Make sure everyone’s on the same page before I go on leave,” he says, returning with a shrug.

“Everyone’s worked here for years. Aren’t you already on the same page?” I ask.

“That’s what I said. He said it’s better to be over prepared than under prepared.”

I sigh. “I hate the thought of giving up one of your days off to be here,” I say.

“It’ll just be a couple hours, and you’ll be here too,” he says.

“Why do I have to come?”

“In the eyes of the law, you’re an employee of Mellark’s Bakery,” Peeta reminds me.

“Right, but in the eyes of the kitchen, I’m seven months pregnant and a menace to all baked goods I encounter.”

Peeta laughs. “Shiloh promised you’d get all the leftovers when we practice frosting techniques,” he says.

“Okay, I’m in,” I say.

Just before noon on Sunday, Peeta and I make our way to the bakery. We head straight to the back out of habit, where we find Cambric blocking the door.

“Hey, what are you–” Peeta starts.

“In a minute a bunch of people are going to jump out at you and yell,” Cambric interrupts. “I tried to warn them that surprising you might not be the best idea, but most of them are too young to really understand the veteran’s response to being scared.”

“What’s going on?” Peeta asks.

“You’ll see. Count to twenty before you come in, try and act surprised,” Cambric instructs us. “My little girl worked hard on this.”

Then without another word Cambric heads into the bakery.

“That was weird,” I say.

“This whole thing has been weird. The training, the insisting that you have to be here…” Peeta smiles. “I think they’re throwing some kind of party.”

“You think so?” I ask, surprised.

“Well, let’s find out. That’s twenty,” Peeta says, reaching for the door handle. “After you, my dear.”

The kitchen is completely empty and the lights are still off. “Hello?” Peeta calls out. I shrug and pull him towards the front of the shop. Suddenly there’s a collective yell of “SURPRISE!” and I don’t even have to fake the complete shock on my face. The bakery has been completely decked out in pinks and golds and flowers. And everyone we care about in District Twelve is piled into our bakery.

“What is this?” I ask with a laugh.

Posy comes and drapes a pink sash over me, painted with “MAMA” in gold letters. “It’s a baby shower!”

“A…what?” I ask.

“It’s a party to celebrate the baby. They throw them all the time in the Capitol, and we wanted to throw you one,” Sadie explains.

I find myself stuck somewhere between feeling touched and apprehensive as I look around the room. When I say everyone is here, I mean everyone . Posy, Sadie, and May Belle seem to be the ones in charge, but the rest of Peeta’s employees are here with their families, too. Cambric and the rest of his girls, Hadley, Quinn, and Juliet. Rory and Ember. Scarlet and her partner, Vera. And Shiloh. Then there’s everyone else who’s practically family. Haymitch, Hazelle, and Sae. Delly and Briar and Clara, though their boys must be with a sitter. 

“Nobody actually has to…take a shower, right?” Peeta asks, probably to fill the awkward, stunned silence I’ve created.

Several people laugh. “No, no. We’re just showering you with love,” Sadie says.

“Wow…this is…thank you,” I say, not quite trusting my voice to say anything more. 

Posy announces that everyone should grab a plate, after Peeta and me, and to go ahead and eat and they’ll let us know when it’s time for activities. May Belle confides in me that she was in charge of the game, so she made sure it’s nothing too embarrassing or overwhelming. 

Peeta and I pop around to different tables to visit with everyone. In other words, we change tables every time I get up to get another helping, because I’m pregnant, and it’s my party, and Sae made her version of my lamb stew that’s even better than the Capitol’s.

“One of these days I ought to write the recipe down,” Sae says when I sit with her to thank her for making it. “Gotta make sure I get it to you before I’m gone.”

“Sae!” I gasp. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m eighty, girl, I’ve already been here much longer than I was plannin’ on,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Stop talking about dying at my baby shower, Sae.”

She gives a good hearty laugh at that.

“How’s Vick doing?” Peeta asks Hazelle, clearly trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

“He’s good. I talked to him last weekend, he’s settling into his new job very well,” she answers.

“What’s he doing?” I ask.

“Oh, something with computers. I have to admit he’s tried to explain it to me a few times and I don’t really get it. But he seems happy, and Gale got him connected with Beetee so he’s got someone to talk to up there,” she says.

“That’s nice,” Peeta says absently. I’m certain the last thing he wants to talk about is Gale.

“Posy, have you learned anything about why the butcher and the witch split?” I ask.

“I mean, just that they can’t stand each other, but it’s a moot point now,” Posy shrugs.

“Why?” I ask.

Posy raises her eyebrows. “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“They called off the divorce.”

“What?!” says Peeta and I in unison.

“Why?” asks Delly from the next table over, whipping around in her chair to join the conversation.

“Because she’s pregnant again,” Posy says.

There’s a collective gasp from those of us listening. Then I groan.

“Delly, this means her spawn is going to be in the same class as our girls,” I say.

“Okay, hold on,” Peeta says, suddenly defensive. “I know we don’t like her but don’t drag her kids into this. They didn’t pick their parents.” 

“No, she’s right. One of the girls is in Rowen’s year and she’s a miserable little whiner,” Delly says.

Peeta mumbles under his breath so quiet that I can only catch something about growing up in a house where your parents hate each other. I squeeze his thigh under the table.

Posy, sensing the mood shift, suggests to May Belle that we should play a game. May Belle pulls out a bag of stuffed animals I recognize from Delly’s house and a package of diapers. Then she explains that we’re having a race to see who can diaper their animal the fastest while blindfolded. The men go first as a demonstration and for our amusement. I’m pretty sure Shiloh has never even seen a diaper in his life until today. Cambric grumbles that the entire thing is rigged against him because they knew he’d be too powerful if he had both his hands. Peeta does surprisingly well, losing only to Briar in the first round and winning the second. When it’s the women’s turn I’m feeling pretty confident; I’ve changed a fair number of diapers in my life. But it turns out Hazelle and Delly can diaper circles around me.

The real showdown is when Peeta and I go head to head. Three rounds, winner takes all (even though there are no prizes). I win the first round and Peeta wins the second. It all comes down to this.

“You’re going down,” I say threateningly.

“Love, aren’t we supposed to be on the same team?” Peeta says.

“In life and parenting? Sure. But I’ve already suffered three embarrassing losses. So now you’re going down .”

“You’re scary when you’re competitive,” he says, pulling his blindfold back down.

May Belle counts us off and I diaper my bear in record time. Our friends cheer and I rip off my blindfold to see Peeta throw his hands up in defeat, then he gives a good natured shrug and kisses my forehead.

After that it’s time for presents, which immediately makes me feel uneasy. I still have a hard time accepting gifts from anybody, but the idea of all of our closest friends spending money on us when we have so much is particularly unbearable.

“Trust us,” Delly whispers as she hands me the first gift, “we know you.”

And it turns out she’s right. The gifts are all thoughtful and practical and nothing too expensive. Delly and Briar put together a “new parent kit”, with postpartum necessities for me and a new sketchbook for Peeta. Haymitch found a way around his current ban on buying us things by bringing a gift sent by my mother: a kit for us to put together a baby book. The bakery staff and their families all chipped in on a child size apron and a collection of onesies embroidered with bakery themed puns.

“Did you have a hand in these?” I ask Cambric as I hold up one that says “I’m a-dough-able”. 

“Yeah, but just one,” he says. Peeta snorts from beside me. 

Hazelle and Posy got me a wrap to carry the baby with, much like the ones she and other mothers would wear when I was growing up, and a sturdy diaper bag. But the thing that gets me the most emotional is the gift from Sae and May Belle. Inside their bag I find a beautiful knitted baby blanket, wrapped around a small handmade baby doll with a blue ribbon tied to her head.

“Is this the one we made you?” Peeta asks, amused.

It was right after Peeta came back to Twelve, just as we started to find each other again. Sixteen years ago, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. How I had searched Prim’s abandoned room for a birthday present for May Belle, but came out with only the ribbon and a fresh wave of grief. How Peeta had sprung into action, pulling the sock from his own foot and transforming it into a little doll so much like the one in my hands now. How Sae had joked about the two of us “making a baby”, and we’d both blushed ridiculously.

“Nah, she loved that one down to the stitches,” Sae remarks.

“I made you a new one,” May Belle says. “For your baby.”

“Thank you, May Belle. She’s going to–” my voice catches as I run a finger along the ribbon, “–she’ll love it.”

After presents Shiloh heads into the kitchen to grab the cupcakes and I excuse myself to the bathroom. Only there do I finally release the tears that have been threatening my eyes all afternoon. After a minute there’s a quiet knock on the door.

“Just me,” Peeta says softly. I turn the lock to let him in. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, but more tears spill down my cheeks. Peeta grabs a few squares of toilet paper and starts gently dabbing at them for me.

“I know it’s weird, but I keep thinking about when I was starving as a kid. How we had no support system. No one to help us.” Peeta half raises an eyebrow as he blots another tear away. “Well, almost no one,” I correct myself, leaning into his hand against my face. “This little girl isn’t even here yet and she already has all these people who love her.”

“It’s a pretty good support system we’ve got,” Peeta says with a soft smile.

“It’s amazing,” I agree.

I pull him into a hug, as best as I can with my protruding belly. We linger for a few seconds before we agree that we should get back out there, since our friends are bound to notice both of us missing. We eat chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting and mingle until the party finally winds down. 

Posy, May Belle, and Sadie all promise to clean up the bakery so it can open as usual tomorrow. Cambric and Shiloh end up hanging around to help too, and despite protests from everyone Peeta starts to clean under the guise of getting our gifts together. I head into the kitchen and start to tackle the pile of dishes in the sink, since there’s not enough to fill the large automatic dishwasher and I have time to kill.

I’m humming to myself–with baby kicking along almost as if she’s dancing–and rinsing a plate when Shiloh snatches it from my hands.

“Go home. Now. You and your husband need to stop cleaning up your own party,” he says sternly.

“You know he’s not going to leave until the bakery’s clean, I might as well speed up the process,” I argue.

Shiloh sighs. “He’s a control freak,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, but he’s cute,” I shrug.

Shiloh takes over washing the dishes but concedes to let me dry them. 

“Why are you still here?” I ask, somewhat suspiciously. I have a theory I’ve been working on since the other day that I haven’t even let Peeta in on yet.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Shiloh says.

“And this has nothing to do with the strawberry scone you took the other day?” I press.

He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you implying?”

“Peeta might know everyone’s bakery preferences, but he doesn’t know that I always send extra strawberries home with Cambric because Sadie loves them so much.”

“Does she?” he asks evenly. I raise my eyebrows at him. “Okay, fine. Maybe the scone was for her, but just to be clear I also took two chocolate chip scones for Posy and May Belle. They were all gathered to plan the party and I just dropped by with an update, that’s all.”

“Oh, alright. I see. So which one of them are you trying to date?” I ask.

“None of them!”

“I really thought the strawberry scone was a dead giveaway, but now I’m not so sure. Your best friend’s sister would be an interesting move. But I can see you and May Belle working, too. Kind of an opposites attract kind of thing?” I ponder.

“Pregnancy has made your brain crazy, do you know that?”

“Well aware,” I say, plucking a chocolate flower off of a nearby leftover cupcake.

“Seriously, drop it, okay?” Shiloh says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’re wrong, but I don’t want any of those rumors spreading.”

“Why not? Because one of them is true?” I tease.

Shiloh throws back his head and groans. Just then, the girls come back into the kitchen to let me know that they’re heading out and to give me hugs while I thank them for the party. And next to me Shiloh, who I’ve never seen so much as flinch in front of a girl, is completely red in the face.

“Which one, Shiloh?” I ask, smirking once the girls have left.

“Over my dead body,” he responds.

I shrug. “We’re lacking gossip these days, I’ve killed for less.”

“It’s just a crush. It’ll pass,” he says quietly. “She’s too young for me anyway.”

“Who is?” Peeta asks, coming back into the kitchen.

“Shiloh’s secret crush he won’t tell me about,” I grumble.

Peeta’s eyebrows lift in amusement. “Did he give you any clues?”

“Peeta let you win the diaper race!” Shiloh blurts out suddenly.

I gasp and round on Peeta, all thoughts of Shiloh’s development gone. “You what ?!” 

Peeta looks between the two of us, a mixture of betrayal and amusement in his eyes. He points at the door and says, “get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow,” to Shiloh. 

I cross my arms and pout. “We’re doing a do-over when we get home,” I tell him.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” he coos, grabbing me from behind and massaging my hips while peppering kisses onto my cheek.

I turn around and glare at him. “You really let me win?”

“I just love seeing you happy,” Peeta admits. “And we both know you’re the best diaperer of the two of us. That game was mostly luck anyway.”

“No, I watched you in the men’s round, there’s a skill to it that you mastered fast.”

“Okay, so I’m lucky and I’m good with my hands,” Peeta shrugs.

I glance down at my belly. “I think that’s how we ended up in this situation.”

He lets out a laugh, then pulls my lips to his. After a minute of slow, hungry kisses, I pull back just enough to speak.

“First one to get a diaper on the cat wins. Loser makes dinner for a week.”

Peeta laughs against my lips. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

On the morning of our fifteenth wedding anniversary, Peeta wakes up with a startle to find me sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, looking down at him.

“Again, I say, one of these days I’m going to put a cat bell on you,” he huffs, taking a deep breath to try and resume his normal heart rate.

“Happy anniversary,” I say, leaning down to kiss him. He tries to keep me there, but I quickly pull back. “Get up. We’re going to the lake,” I say.

Peeta frowns up at me. “Do you mean a different, closer lake that doesn’t require eight hours of hiking?” he asks.

“No, I mean our lake. It’s our anniversary,” I remind him.

“Yes, I know that, but Katniss, are you sure…?”

“Get dressed, we’re leaving in ten minutes,” I say definitively, before turning on my heel and waddling down the stairs. 

Peeta’s skeptical but follows me into the kitchen a few minutes later, where I’m shoving as much food as possible into our picnic backpack. I don’t trust my appetite to behave for a full day in the woods without ample provisions.

Peeta insists on making us sit down to breakfast before we go; I would’ve preferred we eat on the go so we have more time at the lake. But he offers up chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, and I suppose it’s probably for the best that I load up my stomach before we go.

The sun has just finished rising when we’re ready to leave. Peeta takes the backpack from me, claiming that I’m carrying enough extra weight already. I decide not to pick a fight about that right now, but I pocket that comment for later if needed.

The longer we hike, the more I realize I have a problem. I have never in my life been this miserable in the woods–Hunger Games aside, of course. My swollen feet are pinched into my boots, I’m sweating like a pig even though the weather is comfortably cool, and I’m huffing and puffing so hard it’s almost comical. After half an hour of this I can hardly stand it, even though we can’t be more than a mile in.

“Let’s…take a rest. A water break,” Peeta corrects himself quickly.

I’m too out of breath to make any kind of retort. I just plop down on a fallen tree and hope that Peeta will help me up when it’s time to get moving. He sits next to me and hands me my water bottle before grabbing his own. We both take a long drink before either of us speaks.

“Katniss, I want you to be honest with yourself for a moment,” he says carefully. “How do you feel about doing this for another three to four hours?”

“Not great,” I admit. “But I really want to make it to the lake.”

Peeta gives me a look mixed with pity and exasperation. “Have you realized yet that even if we make it to the lake, we also have to walk back today?”

And that’s when I burst into tears. Peeta squeezes his arm tight around me and soothes me while I cry.

“I ruined our anniversary,” I wail.

“No, you didn’t,” Peeta says. He plants a long kiss to my hairline. “Honestly, I really didn’t want to go to the lake today,” he admits.

“You’re just saying that,” I sniff.

“No, I’m not. I promise,” he says.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

“Well, I tried, but you seemed determined. And…you’re a little bit emotionally fragile these days,” he offers weakly.

I sniff. “I ruined the day,” I say.

“Katniss, it’s not even eight yet. There’s hardly even been a day to ruin. Plenty of time for us to turn it around,” he says gently, running his thumbs under my eyes to wipe away the tears.

“I don’t have anything else planned, though.”

Peeta stands up and offers me his hands. It takes a good deal of effort to pull me to my feet. Then we start to head back towards home.

“We’ll find something fun to do,” he promises. “Just think of how many fun things we can fit in the day now that we don’t have to spend upwards of eight hours hiking.”

“Do you really hate going to the lake that much?” I ask incredulously. I thought it was one of our favorite things to do as a couple, but maybe he’s just been humoring me the entire time.

“No, I usually love it. But not when you’re so clearly miserable,” he says.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, while I try to figure out how I’m going to wipe away the tears that have started streaming down my face again without Peeta noticing.

“Maybe we could–oh, love. What’s the matter?” Peeta says, stopping to wrap me in his arms as tight as he can with our baby between us.

“We’re never going to go to the lake again,” I whisper pathetically.

“Yes, we are. Once she’s born we’ll be able to share the load. You’ll feel better once you’re not pregnant anymore, I promise.”

“But this is our last chance to go just the two of us,” I say.

“Katniss, what are you talking about?” He’s clearly trying not to laugh. “Remember all those people in our bakery a few weeks ago? All those people who love us and our baby and would be more than willing to watch her for a day or two so we can have some time alone?”

“But it won’t be the same. I can’t imagine leaving her to go off in the woods on our own, where no one can reach us if she needs anything,” I say. “We’re about to become parents, it’s never going to be just the two of us again.”

Peeta sighs deeply. “Agree to disagree. But let’s put a pin in that for right now. Is there anything you want to do today to celebrate us?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Plenty,” he says confidently. He takes my hand and starts to lead the way again. “Like I said, we’ve still got a whole day ahead of us. We could still have a picnic somewhere closer to home, or the Meadow maybe? We could go home and cook together, or bake together. We could watch a movie together. We could have sex. We could take a nap together. We could take a shower together. We could have sex again . We could have a nice dinner, you pick the dessert, one more quickie then we turn in early for the night. What do you think?”

I laugh. “I think you’re forgetting that your wife has been replaced with a whale who can hardly walk without getting tired. I don’t know who you think you’ll be having all that sex with, but I wish the two of you the best of luck.”

Peeta lets out a laugh and kisses the top of my head. “Alright, three times might be ambitious. But if we consult our good friend, page 109, I’m sure we can find something that works for your current energy levels.”

I snort. Page 109 of our pregnancy book is the start of the section about intimacy. We’ve consulted it many times in recent weeks. 

“You know what I’ll never take for granted again?” I ask. “Laying flat on my back and letting you do all the work.”

“Okay, we’ll start a list of things to do when you’re not pregnant anymore. As soon as we get home, I’ll write down lake trips and lazy sex,” Peeta says.

I roll my eyes at him. “Let’s just make sure we don’t leave this list laying around.”

“The kid won’t be able to read for years,” he says with a wave of dismissal.

“I’m not worried about the kid , I’m worried about Haymitch. He’s already traumatized enough from finding that sketchbook last week,” I remind him.

Peeta laughs loudly at the memory, startling some birds out of a nearby tree. “I thought for sure he was going to start drinking again after that,” he chortles.

By the time we make it back to the house, Peeta has successfully cheered me up and we’ve come up with a vague plan for the day. Starting with second breakfast and a nap for me, because, oh, have I mentioned I’m pregnant?

I wake up with my head on Peeta’s lap while he sketches. I take a moment to stare up at him, watching his look of concentration and the way the light filters through his long lashes.

“You’re staring again,” he says with a smirk.

“I am. You’re easy on the eyes,” I say. 

Peeta laughs softly and sets aside his sketchbook. 

“Should I see if I can find us a movie to watch?” he asks.

I pull a face. “Shouldn’t we do something more exciting than just watch a movie?”

“We could watch a movie naked ,” he suggests with an eyebrow wiggle.

“Peeta!” I groan.

He laughs. “I gave you my ideas earlier, I’m happy to do whatever you want to do. But we don’t need to overdo it. It’s not like we usually do anything huge for our anniversary,” he reminds me.

“I know, but it’s our last one that’s just the two of us,” I say.

“Am I missing something here? What’s with this sudden obsession with everything being the last time?” he asks. “We’re still going to have an anniversary next year, Katniss. And the year after that. And the year after that. And the year–”

“I get it,” I cut him off. “I just…I don’t know. She’s about to change everything. I don’t want to look back on this day next year and regret not doing something more spontaneous while we still could.”

Peeta watches me struggle to sit up for a second before placing his hands on my back and gently shoving me into an upright position.

“Well…next year we’re going to have an infant, and we’ll probably be exhausted. I bet if we did something wild and spontaneous today, we’ll look back on this a year from now and wonder why we didn’t take the chance to just lay around and do nothing together while we still could,” he says thoughtfully.

I digest this for a moment. He’s obviously putting a spin on this for my sake, playing me like he used to play crowds and cameras. But there’s a truth to it, too.

“You really don’t mind that?” I ask.

“Not at all,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “All I want to do is spend time with you.”

“Alright, then,” I agree, nuzzling down into his shoulder and draping my legs over his lap.

And so the day passes by rather uneventfully. We find a movie that seems interesting enough, although I think I doze off again for part of the middle. We have a picnic on our back porch. We bake a little mini cake for the two of us. And then, because I want to prove that we can still have some spontaneity, I push him up against the wall and kiss him with everything I have. It’s not long before we’re fumbling our way down the hall and up the stairs to our bed, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in our wake.

When Peeta lays me back on the bed he assures me that I can just let him do all the work for a while, but it turns out that maybe some of the more involved positions are good for me these days. I end up falling asleep with Peeta’s head between my legs, and wake up who knows how much later with my head on his chest.

“I’m so sorry!” I groan the second I realize what happened.

Peeta’s chest bounces beneath me with laughter. “It’s okay, love.” His voice is thick with sleep, too. 

“I’m growing a human,” I mumble in my defense.

“I know you are,” he says, pulling me closer to him and nuzzling his nose in my hair. “You’re doing a really great job with that.”

I snort. “If you say so.”

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers.

“Okay.” I bury my face in his neck. “I owe you sex later.” 

“No you don’t,” he says.

“I love you a lot,” I say. 

“I love you a lot, too,” he says. 

I fall back asleep rather quickly. When I open my eyes again it’s just past 3:30. Peeta is no longer in bed, instead I find a fat orange cat curled up in his place and a piece of paper on his pillow.

I would like to formally request your attendance at dinner in our kitchen at 6 o’clock, sharp. I’ve laid out a dress for you, but you’re welcome to wear whatever you feel most comfortable in. I’d like to encourage you to spend the remaining hours until dinner doing whatever you deem necessary to feel beautiful and completely relaxed for this evening (note that I said to feel beautiful, because you’re already the most beautiful woman in the world). Please stay out of the kitchen until the appointed time. Love, your husband of fifteen years!

I smile at the note before sticking it in my bedside drawer, where I keep my collection of similar notes from Peeta. I notice that a yellow dress has in fact been laid out for me on the armchair in the corner. It’s a peculiar choice on his part; it was a maternity dress passed down from Delly that I didn’t think I would ever wear, if only because I have very few occasions requiring something other than one of Peeta’s shirts and my overalls.

I take a long, hot shower, then braid my hair nice and tight so it’ll have some curl to it when it dries. I consider attempting to shave my legs, which I only do on very special occasions, but there’s no way I’ll be able to reach most spots. Whatever, it’s not like Peeta has ever minded anyway. I take some time to slather my belly in a balm my mother sent to prevent stretch marks. I can’t say I’ve kept up with it as well as I’m supposed to–most likely some of these marks are here to stay–but the balm is soothing and smells good so I apply it when I think of it.

When I head back into the bedroom wrapped in my plush robe, I find that a plate of cheese buns and a glass of water with cucumber and mint has been placed on my bedside table. I settle back in on my side of the bed, with my snack in easy reach and my pillow propped up just right to support my lower back. Baby gives me a hard kick and I decide that now’s as good a time as any for me to do a kick count for the day, the way of checking that there’s no atypical inactivity on her end. 

My wiggly girl passes with flying colors by the time I’m done with my snack and I’ve settled on which book I’d like to read until dinner. I pick one of Delly’s books that covers labor and the first three months of baby’s life in finer detail than our regular pregnancy book. I make a few notes–things to discuss with Peeta later, a reminder to make sure my mother’s train is scheduled–but by 5:30 I hit the end of a chapter and it’s time for me to finish getting ready.

It doesn’t take long at all for me to loose my hair from its braid and slip into the dress. I haven’t worn makeup in years, but I dab on a tiny bit of lipstick I have saved for special occasions. I examine myself in our full-length mirror, and although I still feel heavy and exhausted, I feel beautiful and relaxed too. 

It’s 5:45 when I sneak down to the kitchen, hoping Peeta won’t be too strict about me arriving “at the appointed time.” I hover in the kitchen entrance for a moment, watching the way the muscles in Peeta’s back ripple through his undershirt as he removes a tray from the oven.

“Ding ding ding,” I say. 

Peeta startles slightly then turns around to face me. “What was that?” he says.

“My cat bell,” I shrug.

He laughs and gives me a once over, then his eyes flicker over to the clock and he gives a shake of his head that’s half amused, half exasperated.

“Sorry, I’m early,” I say sheepishly.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says. He grabs me by the hips and pulls me into a long, deep kiss. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Some have called me the most beautiful woman in the world,” I nod sagely.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that too,” he smiles. 

Peeta releases his grip on me to pull on a blue button up shirt. Then he pulls out my chair for me and I take my seat as he brings our plates to the table. The entire interaction feels strangely familiar, but it’s not until I look around the table and see the basket of bread that I can place it. Pita bread , I think to myself.

“Peeta, is this our first date?” I say, suddenly piecing together the clues. The way the table’s set, the meal he’s prepared, even right down to our outfits. Peeta has recreated our first official date. He looks very pleased with himself as he takes his seat across from me.

“Yes, but more accurately this is our last date where it’s just the two of us, to borrow your phrasing,” he says with a smirk.

I scowl at him. “Way to bring down the mood,” I huff.

“You see why I haven’t been thrilled with you saying that all day?” he asks.

“Fair enough,” I say.

Peeta takes my hand from across the table and kisses the back of it.

“Let’s play a game,” he says.

“What kind of game?” I ask skeptically.

“The kind of game that helps me prove a point,” he says. “Indulge me.”

“Fine, but only because this chicken is delicious,” I say.

Peeta chuckles. “I’d like us to list everything that’s different about this dinner tonight from our first date.”

I frown, trying to figure out where he’s going with this. But, alright, I’ll indulge him.

“Well, starting with the most obvious, we’re married with a kid on the way,” I say.

“That we are,” he smiles. “There’s no wine.”

“That’s probably for the best,” I say. On our actual first date, I accidentally had too much wine and Peeta wouldn’t kiss me because of it. “We’re at the wrong house, too.”

“We’re at a different house,” Peeta corrects, “there’s nothing wrong with the house that we’ve shared for over fifteen years.” He takes a bite of his chicken while he ponders his next point. “On our first date we talked about our families. Now we’re a family.”

“We were then, too,” I say.

“True. But now we’ve got official labels and rings and paperwork.”

“And a baby,” I add.

Peeta smiles. “Yes, and a baby,” he agrees.

I don’t mean to sigh, but I guess one escapes me. Peeta frowns at me, waiting for an explanation.

“Sorry, it just kind of overwhelms me to remember we’re about to become parents . Does that ever freak you out?” I ask.

“All the time. But we’re ready for it,” he says, giving my hand a reassuring little squeeze.

“I guess we’ll find out in nine weeks,” I say.

“We’re in single digits!” Peeta realizes excitedly. 

“Yes, I’m sure it’s much more thrilling when you’re not the one doing the birthing,” I say. Peeta gives me a sympathetic grimace. “Sorry, I was just reading about labor, it’s on my mind.”

Peeta rubs a spot on his forehead. “I told you to do something relaxing, and you chose to read up on labor?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, I’ll be more relaxed knowing what to expect than going in blind,” I argue.

“Fair enough,” he says.

I accidentally spend the rest of the meal catching Peeta up on what I read and discussing my wishes for giving birth. I feel a little bad that we spent most of the dinner that was supposed to be about us talking about the baby, but I guess I need to accept that this is just the way life is now.

After dinner, Peeta pulls me to my feet, holds me by the waist, and begins to sway us in a slow circle. Just like our first date, I hum a few songs while we sway. Unlike our first date, there’s a baby squished between us, kicking us both.

“I think she’s dancing, too,” Peeta whispers.

I let out a soft laugh. “Dancing. I like that,” I say. Our little dancing girl. 

Peeta keeps me pressed tight against him, occasionally pressing kisses along my cheek and head and neck.

“You never did prove your point,” I remind him. “With the game?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “My point is that lots of things have changed over the years. But we’re still you and me, right?”

“Right,” I agree.

“We’ve been through lots of different phases together, and I’m not saying that parenting isn’t a big one, but we’re going to get through it just fine because we have each other,” he promises.

I cup my hand on his cheek and pull his lips against mine. I savor the feel of him, the taste of him. The way he still makes me feel giddy like a teenager. The way he still makes me feel loved and safe and wanted in a way that no one else ever could.

“I love you,” I whisper against his lips. 

“I love you, too,” he replies. “Do you remember what I said to you on the day of our rooftop picnic?” he asks,

“The freezing the moment and living in it forever thing?” I ask. Peeta nods. “Of course I do. I remember everything about you.” 

“Well unfortunately, I have to take it back,” he says.

“You can’t take back one of the most romantic things you’ve ever said to me,” I say indignantly.

Peeta laughs. “Too bad, I have to. It’s not true.”

I let out a gasp and try to break free from his arms, but he’s too strong and I’m not fighting that hard. Instead he pulls me closer and leans in close to my ear.

“The truth is, knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t want to freeze any of the moments because then we’d miss out on what comes next. And loving you just gets better and better by the day,” he whispers. 

“It’s a good thing you’re still a romantic, you were on thin ice for a second there,” I say.

Peeta laughs and regretfully ends our dance, but it’s for a good cause as he grabs the cake. We take our slices to the couch, where I curl up next to Peeta while we eat. Then, under the guise of licking me some leftover frosting off of Peeta’s face, we kiss with increasing passion, until I’m straddling Peeta’s lap and he’s holding on tight to my backside to keep me steady even with my belly acting as a buffer between us.

“Should we go consult page 109?” I ask, blinking innocently at him.

“I don’t need a book to tell me the things I’m about to do to you,” Peeta says in a low voice.

Then, without warning, he tightens his grip under my legs and stands up with me still wrapped around him.

“Please be careful,” I say wearily. “I’m carrying precious cargo.”

For a moment Peeta’s eyes soften and he kissed the bridge of my nose. “So am I,” he says, and he carries me up to our room.

Chapter Text

When I wake up I’m nestled tightly between two Mellarks. The larger of the two has his body curled around mine and his arms around my stomach, while the littlest Mellark has her head on my bladder and her feet kicking out a jig in my ribs.

“Happy birthday,” Peeta whispers in my ear.

“Thanks, love,” I say.

“Do you feel older?” he asks.

“No, but I feel like I need to pee,” I complain.

Peeta quickly releases me and I make my way urgently to the bathroom. While I’m there, I try to think through what I want to do today, knowing Peeta will probably ask as soon as I get back. When I’ve finished my business and return to the room, Peeta holds the covers up and I burrow myself back into his arms, this time facing him.

“I’ve been thinking,” Peeta says, “whatever we do today it should be focused on you.”

“Well, seeing as it’s my birthday, that makes sense,” I tease him.

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, focused on you . Not the baby, not the pregnancy, just you. So much of our life recently has been about the baby, and I want to make sure you’re feeling seen and cherished as a person and not just as an incubator,” Peeta says.

I reach over to run my fingers through his hair, then I let out a laugh.

“What?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“Nothing, it’s just…that was very sweet and thoughtful of you, but I was about to tell you that I was hoping to work on the baby book today. But that kind of undermines your plans,” I say.

“Oh,” he laughs. “If that’s what you want, we can do that.”

“We’ll do it in a way that empowers me as a person and not just an incubator,” I say, mimicking his voice.

“Whatever, you little shit,” he says, rolling his eyes at me again. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Baby wants pancakes, Mama wants bacon,” I say, rubbing my belly for emphasis.

“We’ve got to watch out for that one, she’s got a sweet tooth,” Peeta says. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on my belly and a very long kiss on my lips.

I let Peeta get a head start in the kitchen while I take my time washing up. When I get out of the shower I braid my wet hair and remember to slather on some more balm as I caress my bump. It almost makes me laugh to remember how I stood here at six weeks pregnant and tried to push my stomach out as far as it would go. Now I’m six weeks away from meeting this little bump who’s squished all my organs and taken all the room I can give her.

“I love you,” I whisper as I rub my stomach, and even as I say it a tear escapes down my cheek. “Have I told you that yet? I love you so much.”

She kicks at my hand and we have a sweet little moment together. Then I dress in my comfiest pajamas–one of Peeta’s shirts and a pair of buttery soft stretch pants–and make my way downstairs. I eat my share of pancakes and bacon–although I do so in multiple courses, because there’s a very limited amount of space in my stomach these days. Then I make my way over to the couch. I start to look through the baby book kit while Peeta cleans up the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Peeta asks, leaning over the back of the couch.

“This is really cute,” I say. “There’s all these different pages with different themes and we can mix and match whichever ones we want.”

I hand Peeta a page at random, one about setting up the nursery. “Cute,” he agrees. “What do you need from me?”

“Well mostly I’d like you to just sit and work on this with me, but I may also need you to be my legs and my artist,” I say.

“I’ve got the artist thing down, but I’m fifty-fifty on the legs,” he says with a smirk.

“Ha. Ha. Save it for Cambric,” I say.

Peeta gathers up his colored pencils and a sketchbook and our camera and joins me on the couch. Together we sort through the page templates and decide which ones we want in the book. The majority of them won’t come into play until she’s born–pages on welcoming baby, monthly growth, tracking milestones–but there are a good number about preparing for baby as well.

We select our pages carefully, trying to not make too much work for ourselves today and keeping the content light. For instance, we omit a page about our love story when Peeta and I can’t agree on one, simple story.

“You can’t say we met at school,” I argue. “You noticed me at school but we didn’t meet until the day with the bread.”

“Well if you’re getting technical we didn’t actually speak then, so we didn’t meet until we shook hands on the reaping stage,” Peeta says.

I press my lips in a line. “Well we’re not putting that in here. The first day of school story is much sweeter.”

“But if the question is ‘how did we meet’, it’s not technically true,” Peeta sighs. “But I guess it’s also a bit confusing that we both already had crushes on each other by the time we officially met.”

“Excuse me?” I say. “ You had a crush on me .”

“Katniss, come on. It’s been twenty years. You can admit it,” Peeta says.

“There’s nothing to admit!”

“Peeta’s sooooo strong,” he says in a high-pitched, bad imitation of my voice. “He’s sooooo good at wrestling and sooooo sexy in his uniform.”

“I never said that last part!” I say, aiming a couple kicks at him across the couch.

“But you thought it,” Peeta smirks. He grabs my ankle and drags me toward him until my legs are on his lap.

I bite my lip. “Sexy isn’t the word I would’ve used then. Just that those uniforms were very…tight,” I concede.

“But you noticed,” Peeta says in a singsong voice.

I roll my eyes. “If we have to argue out all the details of our love story, we’ll be stuck on this page all day.”

“Possibly all week. The timeline’s really messy,” Peeta agrees. “I mean, we were engaged before we were actually together. We had sex before saying ‘I love you’. And we got married, like, three different times.”

“And none of that feels necessary to share with our daughter,” I add.

“No, it does not,” he says, plucking the love story page from the stack and throwing it back in the box.

After more discussion we finally settle on the pages we agree highlight details we want to share with our daughter and remember about the pregnancy. Who we told and how they reacted–Delly’s scream and Cambric guessing before we knew and my mother crying and Haymitch oscillating between being snarky and tender. And another page that we’ll fill with pictures from the baby shower. There’s a few pages to track the progress of my bump and the baby’s growth. We’ll add in our ultrasound photos and the pictures Peeta’s taken periodically as my stomach has grown.

I let out a laugh when I flip through our camera and see the first picture of my bump. If you can even call it that. It looks more as if I’m proudly displaying the aftermath of a large meal. 

“Remember when we thought this was big?” Peeta laughs.

I shoot him a withering stare. “Are you calling me big now?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“No, you’re tiny and perfect. I just feel bad that you’ve got to lug a big ‘ole Mellark baby around,” he says apologetically.

At our last appointment they said she was already measuring a bit big. Dr. Elliot told me to start preparing myself now for the possibility of getting medically induced if I go past my due date. I can only hope this baby decides to come on her own in a timely manner.

After some consideration I decide to include a page on the different symptoms I felt throughout pregnancy–the good, the bad, and the ugly. It hasn’t all been smooth sailing, but I want to remember this time for what it was. And if nothing else, I may need a reminder of what my body has gone through the past several months if I ever decide to do it all again.

Peeta and I work shoulder to shoulder for most of the day. I write in stories about pregnancy and symptoms and the people who love us while Peeta arranges photos and draws in quick sketches for where the rest of the photos will go the next time we order prints.

“We’re really going back to our roots here, aren’t we?” Peeta says after a while.

I don’t have to guess what he means. The memory book. And before it, the plant book. Both days of quiet contentment, working side by side like this.

“Nice for a change,” I say, smiling up at him.

Peeta leans in to kiss my forehead and lingers there for a breath longer than usual, in that way he does sometimes where it seems like he can’t quite believe this is really our life.

“Do you want lunch now or after your nap?” he asks.

“Who says I’m taking a nap?” I scowl.

“The fact that you’ve taken at least one nap a day for the past eight months?” he suggests. “Are you tired now?” 

“I’m always tired,” I grumble. “And yes, I suppose a nap while you make lunch would be nice.”

“Lovely,” Peeta says, immediately getting up and gathering up our work so far. Before I know it I’m tucked in on the couch, and woken up to the sounds and smells of cooking a little later.

“Smells good in here,” I say as I waddle into the kitchen.

“Good, I was just about to wake you,” Peeta says.

I tilt my head up and give Peeta a few slow, lazy kisses.

“Delly stopped by, she picked up your cake from the bakery so I don’t have to head out later,” Peeta adds.

“Oh that was nice, I’m sorry I missed her,” I say. 

“She understood the need for sleep very well. She said happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Delly,” I mumble. For a moment I brace myself on the counter as a wave of pain ripples through my abdomen.

“Katniss? You okay?” Peeta asks tentatively.

“Yeah. Practice contraction,” I shrug.

“You’re sure it was practice?” he asks, eyes full of concern.

“As sure as I can be. I’ll keep an eye on the clock, though,” I soothe him.

Peeta goes back to finishing up lunch and I continue to lean on the counter for support, but no other contractions come. After a few minutes Peeta sets the table, then comes up behind me with his hands on my hips.

“I have a birthday present for you,” he whispers in my ear. 

I frown at him over my shoulder. We’ve never gotten presents for each other’s birthdays, unless you count cake and occasional sexual requests.

“Relax,” he says. “Trust me.”

Before I can ask any questions, he’s looped his arms under my belly and lifted it up so I’m no longer carrying the weight of it on my own. I immediately melt back against him, letting him hold me up as well.

“ Ohhh my god,” I moan. Peeta chuckles. “Why haven’t you done this before?!”

“Delly gave me the idea. I thought it might feel nice,” he answers.

“It does. But now you have to hold my stomach up for the next six weeks,” I whine.

“Fine by me,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my temple.

When he does finally release my weight slowly back to me, I nearly cry. My only consolation is the delicious meal my husband has prepared waiting for us at the table.

We spend the rest of the afternoon doing more of the same. We work on the book. Peeta brings me snacks and pictures and the phone when it rings. I take breaks to field birthday calls from my mother and our friends while Peeta massages the tense spots in my shoulders and back. By the time dinner rolls around, we’ve pretty much completed all we can until we get our photos printed or the baby comes.

Haymitch joins us for dinner and cake. He tries to argue against singing when Peeta starts to light the candles, but I silently plead with him to join. Haymitch can carry a tune pretty well, while Peeta, bless his heart, can’t find a key to save his life. They finish their song and Haymitch and I share a look that tells me we’re both trying to keep from laughing out loud.

“What’d you wish for, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks.

“If she tells you, it won’t come true,” Peeta reminds him very seriously while cutting into the cake.

“In that case, I wished for the baby to inherit Peeta’s lovely singing voice,” I deadpan. Peeta looks up in offense, and finally Haymitch and I burst out laughing.

“Am I really that bad?” Peeta asks.

I rub his back reassuringly. “You can’t be good at everything . You sing like I paint,” I tell him. We lock eyes and I know we’re both remembering the infamous baguette painting I made so many years ago. The one I recently found hidden in plain sight in between two picture frames in the nursery.

“Ouch,” Peeta says.

After cake Haymitch flips through the baby book with a faint smile on his face, then bids us good night. I cuddle up next to Peeta and we flip through the completed (for now) book.

It starts with a blurb from each of us about how we found out about the baby and how excited we are to meet her. Then the page on telling everyone else. Then the baby shower. After that it’s the page of my symptoms, where Peeta added that sketch of me asleep on the couch. Next is a compilation of sketches, catalog clippings, paint samples, and final product photos of the nursery. Ultrasound pictures and bump progressions. And just like that, we turn the page and the next thing is the announcement of her birth, waiting to be filled out.

“She’ll be here so soon,” I realize.

“I know.” Peeta runs his finger over the page full of blanks. “Soon we’ll know all of these things about her.”

I look at all the blank lines. Her name. Her birth date and time. Her height and weight. How each of us would describe the birth in five words or less. What she looks like. Soon we will know all of these things about the little person we made.

“Okay. Why don’t you go grab the list,” I say.

“What list?” he asks.

“The list I know you have hidden somewhere in this house with baby names,” I say.

For a second Peeta looks like he’s about to argue, then he closes his mouth again and sheepishly reaches over to his sketchbook. He pulls out a sheet of loose paper from the back of the book and hands it over to me.

“Are these in any particular order?” I ask.

“No, no order,” he says. “Just ones that stood out to me.”

I glance down at the list and smile. Clearly Peeta went digging through our plant book for inspiration, the same way he did when we were naming our kitten several years ago.

Sage
Willow
Lily
Iris
Meadow
Wren
Robin

And then, slightly separate from the rest of the list: Primrose?

My finger traces her name fondly. When I look up Peeta’s nodding.

“I thought that one might be your pick,” he says.

But almost immediately I’m shaking my head. “No, I don’t want to name her after Prim,” I say. “I don’t want to name her after anyone. I want her to be a person all of her own.”

“Are you sure?” Peeta says.

“I’m sure. We have lots of other ways to honor her. And all of them.” I pass the list back to Peeta. “I still want to see her before we make a final decision, but my top choice is on here.”

“Perfect,” Peeta says, beaming at me.

“Perfect,” I agree. I settle my head on his shoulder. “What do you think she’ll look like?”

“Probably like a baby,” he says.

“Oh, you’re so funny,” I say flatly.

Peeta chuckles at his own humor. “You want to write down our predictions?” he asks.

“No, I don’t know. I’m just curious, that’s all. About which parts of her will look like you and which will look like me. Like…whose hair she’ll have,” I throw out as an example.

“The odds are about fifty-fifty. The color at least, I don’t know about hair type, I think that’s more complicated,” he says. 

“Of course it’s fifty-fifty,” I say.

“Well not necessarily. Actually, if your parents had both been born in the Seam, it would be pretty much guaranteed that our baby would have dark hair. But because your mom is blonde, you carry that trait, so we could have a blonde baby.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

“We learned about genetics in school, remember?” 

“No, I don’t.”

“Well I do,” he shrugs.

A moment later I let out a laugh.

“Wait. When we were learning about genetics, were you sitting there trying to figure out what our children would look like?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” Peeta says, unfazed. 

“How old were we?” I ask, still laughing.

“I don’t know, maybe twelve or thirteen?”

I shake my head at him, then drape my legs over his lap.

“How do you think thirteen year old Peeta would feel to see us now, weeks away from having that baby you imagined?” I ask.

“I think he’d be just as thrilled as thirty-four year old Peeta is,” he whispers.

Peeta tilts my chin towards him and pulls me into a slow, languid kiss. We get lost in each other until I feel another pain in my stomach and freeze. Peeta looks concerned.

“Just practice,” I assure him. 

These practice contractions will continue to come sporadically until labor really begins, I need him to stop panicking whenever they happen. I pull his lips back against mine and try to resume where we left off, but it’s clear his mind is in two places now. No matter how subtle he thinks he’s being, I can tell by the hand he rested on my belly that he’s worried another contraction will come. So I pull back and close the book still open on my lap.

“We probably won’t order prints until after she’s born, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, that makes sense. We’ll have pictures of her to print too,” he says.

I smile, thinking not of the blurry black and white ultrasound shots but of high quality photos of our daughter.

“So I guess the next time we open this we’ll have a baby,” I say.

“I guess so.”

“I don’t know why I feel nervous all of a sudden,” I admit.

“It’s getting real,” Peeta says. “But pace yourself, we’ve still got six more weeks.”

I run a hand over my stomach, feeling so incredibly nervous and excited. So ready to move on to the next chapter, but still so desperate to live in this moment with Peeta for as long as I can.

“Six more weeks,” I repeat.

Chapter Text

The clock on Peeta’s nightstand reads 3:02 AM when I wake up to a pain in my abdomen. Another practice contraction. I’ve had them off and on for weeks, though one has never woken me up before. 

I roll over and trace Peeta’s sleeping form with my eyes. It’s a little too early for him to wake up for the bakery, too late for him to fall back asleep if I woke him. So I watch him sleep, smiling slightly at the soft snore occasionally passing through his lips. Some nights, especially with my recent influx of hormones, his snores drive me crazy. But tonight I don’t seem to mind. I watch him sleeping peacefully until my eyelids grow heavy and I join him once again in sleep.

That is, until another practice contraction hits and I’m jolted awake once again. 3:17 AM. I had barely drifted off, and now I’m wide awake. I let out a groan of frustration, then hope it wasn’t loud enough to wake Peeta. He’s still snoring beside me. Now it starts to annoy me a little.

I shut my eyes and try to will sleep to return to me. Peeta, who still experiences occasional bouts of insomnia, has all these games he plays in his mind when he can’t sleep. Sometimes he imagines he’s decorating a cake, focusing on completing every step in his mind as he would in real life. Other times he imagines there’s a break in Haymitch’s goose pen and he has to corral all the geese back home before they escape again. I borrow this one, since Peeta clearly has no need for it tonight.

At 3:33 my uterus contracts again and I begin to feel uneasy. I keep chasing geese in my head to distract from the pain.

At 3:47 no amount of imaginary geese can distract me from noting how consistently the waves are arriving. Especially when the trademark of the practice contractions is their irregularity. Still, maybe the timing is just a cruel coincidence. I decide not to be concerned unless three more follow the pattern. Three feels like a good, solid number.

Peeta’s alarm goes off at 3:50 AM and he quickly shuts it off. Probably trying not to wake me, little does he know…

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, surprised to see my eyes.

“I’m awake,” I mumble.

Peeta and I lay face to face, his hands running lightly through my hair. My eyes shut in a vain attempt to fall back asleep.

4:01 am, another contraction. I try to keep my face neutral, but Peeta sees right through it.

“Are you okay?” Peeta asks.

“Yeah, just practice contractions,” I say. “She must be a perfectionist like you, she’s practicing really hard this morning.”

Peeta chuckles. “How long have you been awake?”

“On and off since three,” I say.

He kisses me and starts to stretch.

“Try and get some sleep, love. I’m going to shower,” he says.

I nod and shut my eyes, listening vaguely to the sounds of Peeta’s footsteps and the water running. I try to feign sleep when I hear him reenter the room and shuffle as quietly as he’s able through the dresser drawers. But he catches me when the next contraction hits and my eyes fly open in search of the clock.

“Another one?” he asks, frowning.

I nod. 

“How many have you had this morning?”

“Um, five or six, maybe?” I say, as if I haven’t been counting.

He studies me for a long moment, probably trying to divide up the time I’ve been awake with the number of contractions. Possibly piecing together that they’re hitting every fifteen minutes. Soon I know he knows, because he lingers upstairs far longer than he normally does. He takes his time getting dressed, brushing his teeth, drying his hair.

When the next contraction hits I glance at the clock out of the corner of my eye. Then I realize Peeta was already watching me in anticipation. 4:30, on the dot.

“Katniss,” he says slowly. “I think you’re in labor.”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Katniss,” he whispers.

“It’s too early. I still have three weeks,” I insist.

“I don’t think she has a calendar in there,” he jokes lightly.

“It’s too early,” I whisper again.

He sits back on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair again. 

“Has it been every fifteen minutes?” he asks.

“Give or take,” I mutter.

“Katniss–”

“I’m not! I can’t be!”

I feel Peeta sit on the edge of the bed next to me and give a deep sigh. “Thirty-seven weeks is okay,” he says gently. “It’s not full term but it’s okay.”

“But what if it’s not?”

“We can go to the hospital, if that would give you more peace of mind,” Peeta suggests.

Would it? I’m not sure. I still think I’ll be more comfortable having her at home, but if anything goes wrong…

“I think I should call my–” I stop abruptly. I can see in Peeta’s eyes that the realization hit him at the same time. My mother is supposed to deliver the baby. My mother is set to come early next week. My mother is across the country.

And with that, I burst into tears.

“Baby, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Peeta whispers, pulling me tight against him. 

“What are we going to do?!” I cry out. 

“Shhh.” He rubs my back soothingly. “Let’s get you calmed down before we make any decisions.”

I cry, and then I start to calm down, and then another contraction hits and I cry harder again.

“Do we have options?” I whimper. “Because right now the only thing going through my mind is a high pitch screaming.”

“We have options. We can go to the hospital, which is probably our best–” I suck in a shuddering breath, “–best to wait on that one unless it’s really necessary,” Peeta changes tacks suddenly.

“But you can’t deliver her on your own,” I say miserably.

“I mean, I’d prefer not to…but maybe Haymitch can–”

“Peeta, I’m not letting Haymitch near my vagina!” I roar.

To his credit, he presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “That’s a good rule to live by,” he says seriously. I glare at him, unamused. Peeta takes a deep breath and I see him work through our options in his mind.

“I’m going to do everything I can to keep you and our little girl safe. You know that, right?” he asks.

“Of course I do,” I sniff.

He stares at me a minute, pondering.

“I think you should go back to sleep,” he says. I start to protest but he stops me. “Or at least rest. All you’re going to do right now is stress yourself out, and that’ll just make matters worse. You should get all the sleep you can now while it’s still early. Trust me to take care of everything, and you get some rest.”

“What are you going to do about my mother?”

“I’m going to call and get her opinion on how long it’ll be and if she thinks she can make it in time. If not, I’m sure she can coach me over the phone. And maybe we can think of someone you’d be comfortable with here as an extra set of hands.”

I filter through the options in my head. All the parents I can think of who might be able to help. Cambric may have helped deliver his girls, but I’m not sure I’d be comfortable having him in the room. Delly’s had babies but she had them at the hospital with the help of lots of nurses. Hazelle…

“Hazelle would be okay,” I decide. “If Hazelle’s available, she could help.”

“Okay, I’ll call your mother and Hazelle and we’ll go from there,” Peeta says. He kisses me on the forehead. “We’ll be alright. Get some rest, love.”

“I’ll try,” I promise.

My sleep is fitful, but Peeta was right to make me sleep. I get only small bursts of sleep between contractions, but when I do sleep I sleep hard. I have to reorient myself every time I wake up, and remind myself what’s happening. I don’t bother trying to keep track of the time between contractions, only of the shifting world around me. The sounds of Peeta’s voice on the phone. The front door opening and shutting soon after, and again much later. The shifting light through the curtains. The feel of Peeta getting back in bed, enveloping me in his arms. 

When I open my eyes again it’s just a little past nine. I’m welcomed back into the world of the awake by another contraction and two little feet dancing into my ribs. I let out a groan.

“Hi, love,” Peeta whispers from beside me. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just peachy,” I mumble through the contraction. He takes my hand and rubs it between both of his own. “Were you able to get ahold of my mother?” I ask when the contraction is done.

“Oh, yeah,” he says neutrally. I can’t read his expression.

“Is she on her way?” I ask, bracing myself for the answer I know is coming. I know full well how long that train ride is. 

“No,” he says, pulling the back of my hand to his lips. “But only because she’s down in the kitchen.”

It takes a while for his words to make sense. “Down in the… our kitchen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How long was I asleep?!” I ask, stunned. The clock reads 9:05, and unless it’s been a full twenty-four hours there’s no way she could have gotten here by train.

Peeta laughs. “It turns out there’s still some people willing to pull some strings for the Mockingjay. Lucky for us, those people have hovercraft access.”

I blink at him. “Tell me you didn’t call Plutarch,” I groan.

Peeta laughs. “No, I’d sooner deliver the baby all on my own,” he says.

I rack my brain trying to think who could possibly have pulled this off for us. Then I realize I don’t really care who it was, the real hero here is Peeta for keeping a level head and assessing our options.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pulling his lips to mine.

“I really didn’t do anything,” he mumbles. “Just made some phone calls.”

“You saved the day, Peeta. I don’t know how I can ever thank you. Wait, yes I do, drop your pants–”

“Katniss!” Peeta scolds, smacking my hand away from the button of his pants. “Seriously, it’s not that big of a deal. I just made the calls I said I would, the rest fell into place.”

The next contraction hits and I’m left to consider Peeta’s last statement as I breathe through the pain. I haven’t been paying enough attention to the clock since I woke up, but I’m sure that wasn’t fifteen minutes. 

He only made the calls he said he would, so he only called my mother and Hazelle…oh. Of course. Surely Major Hawthorne (or whatever his title is these days), with his big fancy job and big fancy house, has access to a hovercraft or two.

I kiss the back of Peeta’s hand, releasing some of the pressure I was putting on it to get through the contraction.

“Was it your idea or Hazelle’s?” I ask. By his face I can tell he knows I’ve pieced it together.

“Gale’s, actually,” he says. “He’s in town for some family thing, he was the one to answer the phone. He said he owes your family more than he can ever repay, and it was the least he could do.”

I roll my eyes slightly. “Typical,” I mutter. “I’ll have to call him later this week to thank him.”

“Try not to give the same ‘drop your pants’ offer, please,” Peeta requests lightly.

I release a sound that’s something like a laugh and a groan and a gag. I pull Peeta closer to me with an arm around his neck, my fingers drifting up into his hair.

“Hey,” I whisper, now face to face with him, “are we having a baby today?”

“Seems like it,” he says with a soft smile.

For the first time all morning I allow myself to feel excited. It’s met with equal parts fear, of course, but it’s there. We lay together for a few more moments, both of us with one hand on my stomach, the other wrapped around each other. We both feel the baby’s little kicks with a little more fire behind them than usual, perhaps in protest of her roomy home getting less comfortable. Hours from now, I’ll get to kiss those little feet. This is the thought that propels me to swing my legs over the side of the bed, and Peeta quickly rises to help me down to the kitchen.

It’s not that I didn’t believe Peeta, but I have to admit the full force of my mother’s appearance doesn’t hit me until I see her standing at the stove. Haymitch is here, too, sitting at the island making conversation with her. 

“Anyone else having an eventful morning, or just me?” I ask lightly. 

They both react bizarrely. Haymitch, for some reason, jumps to his feet. Meanwhile my mother’s eyes immediately fill with tears. It catches me entirely off guard, she’s always been good at regulating her emotions (well, except for that one time she wasn’t and we all almost starved).

“Oh, look at you,” she breathes, barely audible.

It’s only then that I realize this is her first time seeing me pregnant. I decide to give her a real show by smoothing my shirt down against my belly to give the full effect. This has the desired result and she gasps in delight before taking my face in her hands and kissing my forehead.

“So, realistically, how long until we can get this show on the road?” I ask when she releases me. 

“I can’t give you an answer until I can do a physical exam,” she answers. “But eat first, we need to keep your strength up.”

The four of us gather at the table and my mother doles out eggs, with the largest portion going to me. I start keeping track of the clock again and find that my contractions are now about eight minutes apart. I think it bodes well that the time between is already half of what it was, but my mother simply chuckles and reminds me that “babies come when they’re ready.”

Peeta carries most of the conversation as we eat. He also rubs my back slowly and softly, then eventually makes his way up to my scalp. It feels so good that I think I might fall back asleep right there at the table. Everyone protests when I rise to deposit my dishes in the sink, but I confess that sitting still isn’t feeling great at the moment, and I’ve got too much restless energy. I begin walking laps around the kitchen, but when the next contraction hits I brace myself with my elbows on the counter. Peeta’s there immediately, pressing in behind me with his hands providing needed pressure on my hips and his forehead pressed against my temple. Even when it’s over, he stays wrapped around me.

“Boy, do you need a refresher lesson on keeping your hands to yourself?” Haymitch asks.

“Nope,” he responds, not moving a muscle. “Touch helps increase oxytocin, oxytocin helps labor progress naturally.”

“Nice to see you know your stuff,” my mother says approvingly.

“Oh, Peeta’s read all the books. He probably has a better grasp on what’s about to happen than I do,” I admit.

“That might be for the best,” she says with a grimace. 

We all move into the living room, where my mother’s giant bag of medical supplies is waiting. She takes an armchair and starts digging through it. I plop down on the couch, and Peeta stands behind me and massages my shoulders. And Haymitch takes to pacing the room.

“Are you having a baby?” I snap at him. When he frowns at this, I continue, “what’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” Haymitch snarks back.

“Sit down! You’re making me nervous!”

“I’m making you nervous? You’re the one writhing in pain every eight minutes!”

“Well excuse me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Oh, is that why you’ve had such a sunny disposition lately?”

“Enough!” Peeta roars. “Haymitch, if you’re not going to contribute to the loving and relaxing environment I’m trying to maintain, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Haymitch huffs and falls into the nearest armchair without another word. My mother continues pulling supplies out of her bag and sorting them into neat piles. And Peeta begins releasing my hair from the braid it was in and rebraiding it more securely. It’s sweet, really it is, but all this doting is already a bit much for me. I lock eyes with Haymitch and his face reflects the same things I feel, which is mostly trying not to laugh with a tinge of guilt for our cynicism.

“Alright,” my mother says authoritatively, “with all the rush this morning it seems I forgot a few things. Haymitch, do you think you could run into town and find a bike pump?”

“You think putting her on a bike is going to help the situation?” Haymitch asks incredulously. 

“What? No. The pump is to blow up the labor ball I brought, it helps keep things moving.”

With this, Haymitch nods and heads to the door.

“And Peeta,” she adds, handing him a stack of linens, “could you get the bed made up with these? Make sure the waterproof cover goes on first–I put it on top of the stack here–we don’t want to ruin your mattress.”

Peeta diligently heads towards the stairs. I breathe a sigh of relief. My mother chuckles.

“The sign of a good man is one who needs to be kept busy during labor,” she notes. “The bad ones are too self absorbed to need occupying.”

“I guess we’re lucky to have two good men helping us,” I say. “But I swear, I think I must be maxed out on oxy-whatever at this point.”

She laughs. “Well don’t you worry about them, I’ll keep them out of your hair when they’re too much.” Without missing a beat she pulls a small pump out of her bag and starts inflating the labor ball she mentioned earlier. “Whoops, guess I did pack it,” she deadpans.

“We’ll have to come up with some more wild goose chases to send him on,” I laugh.

“Start thinking if you need anything done around the house,” she says.

I hear Peeta’s footsteps at the top of the stairs. “Oh, we can kill two birds with one stone,” I say. 

Peeta plops down on the couch next to me and starts running his hand up and down my leg.

“Do you want to help us make a list?” I say to him. 

“Always,” he says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. If there’s one thing Peeta loves, it’s making a good list. “Of what?”

“Of things around the house Haymitch can work on so I don’t kill him,” I answer. 

“Oh, on it,” he says, setting off towards his studio, undoubtedly to find something to write his list on.

My mother shakes her head and chuckles to herself. “I never imagined I’d be delivering my daughter’s child alongside Otho’s son and Burdock’s best friend,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” I shrug. “I never imagined I’d have positive associations with the words ‘Gale Hawthorne’ and ‘hovercraft’ in the same sentence. It’s a bit of a weird day for both of us.”

My next contraction hits and I wince. When it’s over, my mother helps me sit on the ball and shows me the best movements to help keep labor progressing. She stays with me for a few minutes to make sure I’m balancing alright, then heads into the kitchen to make tea.

For the next hour or so, we all have our roles. My mother alternates between the kitchen and the living room to check my progress. Haymitch comes back with a bike pump and gets all huffy about the fact that it wasn’t actually needed, so Peeta points him upstairs to put together our bassinet. Peeta stays near me, though he does a better job of giving me space when I need it and affection when I welcome it.

“When are you going to examine me?” I grunt at my mother after a particularly bad contraction. I’m desperate for some kind of timeline or evidence that this will be over soon. I’ve already been at it for almost nine hours and no one seems to be acting with any urgency.

“Not yet. They’re still too far apart. You typically wouldn’t go to the hospital until they’re about four minutes apart,” she reminds me.

“But I’m not going to the hospital,” I whine. “Isn’t unlimited exams one of the perks of having a home birth and my own personal doctor?”

Peeta mumbles something under his breath about infection.

“What was that?” I snap.

“He’s saying that cervical exams increase your risk of infection. We want to keep those to a minimum,” my mother supplies.

“What, did you memorize the books?” I snarl at Peeta. 

“It’s probably time for lunch,” he says, ignoring my outburst completely. “I think I’ll send Haymitch to the soup shop. Do you want cheddar and potato?” he asks me.

I scoff. “Of course I want cheddar and potato. I always get cheddar and potato.”

Peeta sucks in a deep breath through his nose and presses his lips into a line before plastering on a smile.

“Asterid, what kind of soup would you like?” he asks in a strained but polite voice.

“French onion, if they have it.”

“Perfect,” he says, and he marches up the stairs even louder than usual.

I don’t say a word to my mother while he’s gone, just close my eyes and focus on moving my hips around the ball again. When he comes back, he has a brief, whispered conversation with my mother and she announces that she’s going to go pick some herbs from our garden, though why I couldn’t tell you. When it’s just me and Peeta left in the house, he squats down in front of me and rests his hands gently on my thighs.

“Hey,” he says softly, “how are you doing?”

My lip starts to quiver. “Not great,” I admit, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Oh, my love. How can I help?” 

“Well, for starters, can you help me off this thing?” I ask. “It’s been over an hour and I can’t get up. I’m starting to feel a little woozy.”

Peeta chuckles and helps me secure my grasp on his shoulders so I can borrow his strength to get to my feet. And there, in his arms, I fall apart, sobbing into his chest.

“I’m in so much pain, Peeta.”

“I know, love, you’re being so strong.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t. And I haven’t even–” I let out another sob, “–I haven’t even really started yet!”

“No, honey, just because it’s early labor doesn’t mean nothing’s happening. You wouldn’t believe all the things your body’s doing right–”

“Stop it with the damn books and just be my husband for a minute!” I cry.

He holds me tighter as we sway together on the spot.

“As your husband, I hate seeing you in this kind of pain,” he says quietly. “And I’m wondering if you’ve reconsidered your stance on the hospital and pain medication.”

I pull back and stare at him, then shake my head no gruffly.

Peeta sighs. “Okay. Then what can I do to help you?”

“Get her to examine me,” I beg. “Peeta, please. It’s been nine hours and I have absolutely no frame of reference for how long this is going to be.”

“I understand,” he sighs. “But why don’t we wait until after lunch? You might even be at four minutes apart by then, but if not I’ll make sure she examines you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I sniff.

Haymitch returns with soup, bread, and well wishes from the town. My contractions are down to five minutes apart, but Peeta uses his powers of persuasion to get my mother to check me after lunch.

Our room has been transformed into a makeshift hospital room. Sterile white sheets on our bed, a cart full of medical supplies at the foot. And the bassinet, ready to go next to my side of the bed. My mother has a very strict process for sterilizing her hands before putting on gloves, sterilizing those as well, then carefully making her way to me without touching anything.

It’s a little awkward to be naked from the waist down, in my marital bed, for my mother. It’s even more bizarre to have her insert her fingers into me to examine my cervix. But, knowing how the rest of the day is going to go, I know I need to just grit my teeth and get over it.

“You okay?” Peeta whispers.

I gesture for him to come closer so I can whisper directly in his ear, “Yeah, this just usually feels better when you do it.”

Peeta snorts so hard he chokes on his spit.

“You’re at about three centimeters dilated, sixty percent effaced,” my mother says.

My heart sinks. “Three…out of ten? So I’m, what, a third of the way there?” I ask.

“Sixty percent is really good, though,” Peeta chimes in.

“So I should plan on another eighteen hours of this?” I ask, ignoring him.

“Not necessarily,” my mother says. “This part is so different for every labor. With you, it was seven hours from the first contraction to having you in my arms, but with Prim it was about thirty hours. I’m sorry honey but there’s really no way to predict it. But Peeta’s right, once you’re fully effaced the dilation will likely start to pick up.”

“Can I do anything to speed it up?” I ask miserably.

“There’s nothing guaranteed, but we can try some things. Overall, the more you can try to relax, the faster your body will progress things,” she says. 

Then she offers to make me a cup of tea that is thought to help soften my cervix, and I accept. Peeta stays sitting beside me, holding my hand and gently rubbing the back of it with his thumb.

“What can I do, love?” he asks quietly.

I think of him saying that touch can move things forward and my mother telling me to relax. And I think about how short I’ve been with Peeta (and, if I’m being realistic, I know this will only get worse as the day continues) when he’s trying so hard to help me.

“Can you hold me for a while?” I ask pitifully, scooting over to make room on his side of the bed.

“Of course,” he answers.

He lays down beside me and I settle my head into my spot on his chest and plop my belly on top of his. He rubs my back and strokes my hair and kisses my forehead until my eyes start to drift closed.

I sleep on and off for a while. When I finally open my eyes again it’s a little past 3:00 PM.

“Happy twelve hours of labor,” Peeta whispers. I groan. He kisses me. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. No different from earlier,” I shrug. “I think I want to take a shower.”

“Great, that always relaxes you,” Peeta says.

“Will you join me?” I ask. Peeta’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “No funny business, obviously, but I’m starting to like this whole ‘touch progresses labor’ thing.”

“Then by all means, lead the way,” Peeta says, smirking.

The shower works wonders. The combination of the hot water and Peeta’s skin against mine calms me like nothing else has today. Peeta is diligent about making sure every inch of my body is scrubbed clean and well loved. And I’m especially glad he’s there with me when I feel a sudden burst in my stomach and let out a yelp.

“What’s wrong?” Peeta asks urgently.

“Something…popped,” I say, stunned.

Peeta lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, probably your water breaking.”

As soon as he says it I know that’s what it is, though it’s hard to tell what’s what with the water still running around us. But once it’s shut off it’s undeniable that another gush of water is still coming out of me. 

Things start to pick up after that, or at least I tell myself they are. Once we’ve dried off and joined my mother and Haymitch downstairs, I’m allowed two cheese buns then told that I should probably be done eating until the baby comes. This makes me all the more determined to get this baby out of here as fast as I can. 

Peeta and I walk laps around the Village. My mother helps us practice some different birthing positions and choose what I’m most comfortable with. Peeta’s by my side every second, offering affection when I want it, hanging back when I don’t. He brings me a steady supply of water and makes sure I drink it. 

Hours pass and the contractions get even closer together. Delly shows up around dinner time with a stack of casseroles–one for tonight and the rest to put in our freezer, she instructs–and a big hug for me. I watch a little jealously as the others eat their fill, but truth be told I don’t have much of an appetite now anyway.

After dinner, my mother brings me upstairs for another exam. Seven centimeters, ninety percent effaced.

“That’s good, Katniss,” she says encouragingly. “I know it’s not as fast as you’d like, but you’re progressing steadily.” 

“You’d think for being three weeks early she’d have a little more urgency,” I mumble.

“I know it’s unpredictable, but if you had to guess…” Peeta asks my mother.

She sighs and looks as if she’s weighing many factors in her mind. “I’d guess that she’ll come after midnight, but before the sun rises,” she predicts.

This feels like a blow. It’s still five hours until midnight. I’m so tired, so worn out, so ready for this to be over.

“You think she’ll be born…tomorrow?” Peeta asks meaningfully.

“I do,” she answers.

He and my mother exchange a look that I can’t make sense of, but then another contraction hits and the thought is pushed from my mind.

Peeta nods. “You should sleep, Mom. While you can. We want you alert when the time comes,” he says firmly.

“You’re probably right.” She gives me a long kiss on my forehead and a quick peck to Peeta’s cheek. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

Peeta and I go for another hour or so as we were before. I try to lay down, I pace the room, I hang onto the back of a chair when the contractions hit. Peeta offers me water and massages my hips and tries his best to encourage me.

“You need to sleep,” I finally tell him.

“No,” he says immediately. 

“Peeta, you need to rest,” I insist.

“No,” he repeats firmly. “I’m not sleeping until you can sleep.”

“Peeta! I’m asking you to do this for me. In a few hours we’re going to have a baby and one of us might need to be awake with her. If I can’t sleep now, I’d really like to be able to get some sleep once she’s here and know that she’s being taken care of.”

Peeta lets out a deep breath. “Fine, but you wake me up at midnight or the second anything changes.”

“Fine,” I agree.

The two of us lay down face to face, and I start stroking his hair until his eyelids grow heavy. But I can tell he’s not really asleep and a few minutes later his eyes open again.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Katniss, I can’t sleep with you grunting in pain every time you have a contraction,” he admits.

“Oh, sorry. I’ll try to be quieter.”

“No, you do whatever you need to do to get through this. I’m just saying this isn’t going to work.”

“I’ll go downstairs,” I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“No!”

“Peeta, it’s fine. I’m sure Haymitch is still awake, he’ll keep an eye on me.” Peeta keeps looking at me skeptically. “Please go to sleep,” I beg, leaning in to kiss his forehead. He catches me by the lips instead. “I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you, too,” he says. He kisses my bump, likely for the last time, then my lips once more. “The second anything changes,” he reminds me in a warning tone.

“Okay, love,” I say. “Now close your eyes or I’m getting the sleep syrup,” I threaten.

Peeta shuts his eyes appeasingly. “Joke’s on you. I poured it all out before Haymitch came home.”

Haymitch is down on the couch, watching whatever “crap TV” is on at this hour. I take the spot beside him without a word and drop my head onto his shoulder.

“Thanks for all your help today,” I say after a while. “The house has never looked cleaner.” 

He laughs. “Helped us both. I haven’t had to face a major life event without a bottle in my hand for a long time.”

“Are you doing okay?” I ask. I have to admit Haymitch’s sobriety and recovery has been the last thing on my mind recently.

“I’m fine. It’s you we’re all worried about,” he says. 

“Why, did something happen?” I ask sarcastically. Haymitch rolls his eyes at me. “I’m fine. I’ll be better once it’s all over.”

“Where’s the boy?”

“I’m making him sleep. He can’t be a panic and overtired.”

Haymitch and I get through two episodes of a sitcom, a baking show, and a season finale rerun of our singing competition. I alternate between sitting next to him, pacing the room, and balancing on the ball (though I have to be strategic about staying near the couch to help me up, since Haymitch still can’t lift much of anything).

At one point I head into the kitchen for another cup of tea and see that it’s past midnight. A bizarre sense of calm washes over me. Now that it’s a new day, it’s as if I always knew the baby wasn’t going to be born yesterday. Like she was waiting for something , though I know that’s nonsense. But now I feel in my bones that today is the day. 

Because of this revelation, I don’t feel nearly as discouraged as I ought to when the contractions stop altogether half an hour later. For a few minutes I welcome the break. Then I start to feel a little nervous and start flipping through one of the pregnancy books out on the coffee table. Once I read that this is normal right before birth, I begin to feel relieved and giddy and nervous. I’m just about to say I should go wake Peeta, when the contractions resume with a vengeance.

“Alright there, Sweetheart?” Haymitch says dubiously.

“It’s almost time,” I gasp between waves.

“You’ve got two sets of capable hands in this house and none of them are mine. I’m sure as hell not delivering that baby,” he warns. 

“Help me upstairs!”

Haymitch supports me as best he can up the stairs. The pain is even more unbearable than it already was.

“I’ll wake Asterid,” he says. Then he kisses me on the forehead. “Good luck, Sweetheart.”

I burst into the room and start shaking Peeta. He grins at me for a moment, then seems to remember what’s happening and sits straight up.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” he panics.

“I’m fine, Peeta but…” another contraction causes a moan to fall from my lips, “I think it’s time.”

“Okay. Okay.” He rakes a hand through his hair, getting his bearings. “Your mother–”

“Haymitch is waking her.”

“Okay. You were supposed to wake me at midnight!” he says, catching sight of the clock.

“Well I didn’t, so get over it,” I growl.

The next contraction hits, and with it an entirely new sensation takes over.

“I need to push,” I gasp suddenly.

“Now?”

“Now!”

Peeta is on his feet and yelling down the hall for my mother in a flash. By the time she gets to our room, I’m already positioned for another cervical exam. My mother goes through the entire glove sterilizing process as quickly as possible and examines me.

“Ten centimeters, fully effaced, and I just came in contact with the top of my granddaughter’s head,” my mother says, smiling up at me. “So I’d say you’re right to feel ready to push, just try to hold off a minute or two if you can so I can make sure I’ve got everything ready here.”

My groans turn to yells as the next wave hits and I’m not allowed to push. When it ends, it’s replaced by a sudden, all consuming terror.

“We should’ve gone to the hospital,” I whisper.

“What?!” Peeta barks in disbelief. 

“Why didn’t you make me go to the hospital?” I cry.

I catch a rare flash of Peeta’s temper, mixed with disbelief and hurt. “Are you kidding– ”

My mother stops him with a brusque point of her finger and a hardened expression.

“She’s bringing your child into the world. Don’t say anything you’ll regret,” she tells him sternly.

Peeta turns away with his hands clasping the back of his hair. My mother’s face softens and she perches next to me on the bed. 

“Everything’s going to be alright,” she says, smoothing back my hair. “I promise you you are in safe, capable hands, and this baby is going to be surrounded by so much love the second she’s born.”

“What if something goes wrong?” I whisper.

“Then we’ll handle things as they come. But going to the hospital now won’t help anything.”

The urge to push grows stronger, but I try to suppress it.

“Mama, I’m scared,” I admit.

“I know you are.” She kisses my forehead. She wipes a tear from my cheek. “My precious girl. You’re going to have to be the bravest you’ve ever been, but in just a few minutes it will all be worth it, you’ll see.”

Bolstered by this, I give her a nod and release her to her final preparations. I choke out something like Peeta’s name and he comes to me immediately, all the anger drained from his face.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so mean to you,” I say. 

“Shh,” Peeta laughs. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I snapped. You’re the one having the baby, you can be as mean as you need.”

Another wave hits and I release a string of expletives.

“Don’t hold me responsible for anything I say in the next few minutes,” I mutter.

Peeta chuckles. “I won’t.”

He climbs into the bed cross-legged behind me, getting into the position we decided on earlier. He loops his arms under my legs to hold them open while still giving me access to his hands to hold onto. I lean my head back onto his shoulder and sob as the next wave of pain hits me. It’s going against every instinct in my body not to push right now.

“HURRY UP!” I scream at my mother. I’m sure she won’t take anything I say personally either.

Peeta kisses my temple that’s already drenched in sweat. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear, “and thank you for doing this.”

“I love you and fuck you for doing this to me,” I growl.

Peeta chuckles softly and my mother settles in at the foot of the bed. 

“Okay, you can push whenever you feel ready, but I need you to listen closely to me. If I tell you to stop or keep going or push harder, I need you to do so,” she instructs.

“FINE!” I yell as the next wave hits me and I finally get to bear down. This brings some relief but mostly just a new kind of pain. I continue pushing until the contraction ends and my mother tells me to rest.

“That was good, Katniss, now rest as much as you can in between,” she says encouragingly.

During the rest, if you can really call it that, Peeta whispers all kinds of sweet things in my ear. That I’m amazing and so strong and I’m doing a great job.

After this, the cycle continues for some length of time unknowable to me. Minutes or hours or years pass, but I’m only aware of a few things: Peeta’s strong arms and gentle words, my mother’s instructions, and the blinding pain coursing through my body. I swear. I scream. But mostly I cry. 

I feel it happen, though I don’t really process it in the moment. The pushes finally make way for her head, then her shoulders, then there’s just a sense of enormous relief.

And then, finally, my cries are not the only ones in the room.

Her lungs are healthy , is the first thing my brain vaguely registers. That had been a concern of mine, that her lungs hadn’t finished developing. But they sound healthy, so that’s good. It takes even longer for me to fully comprehend what hearing her cries really means. That she’s here. She’s safe. She’s mine.

“Katniss, open your eyes,” Peeta whispers, his voice thick with tears as well.

My mother is holding this tiny, wriggling, screaming thing. She has the thickest dark hair I’ve ever seen on a baby, and already a voice that would make all the birds stop and listen. And I’m a goner.

“Can I hold her?” I choke out.

“Of course, I just know how you feel about blood and gunk so I’m giving her a quick wipedown for you,” my mother chuckles. 

I take a second to lean back against Peeta’s shoulder again. 

“That was amazing, Katniss. You’re amazing,” he says in my ear. 

“You’re my rock,” I reply, still panting to catch my breath. I turn my head as far as I can and he kisses me deeply.

“Here she is,” my mother says, and the squirming, screaming bundle is placed against my chest and covered with a blanket.

My arms rise to hold her, and all at once the world goes still. For the first time in nine months, or maybe in my entire life, I’m not afraid. She’s here. She’s safe. She’s ours.

Chapter Text

Laughing. I can’t stop laughing. It’s not that there’s anything particularly funny about the situation. It’s more like I have an overflow of joy, insisting on making itself known by bubbling out of me.

“Well, hello there,” Peeta whispers, wrapping his arms around mine. I’m still holding the baby, he’s just supporting me. His chin rests on my shoulder so he can peer around me at the baby. “It is so nice to meet you, little one.”

Her screams quiet at the sound of his voice, but only slightly.

“It’s alright,” I soothe. “Now, really, Miss Mellark. There’s no need to cry. Your mama and daddy have got you.”

I feel a couple heavy tears fall onto my shoulder. I shoot Peeta a playful, exasperated look.

“Not you too,” I tease. He plants a long kiss on my shoulder then goes back to looking at our daughter.

“I’ll give you two a minute, let Haymitch know everything’s alright,” my mother says, stroking back a strand of my hair before leaving the room.

I rub the baby’s back and hum and hush her until her cries subside. She rests her head on my chest, seeking comfort from my heartbeat the same way I do with Peeta.

“Peeta, look what we made,” I whisper.

“I’m looking,” he says. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.”

“She’s perfect,” I say, running my thumb down her cheek. Laughing when she scrunches up her face at the touch.

“She looks like you,” Peeta says.

I wrinkle my nose, much in the same way she just did. She’s perfect, of course, but she still looks like she was recently squeezed out of a tube and covered in gunk.

“Well don’t say that, she looks like she’s been through the ringer,” I joke.

“No offense, my love, but after twenty-two hours of labor…so do you,” he responds.

I can’t even find it in me to pretend to be offended. I just laugh again. The baby’s eyes flutter open ever so slightly at the disruption, then flutter closed again. 

“Look at all that hair, ” Peeta marvels.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be born with that much hair,” I agree.

“You’ll be braiding it within the year,” he decides.

We spend a while commenting on her tiny fingers and little ears and everything in between. But after a few minutes I start cramping again and Peeta climbs out of bed to go fetch my mother.

“Just the afterbirth,” she says reassuringly. “Katniss, I promise you’ll have plenty of time with her, but right now let’s give Peeta some time with his little girl so I can have some time to take care of mine.” 

I only protest that I want to see him hold her for the first time, so he drags the armchair from the corner of the room into my line of vision. Peeta’s given the opportunity to cut the cord. Then my mother suggests he take his shirt off to do skin-to-skin and I give a halfhearted wolf-whistle.

“Katniss, please, not in front of the child,” he chastises playfully.

“How do you think we got her?” I remind him.

The playfulness melts from his eyes when my mother lifts the baby from my chest and deposits her delicately into his arms. Immediately more tears spring into his eyes as he cradles our baby so gently against his chest.

After that, I’m mostly distracted by my own issues for a bit. The delivery of the placenta and the subsequent clean up remind me just how much pain I’m in. Especially without the distraction of the baby in my arms. I try to focus as much attention as I can on Peeta, who’s chattering incessant nonsense at the baby. She’s gazing up at him with wide, albeit unfocused, eyes.

“I guess all that stomach talking paid off, huh?” I say.

He beams at me, then back down at the baby. “I guess so.” 

My mother’s as careful as she can be, and she seems proud to inform me that I didn’t tear at all, but overall it’s an extremely painful couple of minutes. Eventually she helps me into what can only be described as a diaper, changes the sheets, and eases me into a sitting position with my back against the headboard.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, kissing me on the head.

“Thanks, Mama,” I say.

She rubs her thumb affectionately against my cheek, then moves over toward Peeta.

“Okay, switch,” she says, holding out her arms. “I need to check on this little one, so you go give your wife some love.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Peeta says. 

Very quickly he transfers the baby to my mother’s arms and joins me on the bed. He takes a second to gauge how I’m feeling, then wraps an arm around my shoulders. He presses his lips to my ear, so that his words are for me and me alone. He thanks me, he praises me, he showers me with love. I fall a little bit more in love with him, something I previously thought impossible.

I trust that my mother knows what she’s doing, but after a few minutes the baby starts crying hard again and I get worried.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“Yes, she’s just letting me know she’s not pleased with her current conditions,” my mother says. Earlier the day she had transformed the top of our dresser into another station for some of her medical equipment, so now she has the baby laying on a changing pad and is giving her a much more thorough scrub down than before. “I’m almost done, shh, it’s alright.”

“She’s probably cold. Does she need clothes? We’ve got pajamas ready. Peeta, in the nursery–” I fret.

But by that point my mother has already picked her up and settled her back against my chest, and we both go quiet.

“Hi,” I whisper. “There’s my baby.”

Now that she’s clean and calm and alert, I get the chance to really look at her. Her thick, dark hair is peeking out in every direction from beneath a pink knit hat my mother put on her. Her eyes are pale blue, not quite the color of Peeta’s, not quite the absence of color of my eyes.

“She’s tiny,” I note for the first time, scowling.

“Well she’s a baby,” Peeta jokes.

I ignore him and look to my mother. “Is she smaller than she should be?”

“She was early,” my mother reminds me. “Yes, she’s on the smaller side. But for thirty-seven weeks she’s in good shape. You said she was measuring big, I think if you had gone full term you’d be in a lot more pain than you are now.”

I shoot a sideways look at Peeta, who grins sheepishly. She certainly isn’t getting any natural size from me.

“Have I mentioned how beautiful and strong and wonderful you are?” he says. 

I roll my eyes.

“When can I start feeding her?” I ask.

“You can try now, if you want to. It might take a while to get going, but it’ll be good to practice latching at least,” my mother says.

Just like that, I start fiddling with the hook on my new nursing bra and unleash my breast. My mother sits down on the edge of the bed and Peeta leans forward to watch, but neither tries to offer any advice or help until I ask. When I do, my mother helps get the baby in optimal position and get my nipple positioned over her mouth.

It takes a few tries but then she latches on and stays there for quite a bit of time. It’s a weird sensation. Not painful, but odd. After a few minutes I switch sides, then my mother has me pass her off to Peeta to give him a chance to practice burping her.

“That was good, Katniss!” she says approvingly. “Some babies resist breastfeeding at first, but it seems like you’ve already got a little eater.”

“She gets that from me,” I shrug. “Speaking of which, when can I eat again?”

“Oh, now, if you’re ready.”

“What can I get you?” Peeta says immediately, already starting to get out of bed. “Anything you want–”

“Sit down,” my mother says firmly. “I’ll get food, you two just enjoy your baby. What would you like, dear?”

“Is there any of that casserole left?” I ask.

“Yes, Peeta made sure to save some for you.”

“Thanks love,” I say, kissing his cheek. “That smelled really good, if you’re able to heat it up please. Or, honestly, I’d eat it cold. I’m so hungry.”

“Mmm, nothing more appetising than cold casserole at three in the morning,” Peeta jokes. “Could you bring the rest of the cheese buns up too so we can keep them on her nightstand?”

“Sounds good,” my mother chuckles.

She heads down the stairs. Peeta shifts the baby in his arms. I stare at her wistfully. His shoulders wilt slightly.

“You want her back, don’t you?” he asks.

I nod reluctantly. “Just for a few minutes. You’ll get her while I’m eating,” I promise.

And then I break my promise, because in the time it takes for my mother to heat up the food, the baby has fallen asleep with her ear pressed against my heart and I can’t bear to let her go. Peeta–who I’ve decided is the best man in the entire world, despite all of the awful things I shouted at him just a few hours ago–doesn’t complain at all that I’m hogging the baby and takes to feeding me forkfuls of casserole.

With my stomach full and my baby safely dozing against my chest, the full weight of the past twenty-four hours hits me like a train. All of a sudden, I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Why don’t I take her for a bit so you can lay down your head?” Peeta suggests.

“You need to rest too,” I protest.

“Katniss, I slept for five hours, that’s more than I sleep half the time anyway,” he argues. “Trust me, I’m well rested. You’ve had a very, very long day and you deserve to sleep.”

“Fine,” I give in, “but wake me if anything happens. If she seems hungry at all–”

“We’ll be right here,” he assures me, scooping the baby gently from my chest and laying her against his own.

“Take off your prosthetic, you’ve had it on for a while,” I mumble, and then I slip into sleep.

I have never in my life fallen asleep as hard or as immediately as I do now. When I wake up it takes me several moments to remember who and where I am, what’s happened, and whose voice is speaking softly beside me.

“Well, hello, sleepyhead,” Peeta whispers. “Nice of you to finally join us.” 

For a moment I’m offended–didn’t he insist I needed sleep? And didn’t I just birth his baby?!–but then I crack open my eyes and realize he’s not paying me any attention at all. His entire focus is on the baby, who must have just woken up as well. Through the crack of my eyes I watch him shift her from his chest to propped up against his thighs so he can see her. Her big round eyes are wide and alert again. Then I shut my eyes again and feign sleep to let this moment be Peeta’s.

“There we go, now we can make proper introductions.” I peek open an eye in time to see Peeta grab her tiny hand and shake it. “I’m your daddy. My favorite color is orange. I like baking and painting and kissing your mama.”

I have to stifle a laugh.

“Now it’s your turn,” he says to the baby in a dramatic whisper.

She blinks up at him, unfazed.

“Well, alright, you can take a rain check on the introduction seeing as we haven’t named you yet. And you probably don’t have much in the way of interests yet. Though you seemed to take a liking to Mama’s breasts earlier. Can’t blame you there, we’ve got that in common.”

Don’t smile, Katniss, I warn myself. 

“She’s the best, isn’t she?” he continues. “I mean, you spent nine months with her so you’ve definitely gotten a taste, but I’ve had over fifteen years with her, so let me just tell you: she’s amazing. And I’ll let you in on a secret…you and I are the luckiest people in the entire world. Because we get to be the two people she loves most in the world. And when she loves you…there’s nothing like it. You’ll see. You have no idea…”

His voice trails off, and when I crack open my eye again I see that his expression has gone stony and distant. For a moment I’m worried he’s slipped out of reality as he still does occasionally, but his eyes are still focused. That’s when I notice the tears, silently slipping down his cheeks.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I whisper.

Peeta startles slightly, which causes the baby to startle, which makes us both laugh for just a second.

“How long have you been awake?” he asks.

“Long enough to see you try to give our newborn a handshake,” I say. Peeta chuckles and I pull myself up into a sitting position. “What were you just thinking about?” I press.

“It’s nothing,” he insists.

“Peeta…” I warn.

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about how much you love her, and how much I love her, and I just…I’ve only known her for a couple hours and I know there’s absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her from harm. And now I don’t understand why I didn’t have that,” he says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“My mother didn’t laugh the first time she held me. I doubt my father cried. If they argued about who held me, it was probably about who had to, not who got to.” He scoffs. “I doubt anyone was doing skin-to-skin with me.”

“To be fair, I think that concept’s a little newer to the districts than–”

“You know what I mean,” he continues. He nods down at the baby, “Nobody loved me like this.”

“I do,” I say immediately.

He gives me a soft, placating smile.

“You make me laugh, you soothe my tears, and doing skin-to-skin with you is one of my favorite pastimes,” I say matter-of-factly.

And now he laughs for real, that kind of infectious laugh that comes from deep in his belly and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You are my favorite person, Peeta Mellark,” I continue. “I love you because I get to, not because I have to. So much so that I decided to conquer my greatest fear because I thought this world needed a little more you in it.”

Then he cries. He cries for a while, heavy sobs of grief and pain and love. He keeps an arm wrapped protectively around the baby, and I lock both arms tightly around his torso.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers eventually, “how a mother could do and say the things mine did to us. And how a father–” his voice cracks, “–why didn’t he stop her? Why didn’t he do anything ?”

“I don’t know, Peeta,” I whisper. “I don’t understand either. For any child, but especially not for one as gentle and loving as you.”

His cries dissolve into occasional little sniffs, and his face hardens again.

“Promise me you won’t let me hurt her,” he says.

“Peeta, you won’t–”

“Promise me!” he pleas. “Promise me that if I ever hurt her, you won’t just stand by. You’ll protect her.”

It’s an extremely loaded promise. It tells me he’s thinking about the abuse he suffered growing up far more than he ever has, or at least has let me in on. It tells me that for the first time he’s equating his father’s lack of response with his mother’s infliction of pain. It’s something that’s bothered me for a long time, but since Peeta’s always held his father on a higher pedestal than the rest, it breaks my heart a little.

“I promise,” I whisper. I glance at the door, making sure it’s shut. “And you promise me that you won’t ever let her starve,” I add.

He nods slowly, understanding the weight of my words like I understood his. “I promise.”

“This is our family,” I tell him firmly. “We make the rules. We won’t hurt her. We protect each other, real or not real?”

Peeta gives me a soft smile and kisses the top of my head. “Real. That’s what you and I do.”

Peeta wraps an arm around me, I rest my head on his shoulder. We both stare at the baby.

“At some point we should probably give her a name,” he notes.

“Willow,” I say immediately.

The name falls from my lips as if it’s always been there, just waiting to be spoken into existence. And it feels so right, like traces of her have always been with us. In the words of that one most important lullaby. In the wind swaying the branches over our heads when I knew I was in love. Like all my life I’ve been waiting for her. Been waiting for this . This life that Peeta and I have built, so full of love. The world that we fought so hard for, so she could be safe.

“Willow Hope Mellark,” I expand. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says, smiling wide.

“You like it?”

“I love it.” He lifts the baby–Willow–from his lap and she scrunches her body up tight. He presses his lips to her cheek and whispers, “I love you so much, Willow Hope.”

Without me having to ask, he passes her over to me and I snuggle her into my shoulder. 

“Wil-low,” I sing lightly. Whether by accident or on purpose she turns her face to mine so we’re nose to nose. “Do you like that? That’s your name. Willow.”

I take a few minutes to kiss all around her little face. Peeta tries to be subtle, but I can hear the click of our camera going off. But soon she starts sucking on the tip of my nose and crying when it doesn’t feed her, so I latch her to my chest–all on my own this time–and let her eat.

Both Willow and I spend the early hours of the morning in a cycle of cuddling, eating, and sleeping. Peeta dozes off occasionally while I feed, but otherwise he’s pretty alert. Around nine in the morning there’s a soft knock on the bedroom door and my mother sticks her head in.

“Good morning,” she says. “How’s everyone doing in here?”

“Oh, we’re right as rain,” I say, lifting Willow onto my shoulder after another feeding. “Though I’m going to need something more than cheese buns to sustain me if I’m going to keep feeding like this.”

My mother glances at the notebook beside the bed where I’ve been jotting down the times she’s eaten. She lets out a low whistle.

“Katniss sized appetite in a Peeta sized baby, good luck darling,” she laughs. “I made eggs, and Haymitch stopped at the bakery and picked up some things. He also stopped at the town hall to pick up a birth certificate, and he might have repainted your downstairs bathroom. I think he was joking about that one, though.”

“Someone ought to tell him he can stop running around now,” I say with a chuckle. “Why don’t the two of you bring the food up here and we can all eat breakfast together?”

“Sounds like a plan. Anything else I can help with while you’ve got an extra set of legs?” she asks.

“I think I’m–oh, actually…” I pull back the covers and disconnect Peeta’s prosthetic with one hand. “Can you prop that up next to the bed? I keep telling him to take it off, he’s just being stubborn.”

My mother smiles softly and does as she’s told. She goes to get Haymitch and the food, and I start to rouse Peeta.

“Love of mine,” I whisper, “do you want breakfast?”

“Okay,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. I’ve caught him in that tricky spot of his sleep cycle where he’s hard to get through to. 

“You have to be awake to eat,” I remind him.

“No I don’t,” he whines.

“Open your eyes and look at our adorable daughter,” I whisper.

“I’ve already seen her.”

“But she’s sucking her thumb, that’s new,” I say.

This works and his eyes fly open. He awwws at her then fumbles around his nightstand for the camera, snapping a picture just in time before she startles and her hands go flying.

Bleary-eyed, Peeta kisses my cheek and the baby’s head. He swings his leg over the side of the bed while rubbing his eyes, then frowns deeply when he notices the prosthetic is gone. 

“I don’t remember taking that off,” he mumbles. He moves to reconnect it, but I stop him.

“Can you use the crutch? You had it on for over twenty-four hours, it needs a break,” I remind him. 

Still not awake enough to argue, he grabs his crutch and hobbles to the bathroom. I should have asked my mother to get him some coffee, too. Peeta gets back into bed as my mother knocks on the door again. She walks in carrying a tray full of food that she sets on the bed, then washes her hands and offers to hold the baby while we eat.

“Where’s Haymitch?” I ask, loading my plate up with eggs and a couple pastries from the assortment in front of us.

“He said he’s not coming in without an invitation,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“Haymitch!” I shout. “Get in here and meet our daughter!”

Haymitch almost immediately walks into the room, leading me to believe he was just lingering in the hallway.

“Hey, Sweetheart,” he says, walking over to me and kissing the top of my head. “How are you doing?”

I shrug. “I’ve been better, but I’ve definitely been worse.”

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks, nodding at Peeta, who is currently frowning deeply at the plate of pastries in front of us.

“When did I make these?” he asks under his breath.

I snort out a laugh. “Peeta, wake up! ” I clap a few times in his face and he jumps. Suddenly he’s wide eyed and alert again, shaking his head to clear the dust.

“How come he didn’t get the cold water on the head treatment you’re so fond of?” Haymitch grumbles.

“I’d have to go all the way over there,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the bathroom. “Too much work.”

Haymitch looks prepared to rebuttal, but then his eyes fall on Willow and his eyes go soft.

“Wow,” he whispers.

“We made that,” Peeta says proudly.

“Can I hold her?” Haymitch asks.

Peeta looks over at me, and I nod. “Yeah, of course, just–” Haymitch starts to reach for her, and all three of us interject “wash your hands!”

This snaps him out of the trance that seeing her put him in. He shakes his head and washes his hands in the bathroom. When he comes back, my mother offers him the armchair and lowers the baby into his arms.

She’s wide-eyed again, and the two of them size each other up. After a few minutes, Haymitch clears his throat and looks up at Peeta.

“She’s got your eyes,” he notes.

“Well the color isn’t set in stone for a while,” Peeta says.

“No, not the color. I don’t spend hours gazing into your eyes like the girl does,” Haymitch says. “But look at this expression. It’s all Katniss’s scowl, except the eyes. Those eyes are looking at me like they’ve still got some faith in me. That’s gotta come from you.”

“I changed my mind, get out of my bedroom,” I grumble.

“If I go now, I’m taking the kid with me,” he jokes.

A low growl escapes me that’s something akin to a wild animal.

“Don’t poke the Mama Bear right now, Haymitch,” Peeta warns. 

“Sorry. Kidding,” he mutters. “Good job, Sweetheart,” he adds, nodding down at the baby.

“Not to pressure you, but have you thought about names yet?” my mother asks.

I look at Peeta, indicating that he can tell them.

“Her name is Willow,” he says, beaming. “Willow Hope Mellark.”

“That’s a pretty name,” my mother says, stroking a wisp of Willow’s dark hair from her forehead. 

“What about you, Mom? Have you decided what she’ll call you?” I ask. 

“I like ‘Grandma.’ It’s classic for a reason,” she says.

“And what about you, Haymitch?” Peeta asks.

It’s something we never discussed, but I’m glad to see now that Peeta and I are on the same page. Although Haymitch never quite fit into the “father” role in either of our lives, it makes perfect sense to me that he would step in as the grandfather for this little girl who otherwise has none.

“What about me?” he asks, only half paying attention as he’s watching Willow.

“What do you want her to call you?” Peeta says.

“Something wrong with my name?”

“I think you should be Papa,” I chime in. “I know you grew up with Mamaws and Papaws but, I don’t know–”

“I agree,” Peeta chimes in, “I think Papa Haymitch just sounds right. Unless you have a strong preference–”

“Have the two of you lost your damn minds?” Haymitch pipes up. “I’m not her grandfather.”

“Close enough,” I say, waving my hand in dismissal. 

I surprise everyone, including myself, by getting to my feet. There’s protests from everyone, but it feels good to stretch my legs. When I’m confident that I’m steady on my feet, I make my way over to Haymitch and scoop Willow from his arms. “I’m going to get her dressed while my stomach makes more room for food. Talk some sense into him,” I add to Peeta.

“Why don’t you just bring her clothes in here?” Peeta asks.

“Because then I don’t get to do the big reveal of how adorable she looks in her tiny pajamas,” I shrug.

So I carry her to the nursery, the journey feeling much longer than just a couple steps across the hall. I consider taking a pause in the big plush rocking chair, but I’m not confident I’ll be able to get up on my own if I do. So I lay her out on the top of the dresser-turned-changing station. I think it’s the only time she’s been put down since she was born, except for the brief moments where my mother was cleaning her off. She’s much less disgruntled now, though, with her belly full and her baby pink skin already clean.

“You and I haven’t really gotten a chance to hang out yet,” I whisper between peppering her face with kisses. “Let the boys argue while we have some girl time.”

I’m sure it’s comforting to be held so much, but I realize it might feel good for her to have all this space to stretch out for the first time in her life. I start by taking one foot in each hand and helping her pump her legs a little. Then I take her hands and help her stretch them all the way over her head. Her new range of motion must register with her to some extent, because soon she starts kicking her feet all around.

“Oh, I’d know those little dancing feet anywhere,” I say, taking one and kissing her little toes over and over.

After a few minutes of stretching and kicking, followed by a diaper change, I know it’s been long enough that soon someone will come check on me if I don’t come back to the room. Laying out on the dresser are the deep green pajamas that were once Prim’s. They’re over thirty years old, up until now I wasn’t sure if I would ever put them on the baby or just keep them around ceremonially. But it feels right, at least once, to put them on Willow. To have some part, however tiny, of Prim here today.

When she’s snug in her pajamas I dig through the little basket of hats and headbands people have gifted us. I find a green hat that my mother knitted and replace her pink hat with that one. Then I lift Willow by the armpits and she scrunches into a tiny ball again.

“So much for all that stretching,” I laugh, kissing her nose.

I hold her facing out against my chest and head back into the bedroom, where I’m given the appropriate reaction of cooing from all three of them.

“I’m going in for round two of breakfast, who wants her?” I ask.

“Give her back to Papa ,” Peeta says, smirking. I settle Willow back into his arms.

“We did not agree on that,” Haymitch grumbles.

“Just take it, Haymitch,” my mother sighs, half exasperated. Then, softer, she says, “He’d be okay with it, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Haymitch mutters.

“I am,” she says firmly. “After all you’ve done for these two, you’ve earned it.”

Peeta and I stay silent, letting my mother fully take over the debate. Haymitch looks up as if to stop tears from falling and sniffs.

“And when I go back to four, I’ll feel better knowing this little one has a grandparent that’s just a stone’s throw away,” she says.

“Oh, screw you Asterid,” Haymitch says with a surprisingly loud laugh. The tears leak from his eyes anyway. “Fine. I’ll be Papa Haymitch.”

The mood in the room relaxes considerably again. Peeta and I each tuck into a second helping of eggs. My mother recognizes Willow’s pajamas and I tell her the story of how I snuck them out to the cabin by the lake when I was a little girl, and how they finally made their way back here. Which leads to Haymitch telling stories about going to the lake–and skinnydipping –with my father. Which leads to my mother saying she did the very same thing.

“Though I imagine Burdock and I had a lot more fun than the two of you did,” she says slyly.

“Ew!” I exclaim.

“Darling, you’re a mother now, let’s stop pretending you don’t know how babies are made,” my mother chastises.

“Do you think you made Katniss at the lake?” Peeta asks, grinning.

“Ew!” I repeat.

“Do you remember what August was like around here before we had air conditioning? There’s certainly no way I was letting him touch me then anywhere but near the lake.”

“EW!” I shout. “Mom, stop. No one wants to think about their parents having sex!”

“Well then the two of you better start toning it down, for the sake of this little one,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta and I share a look, and his eyes say oh god we’re going to traumatize her . I laugh, despite my flaming hot cheeks.

“Okay, seriously, when did I make these?!” Peeta asks as he reaches for another pastry.

“You didn’t, love, Haymitch went to the bakery early this morning,” I explain.

“Ohhh.” Peeta gives a soft laugh of relief. “Wow, good job, Shiloh. These taste just like I made them.”

“He also made you something for the birthday. Cake or something. I didn’t open the box,” Haymitch adds.

“That was sweet of him,” I say.

We all spend the better part of the morning upstairs, but when it comes time for lunch I decide that I want to get out of this room. My mother carries Willow and Peeta walks slowly beside me to make sure I’m alright. Then Peeta takes the baby and we curl up on the couch–my head on Peeta’s left shoulder, Willow’s head on his right–while my mother makes lunch.

After lunch, Haymitch falls asleep in an armchair in the living room and my mother decides to go take a shower. I feed Willow in the rocking chair by the fireplace until she falls asleep. Peeta helps me tie on the carrying wrap so I can keep her close to my chest for a while with my hands free.

“We should probably make some calls,” I say. “Let our friends know she’s here.”

“Let’s save that for tomorrow. I like that today’s just for family,” he says.

“Okay,” I agree. “Besides, Haymitch got a birth certificate and told the bakery staff, I’m sure the entire town already knows.”

“Come on,” Peeta says, taking my hand, “I want to see what Shiloh made.”

He pulls out the box and we examine the small cake. Well, technically, it’s a circle of chocolate cupcakes with the top frosted like the top of a cake. Bright pink frosting with the words “Happy Birthday Baby Mellark” in swoopy letters in the middle.

“He’s a good kid,” Peeta says tenderly.

“Do you think it was all Shiloh?” I ask.

“Must’ve been, it’s Tuesday. He should’ve been the only one working this morning,” he says.

“Is everything all set at the bakery for you to be gone a while?” I ask. I hadn’t really considered the bakery in all of the fuss yesterday.

“They’ll be fine. I called yesterday morning, Shiloh said he has it under control and to come back whenever I’m ready, but not a moment before.”

“He’s a good kid,” I echo. I swipe my finger through an inconspicuous blob of frosting and lick it clean. For some reason I didn’t expect it to be strawberry, but it’s good nonetheless.

“Are you going to let me eat these today, or do we have to wait for tomorrow on principle?” Peeta asks in a teasing tone.

I frown at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m joking, because of–” Suddenly his face turns serious. “Oh, you don’t know yet, do you?”

“Know what?” I ask in a panic. My eyes fly down to Willow instinctively, as if I’m expecting to find a tooth growing out of her forehead that no one bothered to mention to me.

“She’s fine, Katniss,” he reassures me. “Do you know the date today?”

“No,” I admit. I’m just sleep deprived enough to have lost my sense of the days. It doesn’t help that someone took our calendar off the wall for some reason. “Peeta?”

“It’s May 29th,” he says softly.

It takes a moment for it to click why that date is important. Another birthday late in May. Another baby with baby pink skin.

“She was born on Prim’s birthday?” I whisper in disbelief, tears streaming down my face.

Peeta nods, smiling sadly.

It hadn’t even crossed my mind, if I’m being honest. We finally stopped memorializing the day just a couple years ago, when I told Peeta our tradition of making cupcakes for her birthday made me too sad. So much for that, I guess. I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head at the cupcakes in front of us.

“I don’t know what happens after,” Peeta says quietly, “but I’d really like to believe that, wherever Prim is, she was so offended that we stopped making her cupcakes that she orchestrated this whole thing to make sure there would always be cake on her birthday.” 

I laugh harder and cry harder at the same time. I don’t know how I feel about fate or about the idea of an afterlife or any of that. But I know that Peeta told me this would all make sense someday way back when we were trying. I know that sense of relief I felt at midnight last night was something beyond my own understanding. And I know that dream I had when I found out I was pregnant was something special.

“I wish she could meet her,” I whisper as Peeta envelops me against his chest, careful not to squish Willow.

“I know. Me too,” Peeta says. “But Willow will grow up getting to know all about her. About all of them. We’ve got the book, and we’ve got each other.”

I go up on my toes and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. “I love you,” I whisper. “Thank you. For everything. For this life, for her .”

“Katniss, my contribution to making her was microscopic and my experience was a whole lot more fun than yours.”

“I could not have done one second of this without you, Peeta,” I tell him firmly. “Not the labor, not the birth. Not the pregnancy, and certainly not the part where I realized this world might be worth bringing a kid into.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” he says, kissing Willow on the top of the head, then me on the cheek. “We made an absolutely perfect kid.”

“We did,” I agree.

Chapter Text

Willow’s whimpers wake me up at two in the morning, just about twenty-four hours after she came into the world. I take her quickly from the bassinet right next to the bed, lifting her up to my face and rubbing my nose against hers.

“Good morning,” I whisper. “Are you hungry?”

She continues to cry so I cradle her in one arm and get her latched in no time. A little eater , my mother had called her. Good. She needs some bulking up. All those books, all those strategies, all the worrying I did about getting her on the right schedule went out the window when she decided to show up three weeks early. I will feed her when she’s hungry, and we’ll go from there.

I watch her eat in the glow of the moonlight, carefully stroking her thick, dark hair. And then I look over at Peeta, who is already watching me.

“What are you looking at?” I tease.

He smiles softly. “You. You’re already such a natural with her.”

“Yeah, well, it turns out this baby stuff is easy,” I say. “I don’t know what you were so afraid of all these years.” I avoid looking at him for a second. When I do, his mouth is agape staring at me in disbelief. “I’m kidding,” I smirk.

“But you’re not,” he whispers, sitting up. “You’re doing great so far.”

“I’m doing alright,” I shrug.

“Yeah.” He kisses my shoulder. “You are .”

Over the course of the first night full of wakings and feedings, Peeta and I fall into a natural rhythm. I nurse Willow, he makes sure my bedside table is stocked with snacks and refills my water bottle if it’s empty. Then he burps and diapers her while I take a break to stretch my legs or use the bathroom or have a snack. If we have a few minutes with her eyes open we talk to her a bit, then when she sleeps we’re close behind.

By the time the sun is rising I’m starting to get a little stir crazy, so Peeta and I sneak downstairs for a change of scenery. Haymitch is passed out on the couch–despite our insistence that he could take the bedroom downstairs if he wasn’t going home–so we stay in the kitchen. I hold a sleeping Willow to my chest in one of the rockers by the hearth while Peeta makes the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever seen. He holds the baby while I eat, and when I’m done I rest my head on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you lay down?” Peeta suggests.

“Because the second I do she’s going to be hungry again,” I remind him.

Peeta seems like he’s working hard to come up with a solution, then sighs in defeat. We’ve been waking up together, so he’s gotten just as much sleep as I have. But still, my body’s the one recovering from labor and feeding the baby. A stretch of more than two hours of sleep would be nice.

My mother comes down to the kitchen shortly after I’m done eating. Peeta makes her some fresh pancakes and I shake Haymitch awake to join us. Without a word he blearily makes his way into the kitchen, washes his hands, and holds out his arms to me. Repressing a smirk, I deposit Willow in his arms and he settles into one of the rockers. A few minutes later Peeta doles out two plates of pancakes.

“Haymitch, come eat,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Haymitch says, eyes transfixed on the baby. “You eat ‘em fresh, takes my stomach a while to wake up still.”

Peeta looks skeptical but drops into the seat next to me again. Haymitch begins softly humming to Willow. I cuddle back into Peeta’s shoulder.

“How long are you planning to stay, Mom?” Peeta asks. 

“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you two about that,” she starts. “I’ve got plenty of time off banked at the hospital, so really I’m happy to stay as long as you need. Or as short, if you’d like me out of your hair.”

I shake my head. “We’re not going to kick you out,” I say, and feel Peeta nod in agreement. “You’ll have to let us know when you need to get back.”

“Alright,” she says, smiling softly. “Well I was also thinking of going home very briefly, then coming straight back.”

This causes me to sit up, alert. I look to Peeta, thinking I’ve missed something with the current state of my brain, but he looks just as confused as I feel. Or maybe he’s just as tired as I am.

“Uh…why?” Peeta asks.

“Well I’ve still got my train ticket for the first, it’s non refundable but I can exchange it for one back to Four,” she explains. “And, well, I was so focused on getting here and making sure I had everything I needed for the delivery that I forgot to pack pretty much anything I need for an extended stay.”

“I have clothes you can wear,” I say.

“And we can cover the cost of your ticket, if that’s your concern,” Peeta adds.

“No, I know that. Thank you. But I also think it’ll be good for the two of you to have some time with her alone,” she adds. “It’s important for the three of you to have some time to adjust as a family.”

I’m not sure I fully follow her logic, but I nod anyway.

I feed Willow again, then Peeta and I take a quick nap while my mother and Haymitch are alert and more than willing to hold her for a while. I make it clear that someone is to wake me up as soon as she starts crying or three hours from now, and not a second later. At three hours, on the dot, my mother brings Willow to me. She’s alert, maybe the most alert I’ve seen her so far, but otherwise looking content.

I prop her up against my knees for a few minutes while I try to shake the cobwebs from my brain. Somehow I just feel more tired every time I wake up.

“How was she?” I ask.

“Fine, she mostly slept. Eyeballs came out to say hello just a few minutes ago,” she says, sitting next to me on the edge of the bed. “She’s precious. Looks a lot like you when you were born.”

“I think it’s just the hair, I’m seeing all Peeta in her face,” I say. I trace a finger down her cheek and her little lips immediately pucker and search for a source of food. I get my breast out, unconcerned about my mother sitting right there. I can’t find it in me to care about modesty when it comes to feeding my child, and besides, everyone in this room is already intimately familiar with my body in some way or another.

“Can I get you anything?” my mother asks.

“More water, please?” I request. “And if you could bring the phone up, I think we’re going to make some calls when he gets up.”

I let Peeta sleep through the feeding and burping process. When it’s done, she’s still awake and looking up at me with her big round eyes.

“Not sleepy, huh?” I ask. 

She blinks up at me. I prop her back against my knees and worm my fingers into her tiny hands until she grips onto each of them. Then I clap her little hands together while singing nonsense, making it up as I go.

“Oh, Willow Hope, Hope, Hope…you need some…soap, soap soap.
But you’re so sweet, sweet, sweet. From head to feet, feet, feet.
You’re not so big, big, big…you’re not a pig, pig, pig.
I love you so, so, so. I hope you know, know know.”

“I’m so in love with you,” Peeta mumbles from beside me. His eyes aren’t really open, but he’s got that goofy grin that means he’s waking up.

“My voice stops birds, you knew what you were signing up for,” I say, still clapping Willow’s hands to an imaginary beat. 

“I sure did. I wish I could wake up to your singing every day,” he says.

“Well, good thing, because I have a feeling I’m about to get much more sing-y now that she’s here,” I say.

“Is sing-y a word?” he asks.

“It is when you’re running on very little sleep,” I respond.

“Did she eat already?” 

“Yeah, we’re just riding out the wake window now.” 

“Well, why don’t I take her so you can sleep some more?”

“It’s okay. I’m feeling pretty alert right now,” I say. “Or slap happy.”

“Probably slap happy,” Peeta says.

“Probably,” I agree. “Let’s make up a song about Daddy, ready?” I ask Willow as if she’ll respond.

“ D-A-D-D-Y,
Yes he’s our favorite guy,
We love our Daddy, yes we do,
That’s D-A-D-D-Y.”

Peeta looks impressed. “Are you just making these up on the spot?”

“Yeah, I think so. Now another, here we go!

Mama wishes she could drink,
Coffee, coffee,
Mama wishes she could drink,
Coffee all day long.”

“Had me worried there until you added the coffee part,” Peeta jokes. “Though you must really be desperate if you want coffee.”

“I like it when you make it,” I argue. “With all the milk and sugar and froofy flavors.”

“Okay, I’m certain that ‘froofy’ isn’t a word,” he says.

“I make up songs and I make up words now, get over it.”

“Fair enough.”

The phone rings from my nightstand and both Peeta and Willow startle. I glance at the screen on the phone–when our old phone broke Peeta got us an upgrade to one that shows who’s calling, very helpful for ignoring Plutarch–and see that it’s Delly.

“Hellooooo Delilah,” I answer.

“Oh, you’ve reached slap happy, huh?” she says.

I laugh and put the phone on speaker. “Sure have. Do you want me to make up a song about your name?”

“I’ll take a rain check,” she laughs. “So…is it just you or is anyone else there too?”

“Well, Peeta’s here,” I frown. “You’re on speaker.”

“Anyone else there with you?” she presses.

I’m confused until Willow kicks me in the stomach, as if she’s saying hey, Mom, remember me?

“Oh, duh. Yes, we have little miss Willow Hope Mellark here as well,” I say proudly.

“Willow!” Delly squeals. “Such a pretty name!”

“She’s a pretty girl,” Peeta chimes in.

“Tell me everything! How was labor? How big is she? Who does she look like? Are you nursing alright?”

“Delly, take a breath!” Peeta says.

“Sorry I’m excited!”

“I’ll spare you the full labor story until the next time I see you,” I begin.

“I heard there was a hovercraft spotted over the Village and it had something to do with Gale Hawthorne, is that true?” Delly asks. 

This district doesn’t miss a thing, do they?

“Uh, yeah, pretty much. Long story short, my mother made it in time,” I say. “Anyway, she’s six pounds, twenty inches. Lots of dark hair.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Delly coos. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to decide when we’re ready for visitors,” I say, looking at Peeta. It’s not something we’ve discussed yet. “Hopefully soon, it’s just–”

“My children are little germ factories and you have an early baby,” she finishes for me. “Trust me, I get it. Not offended. Just let me know when you’re ready, until then you’ll receive a steady stream of meals on your doorstep.”

“Thanks, Dells,” Peeta says. “We’ll talk to you soon.”

“Ok by–oh wait, Katniss, you didn’t answer about nursing. I won’t keep you long, but is it going alright?”

“Yeah…yeah, I think so,” I say. “She latches well. Seems to have a good appetite.” 

I’m glad she asked, because something has been gnawing at me but I haven’t had the chance to talk it through with anyone. I reach to my side table and discover that my stash of cheese buns has run out. Without a word, Peeta nods and heads down the stairs.

“How did you deal with the frequency?” I ask Delly. “I don’t feel like I’ve gotten a proper sleep cycle in days.”

“Pumping, mostly,” she admits. “I overproduced with all of them, so we always had a stock on hand. It’s a game changer for those overnight shifts, Briar and I were each able to get six hours of sleep at a time most nights.”

Six hours sounds like a dream. I sigh.

“I really like breastfeeding though,” I admit. 

“You can do both,” Delly says. “Might be a little harder to build up your stock in the beginning but it’s doable. And I–” she stops abruptly.

“Hello? Are you there?” I ask.

“Yeah, sorry, I was about to give you unsolicited advice and remembered how annoying that was when I was a new mom.”

I laugh. “Delly, I’m asking you questions. This is me soliciting advice.”

“I just think that if you’re planning to use a bottle at any point, it’s better to get her used to it early. It’s a skill you’d rather have and not need than need and not have,” she explains.

Peeta returns with a container of cheese buns and a kiss to my forehead.

“Okay, thank you. That’s good to know. I’ll talk to you later Dell,” I say.

“Give baby Willow some extra snuggles from all of us and let me know if you need anything!”

When I hang up, Peeta trades me the cheese buns for the baby, snuggling her into his shoulder.

“She might need a diaper change before she falls asleep,” I say.

“On it.” He grabs the phone from me as well. “I figure we should do all our calls now, that okay?”

“Sure, as long as no one cares that my mouth is full of bread,” I say. 

“They’d better not, you just had a baby,” he says.

Peeta dials Annie first. She isn’t home so he talks to Finn, who frantically tries to write down all the information about the baby knowing his mom will ask for every detail when she gets home. When they hang up, I take the phone back to call Johanna while Peeta bounces Willow around the room to get her to sleep.

“You pop the kid out yet?” Jo says by way of greeting.

“Sure did,” I say. Peeta shakes his head, laughing slightly. He’s constantly baffled by mine and Jo’s friendship.

“So what’d you name her?” she asks, sounding bored.

“Well, actually, that’s why I’m calling.” I pause a beat. “We decided to call her Johanna.”

There’s a long pause on the line before she finally responds, “Seriously?”

“No, brainless, we don’t like you that much. Her name’s Willow.”

Johanna gives one of her rare, genuine laughs. “Eh, tree name. I’ll take half credit.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I say.

“What about you? You and Mr. Mockingjay getting any sleep?” 

“Not really, but I’ve been told we won’t for the next several years,” I say.

“Yeah, get used to it,” she says. “You did a home birth right? No drugs?”

“I did,” I say.

“Sucker. Okay, be honest, is it as bad as they say it is? Because I think most women are just being pussies, but you’ve been stabbed, shot, and strangled so I feel like you’ve got a better frame of reference.”

“Jo, I’ve been on fire and that wasn’t as bad as this,” I say. “But all things considered, she was much more worth it.”

“Would you do it again?” she asks. 

“Absolutely not. Next time I want all the drugs they’ll give me.”

“If I ever write a book, that’s the title,” she jokes dryly.

Willow’s asleep, so Peeta carefully lowers himself onto the bed next to me. He’s got her cradled in his right arm, so I burrow into his left shoulder.

“Asking an awful lot of questions about childbirth, Jo,” he jumps in. “You have something you need to tell us?”

“Not a chance, Lover Boy. I’m perfectly happy with my childless existence. And maybe hanging with your kid occasionally. Just let me know when it starts doing tricks and I’ll book a train out there.”

“Train? What about your bike?” he asks.

“I sold it,” she says casually. As if that bike hasn’t been her pride and joy for the past fifteen years.

“If you’re strapped for cash, we can help you out,” I say. “I just steal money from Haymitch when he’s not looking.”

Peeta snorts.

“I’m fine, Mom ,” she says mockingly. “The bike just freaked Cress out, she thought it was dangerous.”

“Oooh, Cressida,” Peeta teases.

“Shut up,” she snaps. Peeta and I exchange a look. “And stop making eyes at each other,” she adds. Then she hangs up.

Peeta looks over at me with a curious expression.

“What?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. “ Next time ?”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “I mean, I’m not about to put it in writing because I’m so full of hormones and haven’t slept in three days. But I dare you to smell her little head and tell me you don’t want a hundred more of these.”

Peeta chuckles and, as he’s told, takes a sniff of her head. “I mean, that’s definitely a unique smell, but I think it’s all the birthing hormones making you multiply that by a hundred.”

“Probably,” I lean in to kiss her forehead and catch another whiff of that wonderful newborn scent. “Anyone else we need to call?” I ask.

“I’ll probably call the bakery at some point. Doesn’t have to be now. Just to check in, give them some more details. Thank Shiloh for the cupcakes,” he says. 

I groan as I remember something. “I need to thank Gale, don’t I?”

“Probably…or, we could send a generous basket from the bakery to the Hawthornes and call it a day?” he suggests hopefully.

I consider this carefully. “That sounds fair. Make sure they really load it up, though. I don’t want to feel like I owe him anything.”

“I promise you don’t, with or without the basket,” Peeta mutters.

So Peeta checks in with the bakery and I snuggle our sleeping Willow. At dinner my mother tells me she was able to switch her train ticket to leave on the first, then she’ll return on the fifth. After Willow and I have both eaten, I leave Willow downstairs with the men while my mother follows me upstairs. She gathers up her medical supplies and changes our sheets again while I take a shower. I wanted her close in case there were any complications, but everything turned out alright.

“Explain to me again why you’re going back and forth?” I ask, now with a clearer mind than earlier–though not by much.

“Well, for one thing, I only have three pairs of underwear,” she chuckles. “But really, I do think the two of you need to establish yourself as parents. I know you have a lot of people here to care for you, but ultimately you’re the ones in charge. It’s important for you to learn how to rely on each other.”

“We know how to rely on each other,” I mumble. I have to bite my tongue, to stop myself from reminding her that Peeta was the only one really there for me after the war. She rearranged her entire life to be her for us. There’s no sense in rubbing salt in an old wound. “Peeta and I were a team long before we were a couple,” I say instead.

“I know, but parenting is a different beast. You’re going to have a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of voices telling you what you should and shouldn’t do. You’re going to need each other in ways you never have before.”

Suddenly my heart aches for my father, and I know hers is hurting too. I throw my arms around her.

“Thanks for being here, Mama,” I whisper.

And then I’m weeping, and I don’t even know what for. For my family, I guess. The ones I lost. The ones who are right downstairs. For my daughter, who I hope with all my heart will never feel the same resentment and distrust that I felt. For my mother, who has lived out every single one of my greatest fears.

“Sweet girl,” she whispers. “I mean this in the gentlest way possible. Whatever you’re feeling right now is valid, but it’s also greatly exaggerated by hormones and lack of sleep.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, with a half-sob, half-laugh. “Can you get Peeta, please?”

“Of course.” 

She kisses me on the forehead. I sit down on the edge of the bed and continue to sob. There’s something so comforting about the sound of his feet on the stairs that I start to cry harder.

“Hey. Hey. What’s going on?” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

“I’m so tired, Peeta,” I cry as I burrow into his chest.

“I know. Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I know you are,” he soothes. “We’ll find a solution, I promise.”

“I have a solution,” I say through stuttering breaths. “But I can’t…stop…crying.”

And then I start laughing like a maniac, and Peeta looks truly concerned.

“Come here,” he whispers, holding me close to his chest again. He takes slow, deep breaths until I find my breathing matches his and I’ve calmed down.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“No, don’t apologize. Not for one second,” he says firmly. “You’re doing such a great job, Katniss.”

“Thanks,” I sniff. “If you say so.” 

Peeta wipes away the remaining tears from my face.

“You said you have a solution?” he asks softly.

I nod. “What do you think about pumping?” I ask.

“It’s not my place to have an opinion,” he says immediately. “It’s not my body.”

“But it’s our child. You’re allowed to have an opinion on how we feed her,” I say.

“Well, then, yeah. If pumping is a way for me to help carry the load I’m all in. But how does that work? Would you still breastfeed too?”

“I think so. I want to,” I say. “I didn’t really read up on pumping though. I wasn’t planning to do it.”

“I read a little, but we don’t have any of the supplies,” he reminds me.

“Well we won’t start tonight, anyway. My mother can help us figure out what we need. And Delly.”

“Did she tell you to start pumping? Is that where this is coming from?” he asks.

“Kind of,” I admit. And I fill him in on everything Delly said. “It’s just… six hours, Peeta. I can’t even imagine sleeping six hours at a time anymore.”

“We’ll have to ask her how they managed that,” Peeta agrees. 

“Okay,” I say. I breathe a sigh of relief. “See, we’re a good team. We’re going to be good at this.”

“Of course we will,” Peeta says confidently.

The night passes the same as the last. The only notable difference is that when we wake up for the four o’clock feeding, my breasts are engorged and a little painful.

“Look at this,” I say to Peeta before latching Willow.

Peeta’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “ Wow ,” he says. “Guess your milk came in.”

“Guess so,” I laugh. While Willow suckles on one breast, I examine the other. I’ve never had much to work with in this department, so the difference is quite stark. “Maybe we should have let the Capitol alter me after all.”

Peeta glares at me, unamused. “No, we shouldn’t have,” he says firmly.

In the morning we discover that my mother brought a breast pump from the hospital and I’m able to try it out with Willow’s next feeding. There’s still plenty of supplies we need–bottles and special bags to freeze the milk in and materials to sterilize everything–and my mother recommends still breastfeeding as I have been for a while longer. But I feel better knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and in the meantime I can start building up a supply of milk in the freezer.

It’s monotonous, another day full of feeding and eating and singing and napping. Don’t get me wrong, I adore the time spent resting with Peeta and snuggling our baby. I cry at least twice about how much I wish she could just stay this little forever. I also cry once about being concerned she’s not going to get bigger fast enough. Overall, I’m very grateful that my support system is made up of people who are willing to give me a lot of grace for my ever-changing emotions. I cry about that too.

The morning of the first, it takes a bit of convincing but I’m able to talk Peeta into the three of us walking my mother to the train station. Haymitch goes home after breakfast to give us some space and to take a (much needed) shower. He reminds us that he’s just across the lawn and gives me and Willow, with permission, a kiss on the forehead. We get Willow dressed for her first outing–even though her outfit won’t really be seen with the wrap–and secure her to my chest. My mother gets a picture of the three of us by the door, ready to take her outside for the first time. Then we set off.

I cry when we reach the train station, but that’s no surprise to anyone. My mother hugs Peeta and me each tightly and reminds us that she’ll be back before we know it. She kisses Willow on her little knit hat, Peeta helps her get her bag on the train, and we wave goodbye as it pulls out of the station.

“Okay,” I whisper, taking a steadying breath. “Okay. This is good.”

“This is good,” Peeta agrees. “I love that your mom’s able to help, but I’ve got to admit I’m excited for us to try doing this alone for a couple days.”

I give a shaky laugh. “We’re the parents,” I say, as if realizing this fact for the first time.

“Yep,” Peeta says, laughing nervously as well.

“What do we do now?” I ask slowly.

“I think we kind of just…raise her into adulthood?” Peeta suggests.

And then we’re both laughing. Laughing as release from all the stress. Laughing from being overtired. Laughing because, after all this time, we’re still each other’s best friends.

After a few minutes of this, Peeta presses his lips to mine, then to the top of Willow’s head, then back to mine. “Come on,” he whispers, “let’s bring our little one back home.”

We walk hand-in-hand back from the station. We know this walk well, even though it’s been a very long time since we used to make this trek once a week to pick up supplies from the Capitol. Back when there was nothing here for us but each other. It feels like several lifetimes ago that I first took this walk with Haymitch after Peeta came back. When he told me to find something to care about, and suggested I start with Peeta.

What would that version of myself think if she saw us now? That grief-stricken, hollowed out girl in the town of ashes, now a mother to the most precious baby. Would she believe that peace would last long enough to bring her this, that life could be this good? I’m so grateful for the spark of hope that existed in her, however tiny it may have been, that got us through it all and brought us here.

“Does it take long to make cinnamon bread?” I ask Peeta as the craving strikes me.

“Not really, just a couple hours,” he says. “I’ll get started on it as soon as we get home.”

“Thanks, love,” I say.

We turn the corner and walk through the large stone pillars that once held the Victor’s Village sign.

“Oh!” Peeta says suddenly. “Happy anniversary!”

“That’s right, happy anniversary!” I say. It was sixteen years ago, today, that Peeta and I officially started dating. “Sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”

Peeta laughs so loudly that Willow startles against my chest. I rest a hand on her back to help her feel secure.

“Katniss, I think you spent thirty-seven weeks and twenty-two hours of labor getting me the most perfect anniversary gift I can imagine. You don’t have to get me anything for any anniversary ever again,” he says.

“Fair enough,” I concede. 

I’m in a lot less pain than I was a few days ago, but Peeta still helps me up the porch steps. When we reach the front door, it feels like the beginning of something. A new stage with new challenges and new joys. Never in my life have I been more grateful than I am now to have this man with me. Which is saying something, considering everything we’ve been through.

“You okay?” Peeta asks, holding the front door open for me.

“I’m great,” I whisper, kissing Willow on the head.

And for the first time, the three of us–the Mellark family–enter the house together.