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By the time I reach my house, my left heel will bear no weight at all. I decide to tell my mom I was trying to mean a leak in the roof of our old house and slid off. As for the missing food, I'll just be vague about who I handed it out to. I drag myself in the door, all ready to collapse in front of the fire. But instead I find two Peacekeepers, a man and a woman, and Haymitch playing chess with Peeta.
We immediately share a glance, he's telling me to keep calm, and I know he notices I'm hurt right away.
"Hello" I say in a neutral voice.
My mother appears behind them but keeps her distance. “Here she is, just in time for dinner,” she says, her voice a little too bright. I'm very late for dinner.
I consider removing my boots as I normally would but doubt I can manage it without revealing my injuries. Instead, I pull off my wet hood and shake the snow from my hair, catching Peeta's eyes for just a second. His gaze flickers with concern before he smooths it away.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask the Peacekeepers.
“Head Peacekeeper Thread sent us with a message for you,” says the woman.
“They've been waiting for hours,” my mother adds carefully.
“Must be an important message,” I say lightly.
“May we ask where you've been, Miss Everdeen?” the woman asks.
“Easier to ask where I haven't been,” I reply with a sigh of exasperation. I cross into the kitchen, forcing myself to walk normally despite the agony with every step. I pass between the Peacekeepers and make it to the table, where I toss my bag down and turn to Prim, standing stiffly by the hearth.
“So where haven't you been?” Haymitch drawls lazily.
“Well, I haven’t been talking to the Goat Man about getting Prim’s goat pregnant, because someone gave me completely inaccurate information about where he lives,” I say pointedly at Prim.
“No, I didn’t,” Prim protests. “I told you exactly.”
“You said he lives beside the west entrance to the mine,” I say.
“The east entrance,” Prim corrects calmly.
“You distinctly said the west, because I asked, ‘Next to the slag heap?’ and you said, ‘Yeah’” I argue.
“The slag heap next to the east entrance,” Prim says patiently.
“No. When did you say that?” I demand.
“Last night,” Haymitch cuts in.
“It was definitely the east,” Peeta adds, trying to hold back a grin. He glances at Haymitch, and they both chuckle under their breath. I narrow my eyes at Peeta, and he gives me a lopsided, apologetic smile that almost makes me forget my irritation.
“I’m sorry,” Peeta says softly, coming over to stand closer to me, he put his arms around my waist and that gives my foot a break because I rest all my weight on him without being obvious about it “but it’s true. You don't listen when people talk to you.” His voice is teasing but warm.
“Bet people told you today he didn’t live there and you didn’t listen again,” Haymitch says.
“Shut up, Haymitch,” I mutter, but even I can't help a small smile.
Haymitch and Peeta crack up, and Prim allows herself a giggle. For a moment, the heaviness in the room lifts, replaced by laughter and the warmth of being together. I think, This is how Haymitch and Peeta survive. Nothing shakes them.
The woman Peacekeeper’s stern voice cuts through the lightness. “What’s in the bag?” she demands sharply.
I can see she’s hoping for something illegal. I upend the bag onto the table.
“See for yourself.”
“Oh, good” my mother says, sifting through the cloth. “We were running low on bandages.”
“Ooh, peppermints” Peeta says, grinning as he pops one into his mouth.
“They’re mine,” I say, swiping at the bag, but he’s quicker, tossing it to Haymitch who crams a handful into his mouth. Prim snatches the bag next, giggling.
“None of you deserve candy!” I say, laughing despite myself.
“What, because we’re right?” Peeta says, and before I can react, he wraps his arms gently around me again. The sudden contact sends a jolt of pain through my injured tailbone and I gasp involuntarily.
Immediately, Peeta’s grip loosens, his face full of worry as he searches mine, I know he's trying to hide it but it's bigger than him. I try to cover it up with a huff of indignation, but I know he sees the truth. He always does.
“Okay, okay,” Peeta says, his voice tender now. “Prim said west. I distinctly heard west. And we’re all idiots. Happy?”
“Better,” I say, my voice a little softer than before.
He leans in and kisses me, I let myself lean into it for just a moment, forgetting everything else.
Only when I break away do I glance at the Peacekeepers, feigning sudden surprise at their presence.
“You had a message for me?” I ask coolly.
“From Head Peacekeeper Thread,” says the woman, her tone sharper than before. “He wanted you to know that the fence surrounding District Twelve will now have electricity twenty-four hours a day.”
“Didn’t it already?” I ask, my voice sugary sweet and innocent.
“He thought you might be interested in passing this information on to your cousin,” the woman says, the warning in her voice unmistakable.
“Thank you. I'll tell him. I'm sure we'll all sleep a little more soundly now that security has addressed that lapse,” I say sweetly, the sarcasm sliding just beneath the surface.
The woman's jaw tightens. Nothing has gone the way she'd hoped, but she has no further orders. She gives a stiff nod and turns on her heel, the man falling into step behind her.
My mother locks the door behind them, and the second the bolt slides into place, I let out a shaky breath and slump heavily against the table.
Peeta is there in an instant, his arm slipping around my waist, holding me steady. His touch is gentle but sure, anchoring me when my legs threaten to give out.
“What is it?” he asks lovingly.
“Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone's had a bad day, too,” I say lightly, trying to brush it off. He knows it's something more, and he knows that is not at all what happened. But he also knows this house is bugged and I can't tell him anything more.
Without a word, Peeta sweeps one arm under my knees and the other around my back and lifts me easily off the ground. I let out a startled breath and clutch the front of his shirt.
“Peeta...” I start.
“Let me” he says simply, his forehead brushing mine for the briefest, most tender second.
He carries me to one of the rockers and kneels to help lower me onto the padded seat as carefully as if I were made of glass. I bite my lip against the pain that flashes through me, but even then, the warmth of his hands, the way he moves so carefully around me, eases something deeper than just the aches in my body.
My mother kneels beside me and gently starts unlacing my boots. Peeta stays crouched in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees, his thumbs brushing slow circles through the thick fabric of my pants.
“What happened?” my mother asks, her voice steady, but I can hear the worry underneath.
“I slipped and fell,” I lie. “On some ice,” I add lamely.
My mother doesn’t push. Instead, she strips off my sock and gently presses the bones in my left heel. I try not to wince, but Peeta’s hand tightens slightly on my knee when I flinch.
“There might be a break,” my mother says quietly. She checks the other foot and finds it all right, then moves to examine my back. “The tailbone’s badly bruised.”
I can’t help the small hiss of pain that escapes when she presses there.
Instantly, Peeta rises and moves behind me, his hands skimming lightly over my shoulders before settling on my arms, steady and reassuring. His fingers draw slow, soothing lines along my sleeves, and somehow it makes the pain a little more bearable. I lean into him instinctively, resting my head back against his chest for just a second.
Prim is dispatched to fetch my pajamas and robe. When I change and return, my mother is waiting with a snow pack. She gently props my injured heel up on a hassock and tucks a blanket around me.
My mother brings me a cup of chamomile tea, and I sip it obediently, feeling the sleep syrup working almost instantly. My eyelids droop, heavy and unwilling to stay open. The room blurs around the edges, warm and safe and a little unreal.
When I’m done, my mother wraps my foot carefully, her touch gentle but efficient. Peeta rises from his seat, moving toward me before I can even think to ask.
“I’ll get her to bed,” he says quietly, and I don’t protest. I start out trying to lean on his shoulder, but my legs give a tremble. Without hesitation, Peeta scoops me up into his arms.
He carries me up the stairs like I'm weightless, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
In my room, he gently sets me down on the bed and tucks the covers around me with a tenderness that makes my throat ache. He brushes a stray hair from my forehead, his fingertips featherlight.
“Good night,” he says, starting to pull away.
But I catch his hand before he can leave, weaving my fingers tightly through his. My grip is clumsy from the syrup, but the need in it is clear.
“Don’t go yet. Not until I fall asleep,” I whisper, the words slipping free before I can second-guess them.
He sits down carefully on the edge of the bed, keeping my hand clasped between both of his. His thumbs draw slow, soothing circles over my skin.
“I almost thought you’d changed your mind today,” he says quietly. His voice is rough around the edges, like he’s been holding that worry in all evening. “When you were late for dinner.”
Even through the syrupy fog, I understand what he means. The fence going live. My absence. The Peacekeepers waiting. He thought I might have run, maybe with Gale, and left him behind.
“No,” I murmur, my head too heavy to lift. “I’d would have never left you behind”
I tug his hand gently closer and lean my cheek against the back of it, breathing in the comforting scent of flour and cinnamon that clings to his skin from the bakery. Not only that, but his warmth makes me calmer, happier.
“Stay with me.”
Peeta doesn't hesitate. He shifts on the bed, stretching out beside me on top of the covers, careful not to jar my injured foot. His arm slides under my shoulders, pulling me gently against him. His warmth surrounds me, anchoring me, keeping the nightmares at bay before they can even touch me.
As the tendrils of sleep syrup tighten their grip, I hear him whisper something, but it slips away before I can catch it. When I wake up he's still there. The sun is just making its way through the window in my room, my head is on his chest so I can hear the soft beating of his heart. I look up softly trying not to wake him up, His face is so calm, his lips are softly parted and there's not one line of frowning in his face. And I realize something, for a person who hates being trapped in a house, and loves the woods. I don't want to move at all.
Peeta shifts slightly in his sleep, tightening his arm around me as if even unconscious he can sense I'm thinking too much, pulling away inside my mind. His fingers curl lightly against my back, and the simple, instinctive gesture sends a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the heavy quilt covering us.
There's a soft pink flush to his cheeks from the warmth of the room, and his lashes cast faint shadows against his skin. His mouth is slightly parted, and I wonder what it would feel like to trace the curve of his lips with my fingertips. Or even...
I catch myself, cheeks heating. What is wrong with me? What happened last night it's what always happens, we protect each other. That's what we do.
However...
I could stay like this forever, tucked into him, safe and warm and wanted. So I let myself have this moment. Just this one. I continue studying him, and his eyelashes give out a tone of gold when the morning sunlight hits him. I could look at him for hours on end.
It takes at least another 20 minutes for him to stir, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment he looks confused, disoriented, then he focuses on me, and a slow, sleepy smile spreads across his face.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. And I would give anything to wake up to that sound every morning of my life. He's safe here, next to me. Like I'm safe here, in his arms.
“Morning,” I whisper back, my voice barely more than a breath against his skin.
“How’s your foot?” he asks eventually, his hand brushing soothing circles on my back.
"Hurting, I mean right now it's okay because I'm not putting pressure on it" I comment, I can feel the pulsing in it, which is not necessarily a good sign.
"We’ll take it easy today," he says. "Whatever you need."
The words are so simple, so natural coming from him, but they wrap around my heart all the same. Whatever I need. When has anyone ever said that to me and meant it without expecting something in return? The only times I remember being said those words all came from Peeta.
"You should be downstairs," I mumble against the fabric of his shirt, feeling guilty now that reality is creeping back in. "Or at the bakery, I bet your parents need..."
"You need me" Peeta calls, as if that was just as important.
And somehow, for once, I don't argue.
Instead, I let my fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath them. Because I do need him, he's right on that one.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?" he asks, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
"For staying. For always knowing what I need... even when I don't."
His cheeks flush slightly, and I realize that no matter how brave Peeta is, no matter how much he’s given me, there's still a part of him that doesn't believe he's enough. Like somehow he's still waiting for me to push him away.
But I don't. Not today and not the rest of the week.
Peeta comes by every day, never missing one, always carrying a bundle of cheese buns still warm from the oven. We begin working together on the family book, the old, worn leather journal that's been passed down for generations. It feels fitting, somehow, that he’s helping me with it, that this thing built by my ancestors is now touched by his hands too.
He sketches with a steady hand, recreating every leaf and blossom with such careful attention that I sometimes forget to breathe just watching him. When he frowns in concentration, a little crease appears between his brows, and I have this ridiculous urge to smooth it away with my fingers. If he notices my constant staring, he doesn't mention.
It becomes our rhythm. I describe a plant and Peeta sketches it first on scrap paper, his hands sure and gentle. Only when I nod in approval does he ink it carefully into the family book. Then I lean in to print the words in my small, careful handwriting.
The afternoons pass in a kind of dream. It’s quiet, easy work, it's a kind of peace I never thought I could have. I could watch him forever and never grow tired.
"You know," he says, voice low, "I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together."
"Yeah," I breathe. My heart hammers against my ribs. "Nice for a change."
He sets his pencil down slowly, deliberately, and reaches out. His fingers brush my cheek, feather-light, tentative, giving me the chance to pull away if I want.
I don't.
My heart is in my throat as I lean in, just a fraction, just enough. And that's all it takes, Peeta closes the distance between us, his hand sliding to the back of my neck as his mouth meets mine in the softest, sweetest kiss I've ever imagined. The feeling I got in the cave comes back, full force.
The kiss deepens naturally, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw, and I sigh into him, feeling all the cracks inside me begin to knit together, just a little.
When we finally part, we rest our foreheads together, both of us breathing hard, dazed.
"That was..." I start, but the words get tangled in the lump rising in my throat.
"Yeah," he says softly, smiling that real, private smile meant only for me.
Later, Peeta carries me downstairs, cradling me like something precious. We curl up together on the couch by the fire. My foot is propped up, but my body leans fully into his, my head tucked under his chin, his arm wrapped securely around me.
I don’t even pretend to watch the television. I close my eyes and simply listen to the sound of his heartbeat, steady against my ear. I fall asleep like that. I have hates sleep since we came back from the games, being terrified that all the nightmares would come. But with Peeta is like that fear, like the rest of the bad feelings, just disappear.
I don’t know how long I sleep. It’s a deep, dreamless kind of rest, the kind that leaves you heavy and warm and reluctant to wake. I stir only when I feel Peeta’s hand brushing lightly over my hair, threading the strands between his fingers.
Reluctantly, I blink my eyes open, the flicker of the fire casting soft shadows across the room. I shift just slightly, and Peeta leans down to whisper, “Sleep more, if you want.” His voice is low, close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I nuzzle closer without thinking, pressing a kiss to his chest. He tilts my face up with gentle fingers, his lips brush mine again. When the little kiss finishes I curl up against him again. I hear a sharp intake of breath soon after.Annoyed, I turn, already forming the words to scold Buttercup and tell the dumb cat to go find Prim. But instead I find Gale at the door.
For a moment, no one moves.
Gale's eyes aren’t on Peeta. They're locked on me, and it feels like he can see every secret, every feeling I’ve been too scared to name. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and there’s something raw in his expression, maybe anger and hurt, twisted together until I can’t tell one from the other.
Gale’s mouth presses into a hard line. “I just came to see how you were doing, but I see you're good” he says, his voice rough, brittle.
“Gale...” I start, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. That it’s not what it looks like? That it’s exactly what it looks like? My mouth just opens and closes uselessly. This is very confusing for all of us, well not for Peeta because he has known his feelings for a long time. But I've just accepted this, and how do you explain to someone something you just understood? I also kissed Gale after his whips so I see how that would be confusing for him, seeing me cuddled up with Peeta. But I hadn't felt anything, I just did it to comfort him, guiding myself with the fear of the moment.
Gale looks between us again, and I see the moment he draws his own conclusions. He gives a small, humorless laugh, more a puff of air than a sound. “Guess I should’ve seen it coming,” he mutters.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. “Take care of yourself, Catnip,” he says. And before I can say another word, before I can try to explain or apologize or beg him to understand, he turns and walks out the door. And it hurts me less than what I was expecting. Which just proves that...It's Peeta.
It’s always been Peeta.