Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We’re not taking the deal with Meridian Arms. I don’t care how big their budget is, they sell guns to kids.” Peeta Mellark, CEO of Mellark Media states over the speaker phone. I smile a little bit. 

I think this is what I like most about working here, as Mr. Mellark's assistant. He cares. He listens. Like, actually listens. Not just to pitch decks and what would make him the biggest buck, but to people’s intentions.

Stories Shape People, and People Shape the World.

That’s Mellark Media’s mission statement. But Peeta actually believes it.

When I got out of college, no clue where to go, my mom mentioned an assistant position with Mellark Senior, Peeta’s father. She knew him when she was younger, and she had been taking care of him since he’d gotten sick the previous year. I worked with him for 6 months before he passed. He was a kind man. Generous. But if I’m being honest? 

He didn’t care half as much as Peeta does.

“And how would that look for us? For our company?” He snaps his fingers once to get my attention, pointing halfheartedly to the scattered papers on his desk. 

I’m already moving before he finishes the gesture.

The migrant child detention center on the Mexico border. I slide the file toward him, flipping open to the summary we built last night. He cares about this one. About the conditions. About the families. About making sure the world doesn’t look away. He wants to tell the story right.

It’s basic human decency. But in this industry? In this country?

It’s practically radical.

I remember the first time I met Peeta.

It was during Mellark Sr.’s Funeral. The one I almost didn’t attend, I didn't want to risk showing any other emotion than calm and collected in front of strangers. He wore the same black suit his father had always favored, probably tailored down, slightly ill-fitting on his frame. He approached me after the service, his voice softer than I expected.

“My father spoke highly of you,” he started. "Said you were the only one who could convince him to take his medication. You and your mother. Said you were very…” 

He hesitated. I could tell he was searching for a different word. Something gentler, probably, than demanding or rude.

“Persistent,” he settled on, “he said you were persistent. In a way that reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite place.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow, “Ironic for the man who every morning would check if his coffee was exactly 90 degrees Celsius. Before letting it cool for an hour.”

Obviously, I was not the epitome of nice. I know what it’s like to attend the funeral for your father, but I hated it when someone was pitiful to me because of a lost loved one. 

He smiled and let out a soft chuckle. “He also mentioned you were the only one who knew how he liked his coffee.” 

I raised my eyes at that comment, waiting for him to get to the point. Did he want to bond with me over his father? Over the good memories? Those were mine. He didn’t get access to them.

“I could use someone like that,” he said finally. “Since I’m taking over for him.”

“Someone who knows how to brew your coffee?” I asked with a frown.

He tilted his head like a puppy, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Not just that. I mean… I like persistence. And clearly, you know what you’re doing.”

“Are you offering me my job back?” I asked.

“Only if you want it.”

I nodded once.

“Then I’ll see you Monday,” he said, before turning and walking away.

That was two years ago. 

Now Peeta’s voice deepens, teetering on anger, “I don’t care what the other board members said about it. I’m not going to betray my own ethics, or my company’s ethics, for a couple of million.”

I glance at the time on my phone, realizing this call has gone longer than it needed to. I clear my throat, drawing his attention, and then tap my invisible watch on my wrist. He nods once.

“Listen, you can sit there and try to convince me all you want. If you want to give guns to little kids, you  clearly have bigger issues.” He hangs up the phone abruptly, “God! People are just so…”

“Stupid.”

“Idiotic.” He counters.

“Ignorant.”

He sighs, “Upsetting.”

He leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. “They just don’t take me seriously. I mean, they never take me seriously. But oh, ever since Finnick got engaged,  no one cares that he’s half naked on the front page of every magazine. They respect him.” 

He doesn’t actually blame his best friend. I know that.  

“Maybe that’s because Finnick is also a part-time model.”

“Yeah, but his dad owns the largest boating business in the country, and he doesn’t have to do—” he breaks off, huffing as he loosens his tie.

I sigh and step forward.

“Because his dad doesn’t care about him as much,” I state, voice verging on annoyance. “Not like your dad did you.” 

I undo his tie and retie it with practiced fingers, leaving it loose enough not to choke him, but neat enough to pass. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. I don’t look up.

When I finish, I take a step back.

“Glimmer is going to be upset if you are late to the luncheon. Said it’s very important what she has to talk to you about.

“How much longer do I have to put up with her?” He mopes.

“Until the merger with SnowCorp.” I say, voice clipped. 

“Don’t”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can feel your judgment from here.”

I shrug, “It’s your company. If you want to sell its soul to SnowCorps propaganda just to make your life easier, that’s your choice.”

He rolls his eyes, “You are so…”

“Don’t even think about it. I’ll spit in your coffee again.” 

This earns a smile.

“You’re coming with me, right?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’m not going alone. You are not throwing me into the shark tank smothered in blood.”

I scoff, “She’s not a shark, she’s a piranha.” I toss a glance over my shoulder as I start to walk out. “Good luck." 

“Katniss,” he calls.

I stop at the doorway.

“You’re coming with.”

The restaurant is nauseatingly elegant. The kind of place with white tablecloths, three different spoons, and a floral centerpiece that smells like rich people.

Glimmer’s already seated when we arrive, all long lashes and designer perfume, tapping away on her phone like the world owes her patience for even showing up.

“Peeta,” she says smoothly, standing just enough to air-kiss him on both cheeks. Her hand lingers a second too long on his shoulder. “So glad you could make it. And you brought your assistant.”

I don’t even give her a smile. “I go where he goes.”

“Oh, how… loyal.” Her eyes flick to mine, not bothering to hide the judgment. “Like a puppy.”

Peeta clears his throat, gesturing to the seat beside her. “Let’s sit. I know you said there was something important to discuss.”

Glimmer barely glances at him as we settle in. Her manicured hand finds his forearm almost immediately, tracing his jacket sleeve like she’s forgotten we’re in public.

Peeta shifts uncomfortably, pulling slightly away under the guise of adjusting his silverware. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the sight.

“So,” Glimmer says, finally turning toward me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “How long have you been with Mellark Media, again?”

“Long enough to know when someone’s wasting our time,” I answer, sweetly, giving her a fake smile. 

Her glare tries to shoot daggers, but those long butterfly lashes make it seem pathetic.

Peeta exhales very softly.

There’s a moment of consideration before she gives a sharp smile. She reaches for her wine glass, swirling the liquid like she’s trying to summon drama from the bottom of the glass. An easy task for her.

“Oh, Katniss,” she says lightly, “I don’t think that’s any way to talk to Peeta’s future wife.”

Peeta chokes on his drink. Like… violently.

I hold back my laugh at this whole scene.

He sets the glass down with a loud clink, coughing into his napkin as his face turns a full shade redder.

“My future what? ” he rasps.

Glimmer doesn’t flinch. She’s already turned toward him, folding her hands sweetly on the table like this is the part of the meeting she’s been waiting for. And she probably has. 

“It just makes sense,” she says, as if she’s talking about quarterly growth instead of a human relationship. “Our families have history. The merger would be seamless. And of course, you and I?” She laughs a little, almost throwing a dirty look in my direction, “Well, we would just look good together.”

The silence stretches too long. Peeta blinks. I stare straight at the empty plate as if I focus hard enough, it’ll become a portal I can disappear into. All that repeats in my head is: I should not be here right now.

“Glimmer,” he says finally, “You.. can’t be serious.”

She laughs like he just made a charming joke. “Why wouldn’t I be? Your board already loves me. Our names together are literally branded gold. And everyone knows marrying into SnowCorp, rather than just merging, would make your position untouchable. You wouldn’t even need to work this hard anymore.”

“That’s not—” Peeta stops himself. “This isn’t a business decision. This is my life.”

I feel like he glances my direction when he says it. I probably imagine it.

She frowns, then flicks her eyes toward me again. I definitely didn’t imagine that. “Funny. From the outside, it doesn’t really look like it’s just yours.”

I’m looking around like an idiot, anything to get my attention off me. Why do I have to be brought into things like this? This isn’t the first time someone has accused me of playing puppet to Peeta. And unfortunately, it won’t be the last.

“You don’t get to—” Peeta’s voice is low and rough, like he’s trying not to snap. He coughs once, straightens his jacket, and then smiles.

Too calm. Too charming.

“I mean… you’re right,” he says smoothly. “It’s not just my decision.”

He turns to me.

“Katniss?”

His hand finds mine before I can even react.
“Honey, don’t you think we should just tell her?”

I blink. Frozen. I think my mouth actually drops open.

“Tell her?” I echo.

Peeta brushes a loose piece of hair behind my ear. The kind of move that would feel romantic if my brain weren’t short-circuiting.

“Don’t be so shy,” he murmurs, still smiling. “It had to come out at some point, right?”

He turns back to Glimmer, who’s sitting unnaturally still. Rage barely veiled beneath her overapplied glossy lip gloss.

“You see,” Peeta says, with faux sincerity, “I can’t marry you… because I’m already engaged.” He lifts our intertwined hands slightly. 

“To Katniss.”

The table is silent. I don’t breathe. I don't think anyone is breathing.

I think I might murder him… No, I’m definitely going to murder him. And if I don’t? Glimmer definitely will.

Chapter Text

I wake up with a hard headache and a good laugh.

What a crazy dream last night.

Like yes, I consistently have wild, near-inappropriate dreams about my boss. They don’t usually feature surprise engagements, a piranha with long lashes, and corporate espionage over lunch. Last night was like someone dared my subconscious to write a soap opera, and my brain said, bet .

I look at the time and realize I’m running late, so I barely grab my phone, brush my teeth, throw on an appropriate enough outfit, and shuffle quickly out the door. That doesn’t make me any earlier, unfortunately, and I show up fifteen minutes late, something Mr. Mellark will think I’m doing out of pure spite. I take about a half step into the building before people are swarming me. 

Not the usual awkward-shuffle-to-the-coffee-pot swarm. This is full-on National Geographic predator-to-fresh-meat swarming.

“Is it true?” someone asks breathlessly.

“Oh my god, you look so calm,” another says, clutching her chest.

I open my mouth to respond, mostly to ask what the hell they’re talking about, but before I can say anything, Madge swoops in like a blonde guardian angel in kitten heels.

“Back it up, corporate vultures,” she snaps. “Leave her alone or I swear I’ll start printing every single time y’all forget to log your lunch breaks.”

Silence. Fear. Scatter.

She loops her arm through mine and yanks me into the elevator, aggressively hitting the “close doors” button like we’re escaping a crime scene.

“Madge, what—”

“Oh. My. GOD,” she screeches before I can finish. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

I blink. “Tell you what?”

“I knew it! I KNEW IT ,” she practically bounces, hair bouncing with her. “I told Delly last month I saw the way he looked at you in that meeting about the new CRM interface. And you looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive. You so did.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She gasps. “Don’t play coy with me, Everdeen. You and Peeta? Engaged? Power couple of the century? You really had us all fooled with that whole ‘I hate my job, I hate my boss’ shtick. Iconic.”

I stare at her. “Madge.”

“What?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No. We are not engaged. That was… misinterpreted. Severely. There is absolutely nothing going on between me and him.”

She frowns. “So you didn’t let him slide a ring on your finger in front of Glimmer? And Plutarch Heavensbee didn't snap your picture?”

I blink. “What? No... Who said that?”

She smirks and responds, “Glimmer posted about it. And Heavensbee posted it in the newest article.”

I stay silent, and she takes this as truth.

She screams into her palm. “You’re so insane. I love it here.”

By the time we reach our floor, I’m fully braced for a walk of shame and/or public stoning. The office is a battlefield of reactions: some people give me wide-eyed stares like I might kill them (fair), some look vaguely green with envy. A few, bless them, just offer supportive nods like I’ve cracked the corporate matrix.

I’m halfway to my desk when his door opens.

“Katniss,” Peeta says, smooth and calm like we didn’t just break the internet with our fake engagement. “My office. Now.”

He disappears inside.

Every pair of eyes is on me.

I try not to visibly combust as I walk past the rows of desks and slide into his office. He closes the door behind me.

And pulls the blinds.

I hate how much hotter that makes it feel.

“Sit,” he says, and it’s way too easy to hear that in a totally different tone.

I sit anyways. For legal reasons.

Peeta walks around the desk and slaps a manila folder in front of me like a power move. I open it.

The front page is a printed-out headline:

Mellark & Everdeen: The Perfect Pair or Just Another PR Affair?

Underneath is a blurry picture of him looking at me with puppy dog eyes and brushing my hair out of my face.

“This is what we’re working with,” he says, calm. Too calm. “So here’s what’s going to happen.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, this’ll be good.”

“We’re riding the wave. Glimmer won’t touch us if she thinks I’m taken, and the board is eating it up. So, for now, we’re engaged. Publicly. Temporarily.”

I stare at him. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Possibly,” he says cheerfully. “But it’s working.”

“No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. I am not pretending to be in love with you for the benefit of your corporate climb.”

He grins. “Don’t worry, Ms. Everdeen. You won’t have to pretend that hard. Despite what you think, I can be incredibly easy to like.”

“Fuck no. ”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Unless that involves time off, a raise, and free snacks for life, I’m walking.”

“I can do two out of three.”

I squint. “…Which two?”

He flashes that smile that makes the interns faint. “You’ll see.”

I stand up with a huff of exasperation and a laugh. “No means no, don’t you know that big man?”

He hesitates and a part of me remembers he is actually a gentleman. I could only imagine what it would be like if he asked me to do more than just fake being in love with him. 

“Katniss,” his voice, much quieter, much huskier, breaks through my thoughts, “ please. ”

It makes my stomach do a flip, and an all too well-known fire starts burning throughout my body.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, suddenly mimicking his tone (minus how hot it was), “ Please, Katniss, be my fake fiancée. It’ll be so fun to have your face plastered across new articles you’re usually standing in the background of. And even when we fake break up, it’ll be so fun having everyone hate on you because I’m just SOOOOOO likeable and charming! Does that sound about like what you’re asking for?”

A smile teases his mouth, and I can tell he’s holding back a laugh. He moves towards me a few steps, just ranging out of my personal space. I wonder if I would mind if he did invade it.

“You think I’m charming?”

“I’m just quoting the articles,” I say defensively.

He nods, but his smile breaks through. I don’t smile back of course. Just glare daggers. It should be in my job description at this point. 

“Paid time off, and a raise. Better yet, I’ll pay for your vacation.”

I raise my eyebrows suspiciously. There's a long moment of silence before I let out a huff and drop my arms. 

“Promise?”

“Always.” He puts out his hand and we shake on it. “Have our official contract on my desk before the end of the day. And call HR. Workplace relationship policy.” He says with a devious twinkle in his eye, “You know, they are already constantly breathing down my neck about how many people feel threatened by you, and I’m sure even more will feel that way now that we’re engaged.”

“Part of my charm.” I retort and, without another word, walk out of the room. 

I write the damn contract myself and halfway through the day (which by the way, is exactly the kind of disrespect I expect from someone I’m fake-married to), I take it in for him to approve.

Fake Engagement Rules:

1. No kissing unless necessary for the cameras.
2. No sleepovers (even though you’re couch is weirdly comfortable.)
3. No calling me any pet names in front of our coworkers
4. I’m not making your mother like me. You hardly like her
5. Code word: Burnt Bread
   
   

He reads it over and says, “Add no falling in love.”

I snort and scribble it down, “Don’t worry, Bread Man. That’ll be the easiest part.”

Peeta’s smile slips just a little. Just for a second.

Then it’s back. “Right. Of course.”

We shake on it again. 

And I don’t know why it feels like the beginning of something very stupid.

And very, very, dangerous

Chapter Text

If you squint, this week looks like business as usual. Mostly.

Sure, I get a few more stares than normal — the “is she really sleeping with the boss or just threatening him?” kind. I shut that down by making intense eye contact with anyone who whispers too loudly and biting directly into an apple at my desk like it’s their soul.

The whispering mostly stops by Thursday.

But by Friday, I’m two seconds away from chucking that same apple at Peeta Mellark’s stupidly symmetrical head.

We’re going over next week’s agenda in his office. I’m talking quarterly reports, board prep, and a conference call with Thresh from Marketing that I know he’s going to ignore anyway, when he has the audacity to interrupt me.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says casually, leaning forward and resting his well-designed arms on his desk like a smug little shit.

I pause, very deliberately. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “Just figured my very capable assistant wouldn’t forget something as basic as—oh, I don’t know— our upcoming press schedule .”

I set the tablet down slowly, trying not to stab the screen. “You think I don’t know how to do my job?” I ask, sweet as poison. “You think I don’t have the next month of your schedule mapped out? If not the next three ?”

He actually has the nerve to look entertained. “I mean our engagement press schedule, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. I blink once, very slowly.

“Our press photo shoot . The fake dates. The media circuits Glimmer paid off. Come on, Katniss… I thought you were better than this.”

The calm cracks.

I stalk over to his desk, pull out his copy of the schedule, and slap it down with the force of every fake fiancé’s rage. He leans back in his chair, smirking like this is the highlight of his week .

I place both hands on the desk and lean in, just enough to make him straighten slightly — probably instinct, probably fear, probably… I don’t know something else. “Isn’t that a man’s job?” I say, voice low. “What, you expect your fiancée to do everything for you? I thought you were better than this, Mr. Mellark.”

His smirk flickers, but only for a second. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “I should be doing more.”

I raise a questioning  eyebrow. “Damn straight.”

He leans back forward now too, like we’re negotiating a hostage situation instead of pretending to be in love. “I’ll set up our dates, You call the PR team.” As if an afterthought he adds, “Oh. And you can handle wardrobe. Matching couples outfits? Maybe a little hint of your lipstick on my collar. You know, the basics”

I blink. “What?”

He flashes a grin. “Oh come on, you didn’t think I was going to pick out my own outfits, did you?”

“You’re a grown man.”

“And you’re the one with taste.”

I huff, “Fine. Just… fine.’

“First date is tomorrow night.”

“I can’t.”

I didn’t mean for it to slip out so quickly. But it’s too late. His eyebrows raise.

“You… can’t?”

I close my eyes. There goes the boundary between my real life and my fake one. The one good, untouched thing. “It’s my sister’s birthday. No matter how old she gets, we’re going to the zoo.”

He hesitates. “And so you won’t be free at… night ?” He draws it out like I’m hiding a criminal affair.

“After the zoo, we always…” I trail off and look down, bracing myself. “We visit my dad’s grave. We have a late-night picnic. Sometimes she brings an Ouija board. For shits and giggles.”

I’m focused on the stitching of the chair across from me, the scuff on the floor, literally anything that isn’t his expression. Until I hear him clear his throat, quiet but steady. My eyes flick to his.

“That sounds peaceful, Katniss,” he says, voice softening.

Just when I almost believe he means it, that he might let it go, he adds, “I’ll pick you both up around ten a.m. then.”

Of course. I guess Peeta Mellark will be seeping into my personal life now too.

“Oh, and buy her a gift from me,” he says as I turn to leave. “Can’t have my future fake sister-in-law going presentless. Imagine the headlines.”

I nod stiffly. “Of course, Mr. Mellark.”
And I’m out the door before I can say something I’ll regret.

The next morning, Peeta actually shows up on time.

Surprisingly, no driver. He’s behind the wheel of his own sleek, completely unnecessary luxury car, sunglasses on, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel like a damn model.

I open my mouth to make a snarky comment about it, about the car, about him... but Prim beats me to it.

“Oh wow , you weren’t kidding,” she whispers, eyes wide as she takes him in. “He’s so handsome, Katniss. I see it now. I get it .”

Peeta turns, amused. “So you do talk about me.”

My jaw tightens. “Not often. She exaggerates.”

He laughs and gestures for us to get in. Prim hops in the back and gives me a look that says you better not mess this up … like SHE’S the one who has to live with the consequences if we did.

“So,” Peeta says casually as I buckle my seatbelt, “Where are our matching outfits?”

I glare at him. NO way in hell he expected me to do that for him in less than 24 hours. Not that I haven’t pulled off worse for him, like the time he forgot Glimmer's birthday? All she wanted was a signed copy of Taylor Swift’s unreleased album. I spent three days networking with someone from Capitol Records and pretending to be emotionally invested in a grown man’s rare vinyl collection. In return, we got one album, one signature, and a week of smug silence from Glimmer. It was amazing and horrible all at once.

“Our matching outfits are our smiles.” I deadpan.

“You’d have to wear one sometime for that to be true.”

I respond by sitting up super straight and flashing him the biggest, fakest smile I can manage.

“God, you’re scaring me,” he teasingly swipes at me. “Put that thing away!”

I can feel Prim watching the whole exchange from the backseat. And suddenly, I feel weirdly exposed. Usually, it’s just me and Peeta in the back of a car, planning out every moment of a press conference, prepping for a gala, strategizing over takeout. This is… different. Real, in a way that’s deeply annoying.

“Well, you’re lucky your fiancé thought ahead,” he says smoothly, reaching back behind his seat.

“Fake fiancé,” I mutter, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

He pulls out a t-shirt and holds it up like it’s a grand prize. Bright white cotton. Big lettering. A cartoon lion in sunglasses and a bowtie.

It says: “We’re Not Lion — We’re Engaged!”

“What does that even mean?” I ask after a beat of stunned silence.

He grins. “Don’t you think it’s cute?”

“No.”

“Aww, come on, Katniss. It’ll be fun. Look — I got one for Prim too!”

He pulls out a third shirt: “They’re Not Lion — They’re Engaged!”

Prim squeals. Actually squeals. “BEST birthday gift EVER!”

“What!” I exclaim, whirling on her. “Better than the stethoscope I got you?”

She shrugs with a smirk. “You got it from Mom. I don’t even know why she gave it to you and not me in the first place.”

She yanks the shirt over her hoodie and beams at her reflection in the car window. She looks so dorky. So cute. I can’t help it — I smile and giggle back. God, I love her so much.

I turn back to Peeta, about to say something, when I realize he’s watching me.

There’s this look on his face — soft, almost fond. His eyes have that twinkle, the one I’ve seen him fake for cameras a hundred times. But right now, it doesn’t feel fake. It just feels… still.

I lose my smile and snatch the shirt out of his hands. “Give me the ugly thing.”

He leans back in his seat, victorious. “Was that so hard?”

He’s sitting a little straighter now. Smirking just slightly.

Fucking asshole.

The zoo is packed, which makes it worse.

Everywhere we walk, people are doing double takes. First at Peeta. Then at me. Then at our shirts.

We get our first “congratulations!” before we’re even past the flamingos.

“Oh my god — that’s adorable,” a woman coos. “Newly engaged?”

I open my mouth to clarify, to set the record straight, but Peeta beats me to it.

“Just last week,” he says smoothly, tugging me closer by the waist. “She said yes after I baked her six dozen cookies. I had to bribe her.”

The woman laughs, delighted. “Keep him, honey.”

“I’m trying,” I mutter, and pretend to be fascinated by a duck.

It happens again. And again. And again . Apparently, wearing a pun shirt at a zoo is the universal signal for "please talk to me about my love life." Parents laugh, children point. A mother offers us half a churro because she says we “look like a fairytale.”

By the time we reach the seals, I’m hanging on by a thread.

Prim, meanwhile, is having the time of her life. She and Peeta hit it off almost instantly — she’s throwing him rapid-fire questions about his most embarrassing boardroom moments and the weirdest charity gala food he’s ever eaten. He plays along like it’s a game, like they’ve known each other for years, not hours.

It’s kind of nauseating.

Then we pass the carnival-style game booths. Peeta veers off course, hand still resting on my lower back.

“Oh no,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he says, eyes on the ring toss. “Let me win you something cheesy and overpriced. For the illusion.”

Prim’s already bouncing in place. “Ooh! Win me something too!”

“Anything for the birthday girl,” he says with a wink.

Fifteen dollars later, he somehow manages to land all three rings on the stupid neon bottles. The booth worker begrudgingly hands over a giant stuffed seal. Peeta, the traitor, gives it to Prim .

She squeals like it’s the best moment of her life and hugs it like it’s made of diamonds and dreams. “I’m naming her Clove!”

I glance at the tiger enclosure across the path. It’s looking better and better.

“Why do I feel like the third wheel?” I grumble.

Peeta glances at me, smug. “Because you are.”

Before I can throttle him, a flash goes off to my left. Then another.

The cameras. The press. A chorus of flashes and shouts and forced smiles.

I force my lips into something approximating pleasant. Peeta slips his arm around my waist — professional, practiced.

“Big smiles!” one photographer calls. “Show us that spark!”

Peeta leans in and murmurs, “Careful. You’re outshining me. Everyone’s going to be looking at you instead of me.”

Ah there he is, the egotistical boss I know. Was wondering when he would come out.

I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the seal, maybe it’s the easy bonding with my sister, or maybe it’s his cologne, but I reach up and kiss his cheek.

A flash goes off at the exact moment. 

He drops us off as its getting dark. Prim’s already out of the car, babbling about how fun the day was.

I reach for the handle, but he stops me with a hand on mine.

“Thank you Katniss,” he says. “For today.”

I pause. He means it. It’s in his voice, his eyes, his stupid earnestness.

“Prim really likes you,” I admit softly.

We look at each other for a second too long.

Then I pull my hand away.

“Don’t ever insert yourself into a day between me and my sister again,” I say, and get out of the car before I can take it back.

The next morning, I wake up to a text:

Peeta Mellark:
Nicely done.
[Link: “Lovebirds & the In-Laws! Peeta and Katniss Make It a Family Affair”]

The photo is the photo. Me, on tiptoes, kissing his cheek like we were born to play lovers. The headline makes me want to scream into a pillow.

I roll my eyes, toss my phone to the other end of the bed, and sink back under the covers.

I have a feeling today might be one of the last peaceful Sundays I’ll get for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

When Peeta first told me we’d be attending a “work vacation,” I assumed he meant some breezy two-day corporate retreat filled with bland coffee and buzzwords like “synergy.”

I didn’t expect this.

A luxury tech-meets-media conference at a five-star resort that costs more per night than my first car. His name is all over the flyer. Keynote speaker. Featured guest. Networking elite.

And guess who set up every detail?

I check us in while he answers a call. Two rooms, obviously. No matter how cozy the headlines want us to be, I still enjoy sleeping without hearing someone else breathe.

But just as I’m grabbing the keys, he reappears at my side and glances at them.

“Two rooms?” he asks, low and unimpressed.

“Yeah,” I say. “One for you, one for me. What did you expect? A honeymoon suite?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How would that look to the press?”

I stare at him. “Like we’re saints.”

He shakes his head, sighs like I’m a toddler asking if I can eat glitter, and says, “Get one room.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“One room. One bed. Or at least one suite. Something convincingly romantic.”

I exhale through my nose, hand the keys back to the attendant, and mutter, “You’re the one sleeping on the couch.”

We barely got to the conference and we’re already swarmed. Photographers. CEOs. A woman in a sparkly blazer who keeps saying the words “synergize cross-functionality” like they mean something.

Peeta’s eating it up, smiling that sunbeam smile like he was born on a PR team. I stand slightly behind him, mostly to block anyone from sneaking a photo of my eye roll.

“You know,” he says out of the corner of his mouth between smiles, “it wouldn’t kill you to smile.”

“With all the people I protect you from,” I mutter, “you’re lucky I’m not catching fire.”

He turns to me slightly, brow raised. “You… protect me?”

I don’t skip a beat. “You’ve got this inconvenient habit of being decent, Peeta. It makes people think they can walk over you.” I look away, “I make sure they don’t get that opportunity.”

That stops him. Just for a second. He chews on it like I handed him a puzzle. Then, as someone waves him over, he hums thoughtfully.

No teasing reply. No cheeky grin.

Just that small flicker of surprise behind his eyes before he turns back to the waiting crowd.

The conference buzz fades behind me the moment he nudges open the side doors and the cool evening air hits my face.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he tugs gently on my arm to follow him further out, past the noise, past the spotlight.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls at his collar, loosening it like the crisp white shirt is suddenly strangling him.

“We could both use some fresh air,” he mutters.

I narrow my eyes but let him lead. His hand drops once we’re outside, but I don’t miss how his fingers brushed mine before it did. I also don’t miss how he’s rolling his sleeves up now, forearms flexing slightly, skin pale in the light. I look away, obviously, except my gaze catches the line of his throat just as he tilts his head back.

For one terrible second, I imagine pressing my lips right there.

“You said something earlier,” he says suddenly, cutting into the moment like a knife.

I blink. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

He glances sideways at me. “About protecting me.”

I shrug, brushing some invisible lint off my blazer. “I did.”

He tilts his head, watching me. “You meant it.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” I reply, tone flat. “Not unless someone’s offering me a raise and time off.”

That earns a half smile. “So you think I need protecting?”

I exhale slowly. “I think you’re a good man in a bad system. I think people smile at you while looking for the softest spot to stick the knife.”

Peeta doesn’t respond right away. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek again, something I’ve noticed he does when he’s trying to figure me out… or maybe himself. A breeze ruffles his hair, and he looks impossibly boyish, despite the suit, despite the headlines.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” he says quietly.

“Well,” I say, arms crossed now, gaze fixed on a hedge so I don’t have to see his eyes, “now someone has.”

The silence between us stretches again. Comfortable. Uncomfortable. Both.

Then he nudges me lightly with his elbow. “Still not going to smile?”

I glance at him. “You’d be lucky if I didn’t light someone on fire.”

He laughs. A real one this time. My face softens at the sound, and I can feel the near-smile brace my face. And for once, it feels like we’re not pretending anything.

I’m standing off to the side of the stage now, watching Peeta speak. Confident. Calm. Unapologetically sure of every word that leaves his mouth.

It’s a pitch, a good one. I would know, I’m the one who helped set it up. Mellark Media’s next major project: a political storytelling campaign for immigration reform. Real families. Real voices. No spin. Just truth, packaged in the most arresting visuals Peeta’s teams can create.

The man’s got vision. That’s never been the issue.

“We’ve always believed that good storytelling is good business. But great storytelling? That’s where it gets dangerous — and transformative. This campaign is personal. We’re not selling a product. We’re showing the lives of real families who’ve been failed by silence.”

Slide change: A map. A quote from one of the campaign’s subjects.

“The media can manipulate. Or it can reveal. We’ve chosen to reveal. Our job isn’t just branding. It’s building trust. Giving a voice to people who have been told, over and over, that their story doesn’t matter. But we know better. We know that a story, told truthfully, can be the start of something real.”

Slide change: Closing brands, sponsors, and people who contributed to this project.

“Thank you to our partners, our brilliant creative team, and the people who trusted us with their stories. This work is for them.”

He finishes to applause. Lights dim slightly as he steps off the stage. Another speaker begins closing remarks.

I silently offer him the cold water bottle I have waiting for him.

“I’m going to need something stronger than that.” He mutters, taking it.

I reach into my purse and pull out a small shooter of Fireball. 

He stops, blinks, then laughs. 

“God, you know me, don’t you?”

I shrug.

He’s smiling as he unscrews the cap and takes it down in one. I immediately pull out another one. He raises his eyebrows.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Katniss?”

I roll my eyes, "Please. If I wanted to get you drunk, I'd bring the good stuff."

"Ouch," he clutches his chest mockingly, "You wound me. These are top-shelf miniatures."

A smile teases at my lips, “After closing remarks, you can sit by the bar all you want, and I’ll keep everyone away from you.”

“If you weren’t already my fiancé, I’d ask you to marry me.”

He unscrews the new tiny bottle and takes that one down. Then he tilts his head toward the crowd still buzzing in the ballroom.

“You’d think more of them would be open to telling the truth.” He shakes his head, tired now. “But with Snow out there…”

I glance up. “Sounds like you think the merger isn’t the best idea.”

“Katniss,” he says, and it’s a warning. Soft, but definite.

I shrug. “I’m just repeating what you said.”

He looks at me, really looks at me, for a second longer than he should. Like he’s weighing something. Like maybe he wants to say more. But instead, he hands me back the two empty shooters and turns back to watch the stage.

“You’re relentless,” he mutters.

“Persistent.” I correct.

He lets out a small huff. Part frustration, part resignation.

“I’ll be at the bar,” he mutters. “Please only send interesting people to talk to me and not the ones who want to stroke my ego.”

I smirk. “So… no one, then?”

He shoots me a dry look, but I can tell he’s grateful.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just brushes his hand against mine as he steps away. Subtle, yet deliberate.

I try to hold back the flush that is running up my face while his words echo in my ears.

Interesting people. No ego? Yeah. He’s definitely in the wrong room for that. 

He’s cornered near the bar when I find him. I step away for a minute to go to the bathroom, and look what happens without my protection.

Luckily, it's just an intern. Maybe. She is standing in front of him, talking a mile a minute.

“It’s just so admirable, honestly. The fact that you’re willing to use your platform for real stories, I mean, that’s not something you see in media these days, not from CEOs-”

She’s practically vibrating with admiration. Peeta, to his credit, is nodding politely, but I can see him scanning for an escape route. He loves people, don’t get me wrong. But not like this. Not when the attention is too much, too pointed. He’s been running on fumes since we got here.

“Excuse me,” I cut in smoothly, running my hand down his arm, “Honey, isn’t it time to go to bed?” 

“Honey?” The intern questions.

Peeta doesn’t hesitate. He turns towards the intern, voice warm but firm.

“Appreciate the kind words. Really. But the fiancé calls.”

She looks disappointed, but he’s already steering us away. His hand on my lower back. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” he mutters once we’re out of earshot. “Another thirty seconds and I was going to pretend to be suddenly allergic to air.”

“You? Mr. Charming?” I arch a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He scoffs, but I can see in his stumble towards the elevator that he’s too tired and tipsy for a quick remark back. 

The elevator doors open like magic. Neither of us speaks again until we’re back in the suite

The doors click shut behind us.

I exhale, tugging at the lanyard around my neck, “That went... surprisingly well.”

Peeta kicks off his shoes like a teenager with no regard for order. He smiles tiredly, “That’s because I’m a delight, ” he says, dragging out the word like it’s supposed to impress me. “Did you see the way I dodged that question about the ex-girlfriend?”

“You said you missed her ‘like a hole in the head,’” I deadpan, stepping forward to catch his jacket as he shrugs it off. He nearly falls over in the process. “That’s not dodging . That’s verbal self-destruction.”

He’s yanking at his tie in slow, clumsy jerks. “Well, she was awful. Not like my new fake-fiance.”

I huff, shaking his suit jacket out and laying it carefully over the chair. “Yeah, well, you’re worse when you’re tipsy.” 

Realizing he’s going towards the bedroom, I quickly catch up to him and add, “Uh uh uh.”

I point sharply towards the bedroom, “That’s mine. That ”—I jab my finger toward the sleek, uncomfortable-looking couch—“is yours.”

“Oh come on,” he says, a smile curling slowly and crookedly. “We’re engaged, remember? I don’t think sharing a bed is that big a deal.”

Before I can answer, he steps closer. Takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it belongs to him already, and starts gently tugging me toward the bedroom.

My breath catches. I study him — the way his hair’s slightly mussed, the top button of his shirt undone, that maddeningly soft look in his eyes that should not be aimed at me.

I let him pull me two steps. Three. 

And then I snap out of it.

I yank my hand back. “If this is the way you’re acting tonight, you’ll definitely be hungover tomorrow.”

Peeta blinks, momentarily thrown. Then he laughs—quiet and breathy, like I’ve surprised him. Maybe I have. Maybe he thought I’d fall into the role of fiancé a little too easily. Maybe I almost did.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” I mutter, stepping around him and into the bedroom before he can try anything else — with his words or his eyes or that stupid, unfair smirk.

“I baked for scouts once,” he calls after me. “That’s gotta count for something.”

I have my arm on the door but hesitate for a moment. Why? I’m not sure, “Go to bed, Mr. Mellark . I’ll have your Tylenol and a glass of water waiting when you wake up.”

His expression flickers—something unreadable passing over it—but he doesn’t argue.

I close the door quickly and turn the lock with a sharp click. Then I just stand there, staring at the wood grain like it might steady me, silently praying it’s thick enough to muffle the sound of my heartbeat thundering in my chest.

The hotel shop smells like overpriced lavender lotion and travel-size regret.

I grab a bottle of orange juice from the cooler, then swipe a travel pack of Tylenol off the shelf by the register. It’s early — too early for real guests, too early for press — but the headache Peeta’s bound to have in an hour or two doesn’t care about timing. I debate picking up a granola bar for him and decide against it. No need to start coddling the man.

“Never thought I’d find you in a place that sells six-dollar gum,” a familiar voice says behind me.

I freeze. Turn slowly.

Gale.

He’s wearing black slacks, a tucked-in shirt, and a lanyard around his neck that screams press team. His hair’s a little longer than I remember. His smile is exactly the same.

“Gale,” I say, and it comes out like a breath. We meet halfway, arms wrapping around each other in a hug that lands somewhere between warm and complicated.

“Still hate fancy hotels?” he asks when we pull apart.

“With a passion,” I mutter, smiling despite myself.

He grins. Then, voice lower now, he adds, “Congrats on the engagement.”

My smile tightens. “Thank you,” I say, carefully neutral. Not a lie. Not the truth.

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to read something in my face. But all he says is, “You clean up nice, Catnip.”

I roll my eyes. “Still calling me that?”

“Some things never change.”

Some things do, though.

I glance at the lanyard around his neck again — the emblem for Plutarch’s communications agency printed boldly across it. I know better than to ask which clients he’s working with right now. And he knows better than to ask me anything he doesn't want a practiced lie for.

We stand there for a beat too long. The moment stretches.

Then I raise the orange juice slightly. “I should get this upstairs.”

He nods. “See you around?”

I nod back. “Yeah. Around.”

And with that, I walk out of the hotel shop, heart ticking faster than it should. Not because of Gale, but because seeing him here means the press is crawling thicker than we thought.

And where the press goes, so does Plutarch.

So does Snow.

So does Glimmer.

Which means our morning just got a whole lot more complicated.

I tap the hotel room door with my knuckles. Once. Twice. No answer.

I fish out the keycard and let myself in, balancing a bottle of orange juice and a rattly little Tylenol packet in one hand. I’m fully prepared to find Peeta Mellark face-down in a pillow, drooling and swearing at sunlight.

Instead, he’s already up. Hair a little tousled, sure, but standing by the window, sleeves rolled to the elbows again, sipping a coffee like this is just another Tuesday.

He turns at the sound of the door. “You came back.”

I hold up my offering. “Brought a peace treaty.”

He grins, walking over. “Tylenol and orange juice? You really are a good fake fiancée.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t bring a trumpet to blare next to your head.”

He chuckles, accepting both items. “Thanks.”

There’s a brief pause as he opens the Tylenol and downs the pills with a gulp of juice, no grimace, no groaning. I narrow my eyes slightly.

“You’re… less pathetic than I expected.”

“I don’t get hangovers that easily,” he says, avoiding my eyes and setting the juice down on the table. “Why, did I do anything too embarrassing?”

I hesitate.

His small smile fades slightly, now watching me carefully.

“No,” I say finally. Not technically a lie.

He nods slowly, like he knows there’s more I’m not saying, but decides not to press. “Good. I’d hate to ruin our perfectly professional engagement.”

I snort.

He stretches, walks to the armchair, and flops into it. “So. What’s on the agenda today? More schmoozing? Another round of ‘smile for the cameras or you’re fired’?”

“Glimmer’s coming,” I say casually, like I’m telling him about the weather.

His whole body tenses. The air shifts.

“Of course she is,” he mutters, rubbing his face. “When?”

“Sometime this afternoon.”

“And you’re sure?” Hand still covering his face.

I shrug, “Of course. I have my ways.”

He looks at me through his fingers. “Of course you do.”

I smirk. “Might want to brace yourself. You know how she gets.”

He groans. “It’s like preparing for a hurricane you’re contractually obligated to compliment.”

“Exactly,” I say, already turning towards the bathroom, “I’ll be ready in 20 minutes.”

As I close the bathroom door, I lean against it for just a second. Heart annoyingly light.

This job is going to kill me.

But the way he looked at me just now, like he trusted me to know what was coming, makes it almost worth it.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Of course, ‘almost’ isn’t enough. Maybe that look did mean trust, maybe it even was trust for a moment, but the second I step out of the bathroom in my sharp secretary-style blouse and pencil skirt? It’s gone.

Peeta is lounging in the armchair, eyes flicking up the moment I enter.

“You know, if you stopped looking like my assistant and started looking more like my fiancée, I might not feel so weird with my hands on you all day.”

I frown, adjusting the collar of my blouse. “I am doing my job, Peeta. Nothing’s changed there.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Of course. But… did you bring anything nice ? Something that doesn’t come with spreadsheets or client calls?”

I tilt my head, puzzled. “This is nice.”

“Not ‘this’,” he waves a hand vaguely at my outfit. “Something… softer. More ‘we’re actually engaged’ and less ‘I’m here to file your expense reports.’”

I roll my eyes, “This is some other CEO’s wet dream, be grateful.”

I hear him snort a little, “I’m calling Delly. She’s here at the conference too. She can bring you something.”

Less than twenty minutes later, there’s a soft knock on the door. Delly steps in, a bright smile lighting her face as she holds up a delicate dress, simple and perfect for a breakfast portion of the conference. The fabric catches the light just right, a gentle contrast to the sharp lines of my current outfit.

I glance at Peeta, who’s watching me like I’m about to solve a puzzle he’s been stuck on.

“Well?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

I take the dress, reluctantly and annoyingly.

“Fine.” I mutter, going into the other room.

I slip behind the bathroom door to change, the soft fabric of the dress feeling like something from a different world compared to my usual sharp lines. When I step back into the room, the quiet click of the door closing behind me seems to fill the space.

Peeta is sitting up straighter now, his eyes tracing the new silhouette I make. Softer, less guarded. I feel pathetic.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. I catch the faintest flicker of something - surprise? Appreciation? - before he clears his throat.

Delly’s already gone, but Peeta reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.

“She also gave me this,” he says quietly, opening it to reveal a simple gold necklace. The chain glimmers in the soft light, delicate but unmistakably elegant. Not something I would really take for Delly to own… or share. Plus I thought she was a silver girl.  

“Turn,” he instructs.

I turn slowly as he fastens the necklace around my neck. The gold rests lightly against my skin, warm and real in a way the dress alone isn’t.

“Perfect.” he says.

I turn around with a smirk to reply. Prepared in my mind is something sarcastic, about him complimenting jewelry or maybe himself. But when I move, we’re too close. My breath catches.

His gaze is on my necklace.

Then my mouth.

Then my eyes.

Whatever retort I had dies somewhere between my chest and my tongue.

“Thank you...” I say instead, quieter than I mean to.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, not moving.

We just… stay there.

Breath mingling. Distance meaningless. Some invisible thread between us pulled tight enough to hum.

Then my phone rings, and we both step back instinctively, blinking like we’ve just re-entered reality from some alternate timeline.

“Time to face the vultures,” I say.

“Then by all means, after you.” he smiles.

The breakfast room hums with the soft murmur of polite conversations and the occasional clink of china. I spot Gale across the room, leaning casually near the buffet table, but his eyes are sharp, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something specific. He’s flanked by Glimmer and Snow, who’s giving Peeta a cold, assessing look from a distance.

Peeta and I are hand in hand.

“Enemy, Spotted. Engage Forcefield.” He says in a fake robotic voice. I stifle a laugh, and he shoots me a quick smile with that familiar sparkle in his eyes. 

Before I can take another breath, they are around us. Gale, Glimmer, Snow, and Plutarch, forming a tight ring of power. I can tell Gale wishes it weren’t this way, but such is having a job. 

Glimmer’s eyes gleam with that usual snark, but Snow’s icy presence seems to clip her wings before she can say anything too sharp. I notice the invisible leash Snow has Glimmer on. A silent reminder that no one here is just playing.

Snow leans in with his usual polished chill.

“I must say, congratulations on your engagement. Quite the surprise to all of us.”

Peeta smoothly switches his hand to my waist, pulling me closer. I let myself melt into him for a moment. There’s something about his steady arms around me that makes my pulse stutter.

Gale gives me a small, knowing smile, then subtly glances toward the open balcony doors. It’s the same place Peeta and I were last night. He nods toward it, an unspoken message. I try to focus on the conversation first.

“It was a surprise to us too,” I say lightly. “What was it again, Peeta? Six dozen cookies you baked for me before I finally agreed?”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, but I see the humor laced in them.

Glimmer opens her mouth, probably to toss another jab, but Snow cuts her off with a look sharp enough to silence any comment. The tension tightens, and Peeta catches my eye.

“Come, Peeta,” Snow says smoothly, “let’s discuss some pressing matters.”

I glance at Peeta, silently asking if he’ll be okay alone with them for a while. He nods, lips curving into something tender and reassuring before he brushes a soft kiss on my forehead. I try not to look too taken off guard. Try to slow my quickening heartbeat. Then both Peeta and Snow step away to a private section.

That’s when I notice Gale slipping through the balcony doors. My heart ticks faster. I follow him out, needing a moment away from the crowd. Away from the prying eyes and the complicated lies.

The balcony air is crisp, cutting through the hotel’s quiet hum. Gale stands near the railing, eyes scanning the city below. When I step out, he turns toward me immediately.

“Catnip,” he says, voice low and steady, “I see what’s going on.”

“Oh really? And what’s going on?”

“This whole thing with Peeta.” I stare at him, and he huffs out another breath, “It’s obviously fake.” 

I force a smile, shaking my head. “We’re engaged, Gale, truly.”

He crosses his arms, brow furrowed. “No, you’re not. I know you better than that. So what’s the deal? What’s he got against you?”

I bite my lip, trying to keep the truth locked away. “He doesn’t have anything against me.” 

True enough.

His tone softens, and I realize he really is just still trying to look out for me. Just like when we were kids.

“Look, I don’t like him. But I care about you.” I nod once as he reaches out and takes hold of my hand, “But you need to understand about the people you’re dealing with.”

“I know plenty.”

“No Katniss, you don’t. Snow wants Peeta out. You know that, I know that, Peeta knows it. But what you don’t know is how much Snow only cares about power, and if he thinks he can hurt you to get to Peeta, he will.”

I roll my eyes, “I don’t matter enough to make Snow think he has to hurt me.”

He sighs and gives my hand a squeeze, “When someone like Snow wants to tear you down? like he does Peeta? Being in love just makes the target bigger.”

Being in LOVE? Woah woah woah. Who said anything about love? I’m tyring to wrap my head around everything Gale is saying. A shadow of doubt flickers through my mind.

Why would Snow target me? It’s not like Peeta actually cares about me . Like… sure. He cares about me in SOME WAY, but who else is going to put his schedule together and get his ex girlfriends last minute gifts, and come over late at night to fix presentations with him. Not Delly… okay maybe Delly would actually.

Gale’s voice cuts through my thoughts, almost like he’s reading me.

“He is in love with you. You realize that, right?”

Before I can answer, the door opens behind us. Peeta steps out, hands in his pockets, watching us with a quiet intensity. His gaze flicks to Gale, then back to me.

There’s something in Peeta’s eyes. A part of me would almost call it jealousy. 

“Ready? They’re wondering where you went.” Stiff. Cold. Not like Peeta at all.

Gale’s expression hardens slightly, like he senses something too, but he says nothing. I pull my hand free and nod.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Breakfast, check. First conference of the day, check. First break (thank god), check.

Peeta and I are going through the schedule for the day back at the hotel room, he wants to know when he has breaks. I had teased him and said “What, you need your naptime little boy?” 

Now we have been sitting in silence while I am mentioning his talking points for the conference, who to focus on, the biggest possible clients that are here.

This is when he decides to interrupt my flow.

“So,” he starts, voice steady but laced with something underneath, “What was that on the balcony? You and that reporter. Who even is he? I don’t recognize him.”

I’m half listening to him, not fully aware of how I should be careful with my next words. “Gale? Oh, he’s an old friend. Y’know, for a while in my teens after my dad… well, we really only had eachother to rely on. Not everyone can be born the son of a CEO.” I’m joking, my tone is light. I have a smile playing on my lips.

“And you were holding hands with him.” His tone is a little flatter than normal. Like I said, it must be his naptime.

I shrug, not fully taking into account the situation, still rifling through papers as I speak, “Yeah, it was just a quick squeeze. He’s protective. He was just checking in on me. OH! Mr. Dunesberry is going to be here too, and he would be such an amazing client to add to our list. He was very supportive towards the families who lost their homes in the Hurricane Helene disaster last year. We need to talk to him, I have some information about him right…” I’m flipping through papers.

“Does he know about us? About the engagement?” Peeta sounds frustrated.

I frown as I find Mr. Dunesberry's file, “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. But Mr. Dunesberry isn’t one to-”

“No, I mean Gale.”

This makes me finally look up from my papers and lock in on the conversation. Why is Peeta so obsessed with Gale right now?

Oh. He’s worried about him publishing that our engagement is fake. Duh, what else would it be?

“He won’t publish anything bad about us. He knows it’s fake, I can tell he knows,  but I didn’t tell him. And he won’t out us. Gale is trustworthy; he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

Peeta’s quiet for a beat. He’s sitting forward now, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded together like he’s trying to stay composed.

“I’m not worried about Gale publishing anything,” he says finally, voice low. “I’m worried about what it looks like.”

I frown. “What what look like?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to the floor, then back to me. “It’s not a good look for me. To have my fiancée holding hands with some man on a private balcony.”

The word fiancée hits like a slap. Not because it’s untrue, but because of how much weight he gives it.

Something tugs in my chest, confused and sharp. “Why are you even so upset?” I ask, voice edged now. “It’s not real, remember? None of this is real.”

He hesitates- too long.

“But it has to be real to the press. To Glimmer. To Snow.” His tone is low and accusatory.

I hate that he’s right. He’s right, and I’m an idiot, and the whole point of this was to protect Peeta and keep my job and-

A hot puff of air escapes me. “You’re right.”

I don’t look at him when I say it. I focus on the papers in front of me, suddenly meaningless.

He doesn’t let it go. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” I snap, louder than I meant. “That I’ll never talk to him alone again? That I’ll never talk to any man alone again? Even if I’m trying to help you secure a client? Or maybe that I’ll stop having a life just to keep up this stupid illusion?”

Peeta leans back, jaw tight. “No. I want you to stop acting like you’re the only one carrying this lie.”

That stings. Because he’s not wrong.

I look at him now, really look , and I see it. The weight he’s been shouldering, too. The constant performing. The smiles that cost him something. The hand he placed on my waist this morning like it belonged there.

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just trying to keep us both alive in this. I know Snow’s power with the press. He can turn anything bad. And you... you were out there with him like it meant nothing.”

I blink. “Because it didn’t mean anything.”

“You sure about that?”

Silence.

I’m not even sure what he’s asking anymore.

And maybe that’s the problem.

He stands up abruptly, the chair scraping back too loud against the floor.

“As you would say,” he mutters, voice clipped, “I guess it’s my naptime.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just heads for the bedroom with quick, decisive steps.

“Wake me up before it’s time to leave.”

The door shuts behind him. Not slammed, but firm. Final.

I stare at the closed door for a second, pulse thudding.

Then I go back to the schedule.

At least that’s something I know how to control.

Chapter Text

The room is full of laughter, glass clinking, and the kind of polite networking that always feels like it has teeth. I'm just thanking everything good and holy that this is the last night, the last dinner, and that we get to leave tomorrow morning. I’ve got a flute of something sparkling in one hand and Peeta’s elbow in the other, smiling too hard at people whose names I barely remember. He’s been civil all night. Charming even. But distant. Every touch feels rehearsed. Every glance just short of meeting my eyes.

Still, we play our parts. We always do.

“I need air,” I murmur.

“We just got here,” he replies, smile fixed as someone from the district health initiative passes us.

“Exactly,” I mutter, but I stay.

We make our rounds, speaking with clients, donors, and executives. It almost starts to feel routine. Comfortable, even. Until she shows up.

Glimmer appears beside us like smoke, all teeth and silk and poison.

“Well, if it isn’t the Capitol’s newest favorite couple,” she purrs. “Tell me, do they teach strategic planning in baking school, Peeta, or are you still relying on charm and dimples?”

I stiffen a tiny bit, glancing sideways at him. He doesn’t flinch, but I can see it... the little crack in his calm. Peeta did go to baking school before taking over his dad’s company. It's something the board still brings up whenever they want to question his ideas or stall his projects.

“I’m sure his record-breaking clients and keynote spot speak louder than dimples,” I say smoothly, voice like honey. “Unless you think the press got it wrong?”

Glimmer tilts her head, faux impressed. “Oh, Katniss. I forgot you had a bite.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice just for me. “Careful sweetie. There are people in this room who remember where you came from. And they’re just waiting for a reason to remind everyone else.”

I open my mouth - I don’t know what to say, but it’s not polite - when a voice cuts in.

“Glimmer.”

Peeta’s standing between us now, calm but cold. His eyes are sharp, trained solely on her.

“Peeta,” she smiles, turning to him with faux innocence. “I was just making conversation.”

“Find someone else to talk to.” His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

Glimmer’s mouth twitches. She throws one last glance at me, amused, and then disappears into the crowd.

I exhale slowly.

Peeta turns to me, jaw still tight. “Come on.”

He takes my hand, guiding me out of the crowd and into one of the side corridors, away from the glitter and conversation. It’s dim here, quieter. Just us.

He drops my hand slowly, like he forgot he was even holding it.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Am I- am I allright? Katniss. Are you alright?” he asks.

I roll my eyes, “Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal Peeta please.”

He stares at me intensely, “It was a threat, I didn’t like it.”

I lean against the wall, crossing my arms. “You don’t have to protect me. I’ve dealt with worse.”

His jaw clenches. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”

The silence hangs between us, thick with everything we don’t say. We’re still in costume. My necklace catching the low light, and his tie perfectly pressed and straight. But this part isn’t for show. This is the part that sneaks in when no one’s watching.

“I protect you, Peeta. People think if they threaten me, by exposing something about me, that I’ll give up your secrets.” Now I feel awkward, and I’m avoiding his eyes.

There’s a beat of silence. His anger’s faded, but something lingers. Like static. He starts to reach out for my hand, but he stops himself. 

“And who helps you?” His voice is low and quiet. It's considerate, almost like he actually cares.

“I don’t need help, Peeta.”

“And I do?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sounds like what you meant.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You’re being arrogant.”

This makes my lips quirk up into a smile. I can see the humor shining in his eyes, a smile teasing his lips.

“I’m used to people underestimating me,” I admit eventually, quieter now. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” His voice is soft, but there’s something hard underneath it. “And she was right. They are watching you. Waiting for you to trip.”

I shrug. “Let them wait. I’m not the one who flinched.”

That gets a reaction. His mouth twitches — not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Just something unguarded. Real.

He takes a step closer. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Act like none of this touches you. Like you don’t care what they say.”

“I don’t.” A beat. “Not really.”

Another step. “But I do.”

I don’t mean to laugh, but it slips out, dry and disbelieving. “Why? Because it reflects on you?”

“No,” he says simply. “Because it’s you .”

Now it’s my turn to tilt my head like a puppy, because his statement is confusing.

“Because it’s me?” I repeat slowly, smirking. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you’re going to start throwing cryptic lines around. Unless you’re trying to make this into some grand romantic CEO wet dream.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly amused but acting like I'm exhausting, “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

“I was being... supportive.”

“That was supportive ?”

“I panicked.”

My eyes narrow. “You said it pretty confidently for someone panicking.”

He shrugs, leaning a shoulder against the wall, like this is just a casual hallway chat and not some emotionally-charged detour from a very public charade. “Well, I’m good under pressure. You know that.”

“Do I?”

He looks at me, and something in his gaze sharpens. “You’ve worked for me for two years, Katniss. You know more than most.”

There's a heavy pause for a minute while I take this in. I guess he's right, I do know more than most. Again, it's part of the job description.

“So,” I say, tone light, “is this your new strategy? Compliments disguised as vague concern?”

“No,” he says, thoughtful. “This is me wondering why you never let anyone worry about you.”

I scoff. “You worry about me constantly . You worry about my tone in meetings, my wardrobe at fundraisers—”

“I meant actual worry.”

“Well,” I shoot back, “maybe I don’t want you wasting your concern. You need it all for your media empire and fielding capitol politics wrapped in silk and veiled insults.”

He laughs. A real one, warm and low and too close. It curls in my stomach in a way I hate.

“I’m just saying,” he says, voice softer now, “you shouldn’t have to stand there and take it alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I reply. “You were standing right there. Looking like you were going to leap across the floor and bite her or something.”

He straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his suit. “Tempting.”

“And yet you didn’t.”

“I thought about it.”

Another long beat passes. The silence doesn’t fill with comfort. It fills with expectations. Expectations for what? Probably an apology. 

I sigh and give the next best thing. “Thank you. For stepping in.”

His eyes meet mine. Something unreadable passes between us.

“You didn’t have to,” I finish.

“Of course I did,” he says. “You’re my—”

He stops himself. Like saying fiancée would make this moment too heavy.

He clears his throat, “You work for me.”

I don’t push.

Finally, I sigh. “We should go back.”

“Probably.” But he doesn’t move. “So you’re good?”

I glance at him, then past him. “I’m always good.”

“Liar.”

I nudge his arm as I pass. “Takes one to know one.”

And even though we walk back together, we don’t talk — but his hand hovers just a little closer to mine than it should. Just in case.

The suite is quiet except for the occasional hum of city traffic outside the window and the soft clink of ice melting in the glass I poured myself an hour ago but haven’t touched since.

I can’t sleep.

Too much noise in my head. Too much feeling still clinging to my skin from that dinner.

I step out onto the small balcony, barefoot, in an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, the air cool against my skin. A moment of stillness. I sit down on the ground in a crisscross applesauce formation.

Then the sliding door creaks open behind me.

I don’t have to look.

“Can’t sleep either?” I ask quietly.

Peeta’s voice is low, still rough from rest.

“Not really. You disappeared before I could say goodnight.”

I hear him sit down and settle beside me, close but not touching.

“You seemed like you wanted the space,” I say.

I glance over. His hair is slightly messy, his shirt wrinkled. He didn’t come out here to charm me. He came out as himself.

“I needed a lot of things,” He murmurs. “Space. Air. A brain that shuts up.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That last one’s a bitch.”

We sit in silence for a while. The kind that doesn’t beg to be filled.

Then he speaks again, more hesitant now.

“I’m sorry… if this is hard for you.”

I look over at him questioningly. He continues,

“Pretending to be in love… or… engaged to me.”

I sigh and move my eyesight back to the city. “Despite what I say, Peeta, it’s not that hard. You’re a charming person. Everyone at that party practically loves you.” I hesitate, about to add ‘well maybe not Snow’. But he interrupts before I have the chance to.

“And you?”

And me what? I look back at him, confused.

“Do you?”

I realize what he’s asking now. And I realize he thinks this might be too real for me. Or maybe he thinks that I think that HE thinks that this is real for me. Or maybe... you know what. Maybe I'm just thinking about this too much.

I guess sometimes it almost is. Real I mean. Times like last night. Times when he’s protective of me. Times like in the car after my sister’s birthday. I can’t believe that was already two weeks ago.

“I’m under contract,” I remind him. It’s supposed to come out as a joke, but he nods slowly. I swear his expression almost seems… disappointed? But that wouldn’t be right.

“Goodnight, Katniss.” He slides the door closed behind him, the faint click sounding louder than it should in the quiet. I stay out there for another few minutes, breathing in the night like it might settle something inside me.

But it doesn’t.

Because I can still feel the space he left behind. The invisible weight of his question.
Do you?

The answer should be easy. It should be no .
Because it’s fake.
Because it’s safer that way.
Because real feelings would ruin everything.

But instead, all I can think about is how he looked at me when he put that necklace on.
Like maybe, for a second, none of this was pretend.

Chapter Text

Ever since that night on the balcony, Peeta has been… Different. A weird different. I wouldn’t use the word distant. Distant would include ignoring, avoiding eye contact, pretending I don't exist unless there's an urgent even to schedule or a client to call. He hasn't done that.

It’s more like he’s been keeping me farther than arm’s length on purpose. Still polite. Still kind. Still him. Just… curated.

And I hate curated.

He's never like that with me. He's usually disorganized, unprofessional, annoying in the way only Peeta Mellark can be. Talking with his mouth full, rolling his eyes at me, sassing me, calling me at 10 pm because he needs a gift tomorrow morning, and it's urgent Katniss! 

But lately? Lately, it's been "don't worry about that right now, Katniss," and "I can get my mother her flowers after work." Like he's holding something in. Or holding me out.

And I don't know what to do with that. Hell, I don't even know what I did.

That is, until he called me 20 minutes ago. Halfway out of breath, like he’d just jogged up his flight of stairs. 

“We need to change the pitch deck. The entire thing.”

I was putting away my laundry, phone balanced between my ear and my shoulder. I folded my shirt and glanced at the time, “Peeta, it’s 9 pm. That’ll take four hours minimum.”

“Then get here quick.” Click. Line dead.

I huffed and let my phone drop on the bed. One day. One day of peace and freedom from this man is all I ask. 

This is how I find myself standing in the elevator of his building, arms crossed, clutching my laptop bag and muttering every curse word I know under my breath.

The top-floor suite. Of course. Where else would a crisis take place if not the penthouse of a spiraling man?

The doors slide open with a quiet ding.

The place is sterile. All clean lines and untouched furniture, like a magazine spread about loneliness.

Peeta greets me at the door, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense. His shirt’s rumpled. There’s a glass of something amber on the table that looks like it hasn’t been touched in hours.

“I appreciate you coming,” he says, but doesn’t meet my eyes.

“I had a choice?” I deadpan, trying to tease. It barely lands.

He half-smiles, gestures toward the stack of folders on the coffee table. “Apparently, my charming pitch deck offended a board member’s entire bloodline.”

I drop my bag and slide into work mode. “Let’s fix it, then.”

A few hours in, we’ve managed to fix the deck, reorder the pitch flow, and eat our way through a carton of takeout dumplings. The quiet clatter of chopsticks and the soft glow of the lamp between us fill the space. Somewhere between bullet points and soy sauce, Peeta shifts beside me on the couch, closer than before but not quite touching.

“My dad would’ve hated this,” Peeta says suddenly, his voice low and distant as he stares at nothing in particular. “All these empty words dressed up in gloss and buzzwords.”

I glance at him, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever really heard you talk about him.”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “Not because I don’t want to. Just... no one ever really asks.”

That hangs there a beat too long, the kind of silence that presses against your skin.

“I get that.” I meet his gaze, steady. “Tell me about him.”

He smiles then, the kind of smile that’s both warm and sad. “Every Sunday, he’d wake me up early, way before my mom would even consider stirring. He’d take me down to the kitchen and bake. All sorts of things. Different breads, desserts… mostly sweet treats. I liked decorating. He’d let me make a mess with the frosting.”

I nod, feeling the quiet between us. “That sounds nice, Peeta.”

“It was.” He looks down for a moment, then gestures vaguely at the pile of papers still spread across the desk. To our open computers displaying different fonts and images. “He was respected. He would’ve known what to do about…” His hand waves toward the mess of corporate jargon and charts.

I reach out and grab his hand. I don’t know why. Maybe I want to pull him back from the edge of whatever dark place he’s teetering on. “You’re respected. You’re well-liked. Hell, dare I say it, you’re charming.”

That earns a genuine smile from him. “Careful. I might start thinking you like me as a person or something.”

I shrug, returning his smile. “More or less.”

He studies me for a long moment, like weighing whether to keep the walls up or let them fall.

Then, his voice drops to a whisper, raw and real. “I don’t think anyone really knows me. They just see me as this… brand. This guy they think they can use to get ahead in life.”

I hate that he sees it so clearly. I hate that he recognizes the world for what it is.

“And then I’m supposed to be grateful,” he continues, voice tighter now. “Because what? I have everything, right? A successful business. Money. And apparently everyone wants to be my friend. It just… sometimes it’s too much. And most of the time, it’s lonely.”

I hang onto every word, feeling the weight of it between us.

I squeeze his hand gently, but let go. “That’s a heavy weight to carry.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck for years. “Yeah. And sometimes… I wonder if I’m just playing a part, like you said. The charming CEO, will he crack?... But inside, it feels like I’m invisible. Like no one’s ever really seen me.”

“You’re not invisible to me.”

He looks down, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

I shrug, brushing a stray hair behind his ear — a small, impulsive gesture that feels strangely natural. “Maybe you don’t have to do anything right now. Maybe it’s enough that someone sees you. That you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He avoids my eyes still, trying to hide some sort of sadness with a small, almost dissapointed, smile, “Yeah, but you’re under contract.”

The words take me back to the balcony on that night weeks ago. 

I let the words hang in the air, same as last time. Only this time, they don't sit as easily.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way,” I say quietly.

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, but it does — I can see it in the way he won’t meet my eyes again., “You weren’t wrong, though. Maybe that’s why it hurt.”

It… hurt him? 

“Peeta… you do know we could be friends. Like actual friends? It doesn't have to be a written-up contract of friendship.”

He chews on this statement of mine, before saying, “So, we aren’t right now?”

He says it lightly, like he’s joking. I hear the real question tucked inside the tease.

I draw in a slow breath. “I think we could be. I think maybe we are … it just gets hard to tell sometimes, with everything else layered on top.”

He finally looks up, something guarded flashing behind his eyes. “Because of the contract.”

I suck in a breath. I can’t lie to him. “Yes. That and because I’m your assistant. I’ve been trying so hard not to blur any lines, to keep my act straight. But this whole friends- fake fiance- actual assistant thing? It’s…” I trail off.

“A lot?” He offers.

“A lot.” I respond. 

He nods slowly, and I know he understands. “Yeah,” he murmurs, ‘It’s been a lot for me too.”

“I know.” I say, looking back at the papers strewn across the desk.

“So what are we going to do about it.”

I shrug, “Not much to do until you officially merge with Snows company. Then we can call the engagement off.”

“What if-” He stops himself. I stare at him until he has the courage to continue. He runs his hand down his face, “What if I don’t think this merger with Snow's company is the best idea…”

I purse my lips. I had told him plenty of times this fact. It wouldn’t be a good idea. Especially now that Peeta is on good terms with the board, and he’s looking better in the press. I know he says he’s not respected but… he’s getting there. If we keep doing what we’re doing, and avoid Snowcorp at all costs? I think we’ll be just fine. 

“Don’t say I told you so.” He interrupts my train of thought.

I can’t help it, I break into a smile, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You were thinking it.” He giggles.

“Was not.” I move from the couch onto the floor so I can grab a few of the notes we had written down about what to fix. He follows me, still sitting next to me. He shifts towards me and leans his hand on the couch, then his head against his hand. Then he just… stares.

I feel it before I see it—that shift in the air, thick with something unspoken. His eyes are steady on me, the teasing smile fading into something softer, heavier.

“What?” I ask, not looking up, trying to keep my tone light as I shuffle the papers. But my hands suddenly feel clumsy.

“Nothing,” he says, and I can hear the lie in it.

I glance up.

He’s still watching me like I’m something he’s trying to memorize. Or maybe something he’s afraid to lose.

“Peeta,” I say, voice low. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that. Like you want to say something and then don’t.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something (Want? Hope?) in his eyes.

He shifts slightly closer, “What if I don’t want to say anything?”

The words stick somewhere deep in my gut and I realize the distance between us is disappearing.

The tension isn’t playful. It’s dense. Fragile. Like glass stretched to its limit. 

“Peeta…” I whisper, my lips parting slightly. But I don’t move. 

And then-

Click

The front door opens.

“Peeta?” a clipped voice calls out.

He pulls back like he’s been burned.

I stand automatically, already feeling unwelcome.

And just like that, the moment shatters right before my eyes. 

She walks in wearing heels that sound like accusations and a coat I’m sure cost more than my rent. Her eyes flick over me like I’m lint on a black dress.

We’ve met before. Barely. At the holiday party where she called me “that assistant with the attitude.”

“Hello,” I say. “Katniss Everdeen. We’ve met-”

“Mm,” she says, already glancing at the tablet she pulled from her bag.

Peeta stiffens. “Mother-”

She raises a hand, dismissing him (and me) without even looking. He falls silent.

I can feel the heat rising in my chest. My jaw tightens.

I gather my things quickly. “I’ll finish the edits from home.”

I shove past Peeta since he stands between me and the door, but he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t say anything.

And for a moment, I wonder what part he is playing with me.

The next morning, the office feels colder than usual. Not in temperature. Just in atmosphere.

I place the edited files neatly on Peeta’s desk, careful to align the corners. He’s been staring at his screen since I walked in, and had only given me a clipped, “Good morning.” I didn’t expect an apology. But I didn’t expect this radio silence either.

“With these new edits, I don’t think we’ll offend any board members' bloodlines.” I try to attempt a call-back joke. But it lands flat.

Peeta says nothing. No second glance, no twitch of a smile. He stays locked in whatever loop is running behind his eyes. The silence stretches long enough to get uncomfortable, so I edge the folder closer to him. 

“Do you want to double-check? Make sure everything is good to go?” 

“No, I trust you,” He murmurs, eyes still tracing the computer. 

I stand there longer than I probably should, jaw tight. So he trusts me? Trust my edits enough not to even glance at them, or me, after whatever that was last night. After he let his mother look at me like I was gum stuck on her designer shoe? No, that’s giving me too much credit. Let his mother look at me like I was no one. Not his assistant, and definitely not his fake fiancée who she needs to play favorites with to help appease the press. 

“If you have something else to say,” he starts suddenly, voice quiet but edged, “just say it.”

I blink, then wipe my hands against my skirt, trying to collect myself. “It’s not my place to comment.” 

Peeta stands, quick and smooth, and rounds the desk. He sits on the edge; arms crossed, gaze steady. The first time he’s looked at me since I’ve walked in. I fight the urge to step back. That would feel too much like losing. Like shrinking. And isn’t that exactly what she makes him do? 

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” He says with a shrug that’s more tired than casual.  

More silence. I try to figure out what I want to say… let alone if I should say it. He shouldn’t be treated like that. Dismissed like he isn’t the one trying to hold this company together with both hands and a bleeding heart. I keep his secrets. I cover for him when he won’t explain. I’ve seen her marks, and I’ve seen what he won’t say out loud. Still, he defends her. 

“But… your opinion matters to me.” He says softly, cutting through my thoughts.

I hesitate further, then just sigh, “I just don’t understand how you let her treat you like that. Like you’re some extension of her brand instead of her son. Like you’re an employee rather than blood.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks away for a moment. He doesn’t flinch, but his hands curl a little tighter around his arms. 

“You’re out of line.” He states.

“I am.” I respond, “But I’m not wrong.”

There’s a pause, he purses his lips and looks like he’s trying to chew down words that don’t want to stay quiet. Is he going to yell at me? Tell me to stay out of his business? There’s only been one time I’ve seen him yell at someone, and it was Marvel. 

Without looking at me he exhales, and more to himself than me says, “You’re just the only person who says it out loud.”

The truth of it hangs heavy between us, and I think I should feel victorious. I don’t.

He runs a hand through his hair, tired. Worn thin in a way that makes me ache, though I’m not quite sure why.

“I can’t do this today,” he mutters. Not angry, just… resigned. Then softer, almost apologetically, “Katniss just.. Go.”

I don’t argue, just walk out. The echo of his voice follows me even after his door clicks shut behind me.

And just like that, the almost that I thought could've been... was gone. Barely real. Nothing worth mourning.

Chapter Text

“Time for a holiday family outing.”

I glance up from my tablet, holding his schedule for next week, and narrow my eyes, “Peeta, I already have plans for this weekend.”

We haven’t talked about last week’s confrontation. Things have been… civil. Light on the surface, but underneath, we both know the floor is cracked.

“For the Fourth of July? Enlighten me.” He leans against the window of his office like he owns the place… well, okay, he does. But still.

“I’m spending it with Prim.”

He shrugs, “You can bring her. Plus, when my family posts pictures without you in them, people will think we’ve separated.”

“Bring her to your family’s lake weekend?”

He shrugs, “Why not?”

I stare at him. “Because it’s weird to bring my fake fiancé’s fake sister in law to his real family’s vacation home.”

He gives me that infuriating, too-charming smile that has been missing since last week. The same smile that somehow both dismisses my plans and dares me to argue, “Is it weirder than not bringing your fake fiancé at all?”

“It’s a tradition with Prim.”

“Well, this can be a new tradition. C’mon, she loves me, and she’ll love the lake. Give her a call.”

I blink, then immediately call Prim on speaker. I’ll wipe that smug smile right off his face.

“Hey,” she answers brightly, “What’s up?”

“Just calling to see when you wanted to leave for our annual Fourth of July tradition.” I know I have a smug look on my face now. I refuse to let Peeta win this weekend. I already warned him not to come between me and my sister.

There's a pause, longer than there should be. “Oh.. Katniss.. I’ve actually been meaning to call you.”

I know my face falls in defeat. I know because I see the opposite reaction in Peeta, the look of victory. 

“They offered me a chance to assist Dr. Halbrook on the third and fourth and… I kinda took it.”

My stomach drops, “Seriously?”

“I’m sorry,” She says quickly, “it’s just such a huge opportunity, I figured you’d understand. We could go on the fifth instead?”

Peets is positively glowing across from me, practically gloating in my misery. I close my eyes and try not to completely look like I’m admitting defeat.

“No. No, of course, Prim, I understand. Good luck. I love you.” 

We hang up.

When I open my eyes, Peeta is bounding on the balls of his feet like he’s just won a game show. 

“So,” he says, “I’ll pick you up early on the third.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“You’re gonna love the lake,” he replies. “My brother’s place has a dock, a fire pit, and a hot tub.”

“I’m not getting in a hot tub with your family.”

“Noted. But I reserve the right to dramatically pretend we’re having relationship issues in front of my cousins if you keep being this grumpy.”

We hit the road at 5:30 a.m. on July 3rd. Peeta is somehow bright-eyed, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other nursing a massive coffee. I’m curled in the passenger seat with a hoodie pulled over my face like it’s a shield against the world… and him.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks eyes still on the road.

“Not when I knew I’d be trapped in a car with you for five hours.”

“That’s not very festive.”

“I’m not feeling very festive.”

He chuckles, then reaches for the aux cord and holds it out between us. “You’re in charge of music.”

I take it and scroll for something neutral; safe enough not to provoke commentary, calm enough that I can pretend I’m still half-asleep. The speakers fill with soft indie folk, and we settle into a companionable silence. The kind that only comes after a month of orbiting each other too closely, saying too little and feeling too much.

About two hours in, I crack one eye open, my voice still scratchy with sleep. “What’s your family like at these things?”

Peeta grins like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “Drunk. Loud. Fond of games involving fire and questionable safety standards. My mom plays hostess like she’s the queen of the lake, and my brothers will probably try to corner you into a cornhole tournament.”

I groan. “And do they know about us?”

“‘About us?’” he echoes, throwing a glance my way. “What, that we’re blissfully in love and may or may not have named our future children already.”

I shove him, hoodie sleeve bunching around my wrist. “Don’t even joke.”

“What? I was thinking something gender-neutral. Like Blaze.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“Oh, come on, you love it. Didn’t you once say you liked crazy?”

I glance at him over the edge of my hoodie. “When have I ever said that?"

He suddenly shifts uncomfortably, "You and Madge talked about it ovver that budget review meeting, right before our spur of the moment engagement announcment."

"Spur of the moment is one way to put it." I mutter. More like, forced, surprised, obligated.

"She asked if you were dating again. You said no. She pressed, of course, and you said you like a little crazy."

I blink. "You heard that?" 

He grins like the cat that got into the cream. “You think I don't listen? It was the guy from legal. Real polite. Real beige.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I didn’t know he was even around for that conversation. I barely remember saying it, just the way I wanted her to drop it and the ache I still hadn’t named yet. 

“I said I liked them interesting.” I mutter, “Not that I wanted to be set on fire.”

 Peeta hums, unconvinced. “Sure you did.”

I sink lower into my hoodie, glaring at the road. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, stealing a glance at me, “here you are. Trapped in a car with me for three more hours.”

“Regretting every second.”

“Liar.”

The word hangs between us, soft but pointed. 

“You sure you still want to do this?” I ask eventually. “The lake, your family, this charade…”

Peeta doesn’t answer right away. Just gazes towards the empty stretch of road.

“They’ll ask questions either way,” he says finally. “Might as well have someone there who won’t make it feel so lonely.”

Something about the way he says it makes my chest pull tight. So I don’t say anything else. Instead, I switch the music to something louder. Peeta laughs but doesn’t push.

And I pretend not to notice the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel in time with the song I didn’t realize he liked.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull into the driveway of a sprawling cabin that looks like it was plucked straight from a postcard: dark wood siding, wraparound porch, and a dock peeking through the trees beyond it. There’s a canoe flipped upside down in the yard and string lights already strung across the porch railings, even though it’s barely noon.

Peeta kills the engine. I barely have time to unbuckle before the front door swings open and a man steps out, barefoot, with a mug in one hand and a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Domestic,” the man calls. “And the mysterious fiancée. You do exist.”

“That’s Rye,” Peeta mutters under his breath, grabbing our bags from the back. “Thinks he’s charming.”

“I am charming,” Rye says, as if he heard him. He strides over to greet us, his walk easy and confident in a way that says he’s been king of this place since they were kids. “And you must be Katniss.”

I glance at Peeta, then back at Rye. “Apparently.”

Rye looks me up and down, almost suspiciously, then settles on a laugh, as if that’s the exact answer he expected. “Welcome to the circus. Mom’s already started prepping lunch, and the cousins have been asking when you’d get here so they can grill you about your ‘whirlwind romance.’”

I arch an eyebrow at Peeta. “You said you kept it simple.”

“I did,” he says quickly. “They just… elaborated.”

Rye claps him on the shoulder. “It’s like a game of telephone with this family. Last I heard, you met in a grocery store during a thunderstorm and bonded over melons.”

“I hate everything you just said,” I deadpan.

Rye grins, clearly delighted. “Come on, lovebirds. Let’s get you inside. We’ve got your room set up upstairs. Hope you don’t mind sharing a bed.” He says with a wink, “It’s a queen.”

My body locks up. “Actually, I can take the couch—”

Peeta throws an arm around my shoulder, easy and natural. “She kicks in her sleep. I’m used to it.”

I glare at him once Rye turns away.

“You’re loving this,” I hiss.

“Only slightly,” he whispers back, grinning.

Peeta grabs my bag before I can protest, and as soon as we get inside, he starts up the stairs like he does this all the time. As if we are blissfully in love and not just really good at pretending.

“You guys get settled,” Rye calls after us, “I’ll fend off the wolves to give you some time.”

The room is cozy, warm-toned, with slanted ceilings and a big window that overlooks the lake. Of course, the queen bed sits square in the middle.

As soon as Rye shuts the door behind us, I turn on Peeta. “I thought you said they knew about us.”

He blinks. “They do.”

“I thought the whole ‘blissfully in love’ thing was a joke. That this weekend was just another press stunt.”

“It was. It is.”

“Then why does your brother think we share a bed?”

He shrugs. “Because most people in love do.”

My eyes narrow. “So you didn’t tell them this is fake.”

Silence. Then he sighs and sets my bag down by the dresser. 

“Why?” I push. “You told your mom. Why not your brother?”

Peeta runs a hand through his hair, looking like he’s searching for words and not liking any of the ones he finds. 

Finally, he says, “Because Rye’s idea of love is… idealistic. Black-and-white. If I told him I am practically forcing my assistant to fake-date me, he’d never get it. He’d think it was pathetic. Or worse: Dishonest. And I don’t want to give him another reason to think I’m a screw-up.”

I pause, blinking at that. It's not the answer I expected. “So instead of him thinking you’re being dishonest, you actually are being dishonest.”

He doesn’t say anything, probably because I’m right. I continue, “You care what they think of you?”

“Yeah. I do.”

We stare at each other. For a second, the air between us stretches tight.

I break first, crossing to the window. “Fine. I’ll play along.”

Peeta exhales like he’s been holding his breath this entire time, “Thanks.” Then, casually: “So… do you want the left side or the right?”

I glance back at him, arching a brow. “We’re still doing sides?”

He shrugs, a small grin forming. “Only if you want to pretend to hate me less.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll take the side closest to the window. That way I can throw myself out of it if this weekend gets any stupider.”

“Very romantic.”

He sets his duffel near the closet and stretches, the hem of his shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin. I look away quickly, suddenly a little too aware.

“Are they all like Rye?”

“Worse,” he says with a crooked grin. “But louder. And very invested in my love life, apparently.”

“Great. Love that for me.”

He walks over, planting himself next to the window like we’re co-conspirators. “It won’t be so bad. Like I said, there’s a hot tub. And a lake. And cornhole. You love cornhole.”

“I never said that.”

He bumps my shoulder. “Correction: You’re going to be forced into loving corhole.”

I let the smallest smile slip. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re terrifying.” He says it like a compliment. “We make a good team.”

I roll my eyes and push away from the window, heading towards the bed. “Just stay on your side tonight.”

“No promises,” he calls, already grinning.

“I swear to God, Mellark—”

“Blissfully,” he interrupts, smug. “In. Love.”

I throw a pillow at his face.

And downstairs, somewhere in the chaos of clattering dishes and family voices, someone yells, “I think I saw them kissing through the upstairs window!”

Peeta freezes.

I groan.

He just grins wider. “Told you. We’re naturals.”

I yank the door open and stomp into the hallway. “You’re the worst,” I mutter, but he follows loyally. 

“You’re just mad because they already love you. You were hoping for a duel at dawn for their approval.” 

“I’m mad because I didn’t realize this weekend was a full blown rom-com.”

We make it to the bottom of the stairs just as someone yells, “There they are!” and suddenly it’s like being swallowed by a sea of Mellarks. Aunts, cousins, uncles- I can’t tell who’s who. Just that I’m being hugged, patted, and inspected like a new rescue dog someone brought home without warning.

“Oh Peeta, she’s gorgeous.” One aunt says.

“She’s real!” A child hollers.

“Didn’t you say she is a professional archer?” Another asked.

“No, I said she worked in the office,” Peeta says, exasperated.

“Same thing,” one of his aunts says, completely unfazed. “You know, she has archer cheekbones.”

“What does that even mean?” I mutter, shooting Peeta a look. He shrugs like he gave up asking long ago. 

We’re herded to the back patio, where the smell of grilled corn and spice rub fills the air. Plates clatter. Voices rise and overlap. The seats are already full, so Peeta pulls me onto his lap like it’s nothing.

My spine goes rigid. “Seriously?” I murmur through a smile.

“They’re watching,” he mutters through his, “Just pretend I’m your favorite chair.”

“I hate this chair.”

Sitting in his lap does nothing to protect me from the nosy questions of Peeta’s relatives. His aunt (Cheryl, I think?) immediately starts in.

“So, how did you two meet?” she asks, ladling potato salad onto her plate like this is the most casual thing in the world.

I shoot Peeta a glance. His jaw ticks with amusement. We haven’t exactly rehearsed this part.

“I was his assistant first,” I say.

Peeta turns slightly, brushing a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “And you’re still the best assistant.”

It’s so smooth I almost roll my eyes. Almost.

Cheryl hums. “But how did you go from boss and assistant to… this?” She gestures between us with her fork. “Peeta, when did you realize you were in love?”

There it is. That word again.

Love.

Peeta doesn’t even flinch. “That’s easy,” he says, reaching for the breadbasket. “It was the morning she spit in my coffee.”

I choke. “That was my coffee. You stole it off my desk.”

He shrugs. “Semantics.”

“Who spits in their own coffee?” someone down the table mutters.

I shoot them a glare. “He threatened to drink it. I spat in it in front of him. It was a… territorial response.”

Peeta leans back in his chair, hand still on my thigh, grinning like he’s proud. “It was the moment I realized she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Not even me. Not even when I sign her paychecks. If Katniss has something to say, she’ll say it. No packaging. No fake boardroom diplomacy. Just brutal honesty, and maybe a little spite.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You fell for me because I scare you?”

He tilts his head. “You scare most people. I like that.”

The table bursts into laughter. My heart does a weird skip. Because that wasn’t part of the script. And worse… it almost sounded real.

Across the table Rye watches us with narrowed eyes, half amused, half suspicious. I meet his gaze and raise my glass in a mock toast. Let him watch. Let them all watch. 

I can fake this, I’ve survived much worse.

After about half an hour of each of his aunts telling their love stories, how they “just knew ,” how “he wouldn’t stop calling,” how “she brought me soup when I had pneumonia," I get bored.

And weirdly annoyed.

I stand abruptly, brushing crumbs from my lap. “I’m getting more lemonade.”

“I’ll come with,” Peeta says quickly, a little too eagerly.

I catch Aunt Cheryl giving a knowing look to the others, all raised brows and stifled giggles. But it’s his mother’s glare that really does it.  Sharp and sour with a slice of disapproval that cuts even through all the sweet tea and sunshine.

Inside, the kitchen is blissfully cooler. Peeta trails behind me, takes my cup without asking, and starts refilling it from the big glass dispenser.

I hesitate, watching the pale liquid pour in. “I’m surprised you remember when I spat in that coffee. That was like... over a year ago.”

He looks up at me, then hands the glass back, his smile softer now. “Of course I remember. You made a sound like a dying animal and then muttered something about how you earned that caffeine with your sanity. ”

“I’d had a rough week.” I mutter.

“You had a rough boss. ” he corrects, a teasing edge in his voice.

I smirk, then shake my head. “Still, you didn’t even flinch. Most people would’ve been horrified.”

Peeta leans back against the counter, arms crossing. “I wasn’t horrified. I was impressed.”

“You’re easily impressed,” I say, sipping the lemonade.

“Not true,” he replies, eyes meeting mine. “You’re just... memorable.”

My stomach does something stupid and fluttery. I look away, feigning interest in the bowl of cherries on the counter. “So that was it, huh? That’s when you fell in love with me?”

Peeta shrugs. “It was either that or the time you told the board their strategic proposal was ugly and had the brain cells of a wet napkin.”

I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “And you’re terrifying. It works.”

Outside, we hear the screen door creak and the rise of another aunt’s voice calling for “the lovebirds.”

Peeta gives me a look, mock-exasperated but with something gentler beneath it. “What about you, though?” he asks.

“Hm?” I hum, half-distracted by the cherry bowl.

“When did you know? That you were in love with me. Just so I’m not surprised when my aunts ask you.”

I freeze for just a second. Then shrug, casual. “When Marvel was still a newish intern. Annoying as hell. And he kept hovering around you, practically trying to suck your—”

Peeta coughs loudly, cutting me off with wide eyes. “Katniss.”

I grin. “I was gonna say ego. ”

He gives me the flattest look imaginable.

“Anyway,” I go on, undeterred, “when you finally snapped at him in front of everyone. Like snapped. I don’t know. Something about it was just… hot.” I pluck a cherry from the bowl, pop it in my mouth. “Like I said, I like my men interesting.”

He’s quiet, and when I glance over again, he’s blushing.

“What?” I ask, eyebrows raised, juice still sweet on my tongue. “Why are you blushing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. “I just... didn’t think that’s what would do it for you.”

“What, the yelling?” I say, grinning as I pop another cherry in my mouth. “Oh yeah. You laid into him. Voice all low and sharp, standing there like someone finally knocked the golden boy off his leash. It damn near bordered sexy.”

He groans. “Please stop talking.”

“No, seriously,” I go on, leaning against the counter like I’ve just discovered something scandalous. “You slammed your folder on the table. I think you said something like, ‘Marvel, if I wanted your opinion, I’d ask. But since I didn’t—’”

“I remember what I said, thank you.”

“And then you walked out. You didn’t even look back. Just left the room like it was your goddamn runway.”

“Glad my unhinged moment left such an impression.”

“Peeta,” I say, biting into another cherry, “you threatened to reassign him to HR. HR. ”

He laughs despite himself. “You're seriously deranged.”

“I’m serious. That was the first time I realized you might not just be pretty and polite.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

I roll my eyes,“Relax. I said 'might'. It was a reluctant compliment." Then give him a mock-thoughtful once-over, "But I know there’s a feral little monster under all that fluff.”

“Feral,” he repeats, incredulous. “That’s your takeaway?”

I nod solemnly. “Feral is sexy.”

He leans in slightly, eyebrows raised. “So what, you like it when I lose my temper? Should I start yelling more? Slam a few more doors? Maybe growl?”

I snort. “Please don’t growl. This isn’t Twilight.”

He holds a hand to his heart. “That wounds me.”

“Yeah, well. You’ll survive.”

He steals a cherry from my bowl like a child claiming revenge. I bat his hand away, but he already has it.

“And you’re in love with me, ” I say smugly, watching him chew.

“Who wouldn’t be in love with you?” he mutters, eyes twinkling, a blush coming back.

Before I can even interpret what he could mean by that, we’re interrupted by Rye stepping in. 

“They’re ready to interrogate you some more.”

I must make a face, because he adds, “They’re not usually like this, Katniss, promise. You’re just the new toy today.”

It’s said like a joke, and maybe it is. 

But it lands wrong. 

Despite the warm welcome the second I stepped out of the car, I catch something else in his eyes now. Something sharper, colder. Like maybe the smile never fully reached there to begin with.

Like maybe that’s exactly how he sees me. Not someone his brother chose. Not a fiancé. Not even a girlfriend. Just something his brother’s playing with.

And suddenly I’m wondering if Rye didn’t fall far from his mother’s tree. If I have to try a little harder now, play the part a little better, if I want to protect the lie Peeta asked me to help him sell. 

I straighten a little, letting the silence stretch, then tip my head at Rye with a cool smile.

“I’m surprised,” I say, voice casual but laced with enough edge to slice through butter, “with all your family money, you don’t already have enough toys.”

Peeta huffs a quiet laugh, like he thinks I’m just being witty. He doesn’t hear the barb.

I lean in and kiss his cheek, slow and sweet, my hand brushing his jaw like I’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Peeta’s too grown to play with toys anyway,” I add, the words warm but pointed as I turn back to Rye. Peeta’s hand finds my waist like a reflex. 

Rye just smirks.

Not caught off guard. Not offended. Just... amused.

Like he knows something I don’t.

It unsettles me more than anything he could’ve said.

Before I can say anything else, a voice cuts through the open window.

“Peeta!” It’s his mom, sharp and commanding like a dinner bell in a thunderstorm. “Come help your uncle with the grill before he burns it all!”

Peeta sighs and brushes my hand once before slipping past us with a low, “Be right back.”

And just like that, it’s me and Rye. Alone.

The quiet stretches in a way it didn’t with Peeta, heavier somehow. More weighted.

I glance at him, half-expecting him to follow Peeta. He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossed, gaze flicking to me and holding. “You’re quick,” he says finally.

I offer a tight smile. “Thanks.”

“You know, you don’t flinch much. Even when you’re lying.”

The air goes still between us.

“What would I be lying about?” I ask calmly, reaching for another cherry even though my appetite’s gone.

He watches me chew, then tilts his head. “Why don’t you tell me. Unless you think I’ll do something about it.”

It’s not a threat. Not even hostile. Just… quiet suspicion wrapped in practiced charm.

I take my time chewing. Swallow. “Sounds like you think you know something I don’t.”

Rye shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “I’ve got guesses. But I like watching people show their cards on their own.”

“How very... poetic of you.”

He smiles, but it’s more edge than warmth. “I wonder how long it'll take. You do have a good poker face.”

I stiffen just slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Peeta wears everything right here.” Rye taps the center of his chest. “Always has. You? You walk in wearing his hoodie like armor and act like you’ve always belonged here. That’s not love. That’s strategy.”

I lean back against the counter, mirroring his posture. “Maybe I’m just not the swooning type.”

“Sure,” he says. “Or maybe you’re playing the game better than he is.”

“What game would that be?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. What game are you playing, Katniss? What could you have to gain from marriage with Peeta?”

That’s when I realize it. He doesn’t think the engagement is fake. He doesn’t think Peeta’s feelings are fake. He just thinks I am. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that his brother can fool him so easily, or the fact that I can’t. 

Finally, I say, “If you’re so worried about him, maybe talk to him. Instead of poking at me like I’m your personal litmus test.”

Rye chuckles once, low in his throat. “You’re not my test, Katniss. You’re his.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, but my voice comes out steady, “And what test would that be?”

He considers this for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Like he’s trying to decide whether to strike or retreat. That’s when it clicks, completely. He thinks I’m in this for Peeta’s money. And… maybe in a way, I am. This fake engagement is supposed to buy me time off, a vacation for me and Prim. A breather. But is it just that? Or is it more? Maybe it’s that I want to protect Peeta, just like I always have. Although that's usually from the board, or from circling vultures trying to exploit him. 

Then he says, “Listen. I think you’re smart, there's no doubt about that. But smart people don’t do things like this without a reason.”

I scoff, reaching for my lemonade. “You sound like a therapist who charges too much.”

He tilts his head, still watching me. He ignores my comment, “You know what he said about you? Before you got here?”

I glance at him, the glass pausing halfway to my mouth.

“He said you make him feel calm. Said when you’re around, it’s easier to breathe.”

The words knock something loose in my chest. Why would Peeta say that to him? Could he believe that? Or… Of course. Of course. He had to bury any seed of doubt that could stem from his brother ahead of time. 

I set the glass down quietly, feeling stupid that I could almost fall for something as easily as his brother did. 

Rye studies me, and there’s no smirk now, no edge—just cool scrutiny. “So if this is real, and you’re really in it… then I’m wrong.”

“But if I’m not?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Then I hope you’re smart enough to get out before you break him.”

That lands heavier than I expect. Not because of the warning—I've had worse from strangers who knew less—but because there’s something sincere in it. Like for all his suspicion, Rye does care about Peeta. Maybe too much. Maybe just enough.

I cross my arms, needing something to do with them, something to ground me. “He’s not fragile.”

I say it while aware that I’m constantly protecting him.

“No,” Rye says, “but he’s good. And people like that? They don’t usually see it coming.”

I hate how that lodges somewhere inside me. Because he’s not wrong. Peeta is good. Good in ways I’ve learned to stop expecting from people. Rye and I both see it as it is; something rare and something worth protecting. 

“I’m not trying to hurt him,” I say finally.

“I hope not,” Rye replies. “For both your sakes.”

We’re quiet for a beat, and then he steps back, nodding once like that’s all he had to say. He walks out, not dramatic, just… done.

And I stand there, staring at the lemonade I no longer want, realizing that for all the fake rings and planned smiles, I’m starting to forget which parts of this I’m pretending.

The rest of the day goes smoother. There are a few pointed remarks from Mrs. Mellark, ones I’ve been mentally trained to let slide. The cousins latch onto Peeta like he’s a jungle gym, demanding rides on his shoulders and shouting over each other for attention. I fall into an easy rhythm with one of the younger girls, Lilly, who takes to me like I’m her personal shadow.

Still, by the time the sun starts to dip, I’m drained. Hours of smiling, nodding, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, and pretending the passive-aggressive questions didn’t sting have taken their toll. I can feel the tension tightening behind my eyes, the kind of tired that feels like it's wrapped around your ribs.

Peeta catches on.

“I think we’re both about done,” he says with a stretch, his voice light as he stands from the table. “Long day of driving, and this one gets snippy when she’s tired.”

He tosses me a mock-apologetic look, complete with a theatrical grimace. It gets the polite laughter he was aiming for.

His younger cousins are still running on sugar and energy.

“But we wanted to go to the lake!” one whines. “It’s gonna be too cold if we go tomorrow night!”

Peeta leans down slightly, his voice full of practiced reassurance. “We can go tomorrow afternoon.” 

Lilly, delicate and bright-eyed, with a wild braid slipping down her back, tugs on my hand. I realize she reminds me of Rue, one of the first interns I ever mentored, the kind you don’t forget.

“Katniss, do you promise you’ll swim with us tomorrow?”

Something in her gaze, pure and expectant, cuts through all the performance. I smile, real this time. “I promise.”

Then I look to Peeta. “You promise, Peeta?”

“Always,” he says softly, eyes meeting mine like the word means more than just lake water and swimming.

Then, without another word, he laces his fingers through mine and leads me up the stairs.

The second we reach the room, I plop belly down on the bed, onto the side closest to the window like I’d claimed earlier. 

“In your day clothes?” Peeta asks, half-teasing, half genuinely horrified.

I groan into the pillow. “I'll change in a minute. Just let me rot.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Your side of the bed. Who am I to judge?”

The mattress shifts as he sits beside me. I keep my eyes closed, the weight of the day catching up to me in full.

“They like you,” he says after a moment, his voice remaining soft. 

“Not all of them,” I murmur back, the exhaustion settling deep in my bones. 

“That’s just how my mom is—”

“I’m not talking about your mom.”

That silences him. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t need to. I can feel the tension creep in. A beat passes.

“Rye doesn’t trust me,” I say.

Peeta lets out a slow sigh. “Rye doesn’t really trust anyone.”

“Do you?”

There’s a pause, short but telling. Like he hadn’t expected the question to be aimed at him. 

“I told you I do, Katniss.” He says quietly, like he’s trying not to spook the moment.  

This makes me crack one eye open, turning my head to look at him. He’s lying on his back now, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he’s waiting for it to give him permission to keep going.

Has he told me this? A part of me knows he has. Another part still questions it. 

“When?” 

He turns his head, meeting my gaze, “Last week. When you gave me the edits.”

I blink open both eyes. Just staring for a moment. He did say that, technically. But it came right before I snapped. Before I told him how his mother steamrolls him, and he lets her. Before things got messy again. 

“You said it,” I murmur, “But I thought it was just something you said to get me to go away.”

He doesn’t answer right away. And that silence? It says more than I’m ready to hear. Finally, he shifts, rolling to his side to come face to face with me.

“I meant it.”

I study him, uncertain. “Why?”

He blinks like it hadn’t even occurred to him that this trust needed a reason. “Because you don’t ask for anything.”

I scoff under my breath, “That’s not true. I asked for a whole vacation in return for this.” I motion sleepily between us.

“That’s not what I mean.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “You protect me. You’ve said it yourself. Even when you’re mad. Even when you think I’m not listening… Or don’t want to hear it. You still try.”

I go still.

“I’ve had a lot of people pretend to care,” He continues, eyes shooting back up to the ceiling now, voice barely above a murmur, “All who want something in return. Or to use me for something. But you? You’d light the whole boardroom on fire before you let someone use me.” 

The air feels tight suddenly, like the room’s holding its breath.

“That’s not nothing.” He finishes.

And I don’t know what to say to that. Because he’s right. I would. I have. But hearing it out loud, realizing he sees it, makes something twist in my chest.

“I trust you too, y’know,” I say, quiet and steady. Not a deflection, not a joke. Just the truth. 

His eyes flick back to mine at that. There's that soft, wanting, hopeful look in his eyes. Like they were that night before his mother walked in and shattered something.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

He doesn’t get offended. Doesn’t bristle or turn away. Instead, a small smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

“Only sometimes? Wow, don't I feel special.” He says softly, teasingly.

“It’s not you. It just… hard. For me. Trust isn’t my first instinct.” I pause, then add, “Or my second.”

He nods slowly, like he understands more than he’s letting on. “You think I don’t get that?” he says. “Katniss… you think I grew up in this family and came out trusting easily?”

His tone is gentle, but there’s weight behind it. Years of navigating boardroom smiles and knives hidden in compliments.

“I want to,” I admit, quietly. “Trust you, I mean. Fully. I think I’m trying.”

Peeta rolls onto his back again, exhaling through his nose. “Trying’s more than most people do.”

We’re both quiet for a beat, just the soft hum of the ceiling fan above us and the muffled sounds of laughter downstairs.

Then he adds, “You don’t have to say it back. But just so you know… for me, it’s not just sometimes.”

That hits something square in my chest.

I keep my eyes on his profile, the softness of his jaw in the low light.

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Doesn’t need to.

He’s just letting it be true.

And I let it settle between us, real and raw and suddenly much harder to ignore.

“Goodnight, Peeta,” I say, rolling onto my other side, letting sleep pull at the edges of me.

A few minutes pass. Then I feel the blanket shift, tugged gently up to my shoulders.
And a kiss, barely there, pressed into my hair. So light, I might’ve dreamed it.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he whispers.

And with that, I drift off to sleep. My dreams slipping into a space between pretending and something more. 

Chapter Text

There’s a heaviness draped across my waist and a steady warmth pressed along my back before I’m fully awake.

It takes a second, maybe two, for my brain to piece it together.

Peeta.

His arm is around me, loose but certain, hand resting gently against my stomach like it’s always belonged there. His breathing is deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest brushing softly against my back.

I don’t move. Not yet.

The room is dim and quiet, morning light seeping softly through the curtains. For a moment, I let myself just feel it. Safe, warm, and tethered to him in a way I don’t want to name. 

After a while, I sense his fingers twitch, then his breath shifts. I snap my eyes shut.

Slowly, carefully, I feel his arm ease away, a gentle pressure lifting off me.

I pretend to still be asleep, holding my breath as I listen.

A quiet shuffle, the soft scrape of feet on floorboards.

And then, silence.

I let the moment linger a heartbeat longer before finally blinking open my eyes.

The bed is colder without him. Not that it matters. 

I mean, sure. His arm was around me. That was… new. And I didn’t pull away, but that doesn’t have to mean anything.

Why didn’t I pull away? Shift slightly out of his hold? 

I know the answer. 

It’s because I didn’t want to. 

But people hold eachother in their sleep all the time. On instinct. It’s not like either of us meant anything by it. 

It was just a moment. That’s all. 

A moment that… well if it happened again, I wouldn’t fight it. But that doesn’t mean it means something.

I don’t know how long I lay there like that. Calm, quiet, cold, lonely. It feels like too long before the door creaks back open softly and a warm presence fills the room. I close my eyes again. 

Peeta’s voice whispers next to me, “Katniss,” his hand brushes lightly over my hair, fingers threading through the strands like he’s afraid I might vanish if he’s too rough, “Time to wake up.”

I don’t move. 

“I know you’re awake. I saw you close your eyes when I walked in.”

My lips twitch into a half smile

“You know, you’re almost bearable when you’re quiet like this.” 

I crack one eyelid, then grin. Before he can finish, I reach up and smack him lightly with the nearest pillow. He laughs, clearly not expecting the playful attack I wind up to throw it again, but he’s faster. Catching my wrist mid-air, the pillow slipping from my fingers, he pins it down beside me.

“Not today,” He says, voice low and teasing.

I try to grab another pillow with my free hand, but he pins that wrist down too. I smirk, refusing to give in, and start wiggling to break free.

“Always just full of a fight, aren’t you?” He teases.

“Wouldn’t be morning without a battle,” I reply, moving my legs to swing at him.

“Hey, no kicking.” He says with mock sternness, but his breathy laugh wins the moment. He’s almost amused as he uses one hand to hold both my wrists above my head, and reaches with his other hand to control my legs. 

Just then, the door creaks again, “Hey lovebirds everyone's wondering where-” Rye’s sentence is cut off as he takes in the scene. Me, half pinned beneath Peeta’s easy grip, pillows scattered, and the faintest flush on my cheeks. 

“Peeta started it.” I say defensively.

“Did not!”

Rye raises his eyebrows at me, “This is the man you said is too grown to play with toys?”

I roll my eyes, trying to wiggle free. Peeta leans down, voice warm and low in my ear, “You promise to be good if I let you go.”

A warmth spreads through me, something I can’t quite name, “No.”

He sighs, “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.” 

And just like that, he lets go. To which I snatch a pillow, fling it at him, then bolt for the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand there feeling weird. Confused, actually.

What was that? Some game Peeta cooked up to convince his brother we’re in love? Some romantic scene meant for someone to walk in on? I turn on the faucet to wash my face, but not without hearing Rye’s voice, low and cautious. 

He murmurs something, but I only catch the last sentence. “Some people only want one thing from you, Peeta.”

Rye still doesn’t buy this act. Despite how beautifully Peeta staged it all for him just now. 

“Rye.” Peeta’s voice drops low, a warning threaded in it. 

There’s a pause, then footsteps retreating down the hall. 

I press my forehead against the door, the warmth Peeta left behind tangled up with a sudden ache. The doubt in Rye’s words settles heavy in the silence, and for the first time, I wonder if Peeta believes that this act we put on is convincing anyone at all. 

The night is alive with laughter and the crackle of fireworks snapping open over the lake. Kids run around, chasing sparks and shouting in delight. I’m crouched down, trying to get a stubborn lighter to work.

“Here,” I say, standing and glancing toward the house, “I saw the other one in the kitchen.”

Without thinking, I run back to the house, slipping inside. The sound of the fireworks outside muffled by the walls, replaced by the quiet hum of the kitchen. I reach for the lighter on the counter, fingers brushing against the smooth metal, when I hear light footsteps behind me.

I chuckle a little, “Lilly, I said I’ll be right back. I swear I’ll let you light-”

But when I spin around, it’s not Lilly. 

It’s Peeta.

“Wanted to make sure you found it.” He says softly, leaning in the doorway like he’s admiring me. 

I lift the lighter between two fingers. “I don’t know, what do you think? Mission accomplished?

He steps forward, taking it from my hand. His hand grazing mine, enough to send a pulse of heat through me.

“You’re good with them,” he says, voice gentler than I expect, “the kids.”

“They’re sweet. Reminds me of Prim when she was that age.” I try to shrug it off, but the compliment lingers.

He nods, looking at the lighter in his hands as if it’s the most special thing he’s ever held. Then quietly and earnestly, he says, “Thank you. For being here.” 

I tilt my head slightly, as if there’s anywhere else I’d be. As if he didn't slightly force me on this little family vacation.

“You make this,” he motions loosely around us, at the house, the chaos, at something invisible and harder to name, “easier.”

There’s something heavier sitting beneath his words. A weight I don’t recognize and don’t want to address without undoing whatever peace he’s found tonight.

“Well, you know, part of the job. Making you look better and-”

“Katniss,” He interrupts me. His voice is soft, but firm. A thread of something I can’t quite place. Pleading, maybe, or frustration buried beneath his gentle demeanor. “Don’t do that.”

I take a small step back, just enough to bump into the counter behind me. He follows almost subconsciously. 

I blink, “Do what?”

“Make it a job. Make it a joke when it’s not. When I’m not.”

“I don’t think you’re a joke,” My voice has dropped quieter. This is a moment just for us. 

His eyes soften, like those words chip away at something he’s been holding tight to.

“Then stop pretending like this is just some favor you’re doing.” He says, “Like you’re only here to help me get through the weekend and impress my family.”

I hold my ground just barely, “Aren’t I?”

He shrugs a little, “Maybe. But it’s not the whole truth. You’re here because I asked you. Because I wanted you here. And that part had nothing to do with the act.”

My chest tightens. The warmth in his voice, the weight of the silence around us. It’s all too much, too close. 

His eyes are fixed on mine. “You make things better. Even when it’s messy.”

There's a beat of silence. His thumb runs along the lighter’s ridges, but he’s not really looking at it.

“You’ve always made things better, Katniss.” He adds, barely audible. I swallow hard, heart thudding in my chest. The noise from outside, fireworks and laughter, all feel distant now. Like we’re in a bubble that doesn’t belong to this house, or this weekend. Or even this version of our lives. Just us. Just here.

Peeta’s still watching me, with a look I recognize. It’s his look he always does when he’s thinking too much. One, when he’s trying to figure out the next best move for the board. His gaze flickers to my mouth, then back to my eyes. It nearly knocks the wind out of me.

“Especially tonight,” he adds, softer now. He’s close enough now that I could count the freckles on his cheek if I wanted to. Close enough that I don’t know whether to step back or lean in.

His hand brushes mine. Not a full touch. Just enough to feel like a question. 

It makes my heart stutter, caught somewhere between hope and doubt. What is he doing? 

I want to lean in, to close the small space between us. Confirm what I’ve been thinking about for months, longer than this fake engagement. Confirm what his lips feel like against mine. Confirm that this could be real, if we both want it. 

But something inside is preventing me from moving at all. Cautious, reminding me not to do something that can’t be undone. Not in the silence of the kitchen, or the space between one heartbeat and another. 

I don’t pull away. He takes that for an answer and finally leans in.

I nearly feel the brush of his lips on mine when a throat clears sharply in the doorway, and we break apart instantly. 

My heart nearly jumps into my throat as we both turn to see Rye standing there, arms crossed, with a giggling Lilly.

“Really? In the kitchen?” He states. I quickly hide my face in Peeta’s shirt, face burning. He wraps his arms around me as I do. 

So that’s what this was. The final move to convince Rye. The final move to prove that this was real, before we leave tomorrow, and the only way to convince him will be through headlines. I don't know why I thought it would've been anything more.

Lilly runs up to Peeta and grabs the lighter, “It’s okay, cousin Katniss, you can stay in here with him as loooong as you want.”

“Not too long,” adds Rye, still looking unimpressed with the scene. Lilly runs out, grabbing Rye's hand and hauling him behind her.

Peeta looks back at me as I let out a breath. “If that didn’t convince him, I don’t know what will.”

Peeta’s still watching me, but something shifts in his expression. His voice when he speaks almost sounds… strained. “You thought that was just for Rye.”

His words aren’t a question. They land somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. The easy warmth from before has drained from his face. He’s not teasing anymore.

I blink, suddenly unsure, “Who else would you have done that for?”

Peeta exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but there's no humor in it. He drops his arms that were enclosing me, and I feel the warmth disappear immediately. His face closes a little. The way it does when he’s about to shut down. When I’ve said the wrong thing. 

He steps back, just enough for me to miss his presence. 

“I don’t know Katniss. Who else is in this room?” A sense of anger fills his voice. It settles deep within me.

I glance around, like it's a trick question, and I have to get it right.

When I’m greeted with silence, I look back to him. His eyes are filled with hurt, and I can’t quite decipher why. I feel stupid and pitiful. 

Outside, another firework exploded, lighting the sky in red and gold. It casts flickering shadows across the kitchen, but it doesn’t distract from the look on his face. In fact, it enhances it. Now it looks like he’s handed me something fragile, and I’ve let it fall.

“I didn’t mean to…” What did I do, though? Misread the situation? Push the scene too far? 

“Well, you did.” His voice stern. Only a quiet anger seeps through. Still guarded, he adds, “It’s fine, Katniss. We leave tomorrow anyway.”

And that’s what guts me. The way he says it. Not bitter. Not even resigned. Just like someone who’s already preparing to forget.

He turns to go, but pauses with his hand on the doorframe.

“You’re a damn convincing actress Katniss. Even I can’t tell when you’re pretending.”

And then he’s gone, the sound of the back door creaking open and the echo of fireworks swallowing the quiet he left behind.

I lean back against the counter, every nerve buzzing like it’s still waiting for the kiss.

But he’s right. I can’t tell either. And maybe that's the issue. 

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since that Fourth of July night.

Two weeks since Peeta has officially pulled back.

It’d be easier if he had yelled. Thrown something. Slammed a door and told me exactly what I did to deserve the distance. But instead, it’s this quiet, surgical silence. He’s polite in front of cameras. Civil in the office. But there’s a hollowness now. A line I apparently crossed that I didn’t even see coming.

The headlines are starting to catch on.

They don’t say it outright, not yet, but the shift is there in the subtext. In the way they write Peeta Mellark Attends Gala Solo with just enough suspicion. In the photos that zoom in on the empty space beside him like it’s louder than the flash of the cameras.

And when I ask?

He shrugs, all ice and businesslike distance. “Business dinner. Why would my fiancé be there?”

I wish I could feel anger instead of this confusion. “Why wouldn’t your assistant?”

His eyes flick to mine then, but there’s no softness in them. Just calculation. Hurt, maybe, but hidden beneath layers of pride.

“You said it yourself,” he replies evenly. “It’s all just part of the job.”

The words land like a slap, even though his tone is calm. Because I did say that. And now, apparently, he believes me.

Or maybe he just wants to hurt me quietly. Cleanly. No blood, just silence and a vacancy where his warmth used to live.

And the worst part is? I don’t even know why he’s acting this way.

Maybe I should’ve kissed him even after Rye walked in. Sold it harder. 

I don’t know. I never really know with him. I thought we were on the same page. Pretending just enough to convince them. I thought that was what he wanted, too.

So why is he acting like I crossed some line I didn’t see? Like I broke something real when… when it’s not?

Maybe it’s that I pushed it too far, made it weird between us. Crossed that invisible boundary between assistant and fiancé . 

But even if that’s the case, I don’t know how to fix it. Not when he looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. No, that’s not true. Not like I’ve betrayed him. It’s something worse.

Now he looks at me like I don’t even matter. Which almost hurts worse than if he’d never cared at all. 

That’s what scares me the most. The probability that whatever I did, whatever line I crossed… there’s no undoing it. There’s no going back to how we were. Soft touches and sarcastic banter. I’ll never get that chance again, not while he’s keeping me at arm’s length like I’m just another part of the performance.

That is, until he messages me late one night. Can you come in early tomorrow? I don’t ask why.

I arrive just as the sun is barely rising. Key in hand, I head straight to his office. The door’s cracked open. He’s sitting behind his desk, holding an ice pack to his eye.

My stomach drops.

“I wasn’t sure where you usually keep the concealer. The one for press conferences,” he says casually, like we’re discussing wardrobe choices and not whatever violence has just occurred.

“Who did it?”

He flinches slightly, then tries for a smile, the first one in weeks. “Katniss… it doesn’t hurt much.”

I don’t respond. I dig into my bag and pull out the small concealer pot I keep on me at all times, because I’m always with him, and I’ve learned to anticipate these things.

I toss it onto the desk harder than I mean to.

He watches the concealer land with a soft thud, but doesn’t move to pick it up right away. Just stares at it.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he says after a beat, voice quieter now. “I just… didn’t know who else to ask.”

“You should’ve called someone,” I murmur, even though we both know I mean me . You should’ve called me , even before things got this bad.

He finally looks up. “You wouldn’t have come.”

He says it like it’s a fact. Like I wouldn't do anything I could to protect him from... this. Like I haven't always tried. 

I move toward him, slower than usual, as if I’m approaching something fragile.

“Do you want me to help or not?” I ask, more bitterly than I intend.

“I do.” He says it without hesitation, but he won’t meet my eyes.

So I take the ice pack from his hand and toss it aside. I sit on his desk and gently tilt his chin towards me. His skin is warm under my fingers. Bruised, but still his. Still him .

“This isn't going to cover up much." I tap the brush against the inside of the lid, knocking off the excess powder before lifting it to his skin. My voice softens, "You’re not supposed to let them get this close." 

“I didn’t.” He meets my gaze now, and something raw is flickering in it. “But when it’s family, they’re already close, aren’t they?”

I hate that it’s not the first time it’s happened. It’s just the first time the bruises have been so… vocal. Almost like a statement on his face. 

A statement saying Disrespectful. Unworthy. Broken. Disgraceful. 

Statements that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Don’t let her touch you again,” I say, the words cold and sharp, forged from something deeper than anger.

He turns away from me for a moment, as if trying to shake off my words, “Katniss. I said it doesn’t hurt much.”

“Not the point.” I said through gritted teeth, my voice low and angry, “You don’t have to let people hurt you just because they share your blood.”

He looks down, jaw tightening. “It’s complicated.”

I sigh, trying to let go of the tension I held in my own jaw. Complicated. It’s complicated. Isn’t everything? Isn’t this between us complicated? The confusion of where the line even stands. What's okay, what’s allowed, what’s too much?

Is it okay to call his mother out on her behavior? The things she does to him?

Is it allowed for me to be here helping him like this, covering his bruises, staying in this space? 

Is it too much to ask, or hope, that he doesn’t pull back again after this? Pretending like I don’t matter, like I hardly exist?

After I help him hide this, the secret will stay with me. Just like it always does. He’ll never have to ask, and I’ll do it anyway.

“Everything worth fighting for usually is.” I cap the powdered concealer and set it down.

“So I guess this wouldn’t be a good time to mention my mother wants to have brunch with us this weekend.

I can feel the anger quickly rising back up through my spine.

It’s the first time she’s extended an invitation. The first time he’s passed it along like it’s a totally normal request and not a trap disguised in floral china and passive aggression.

This time, I laugh. Dry. Bitter. “You want me to have brunch with the woman who gave you a black eye?”

He winces.

“She said she wants to talk with you. Apologize.” he says, and I can already tell he doesn’t believe it either.

“Oh, so she hit you with the apology. Or did she save it for dessert?”

His jaw tightens. “Katniss…”

“No,” I cut him off, sharp. “I’m not doing it. I’m not putting on a dress and sitting at a table with someone who treats you like this.”

“She’s still my mother.”

“And she still hit you, ” I snap, louder than I mean to.

The room goes quiet. Too quiet. He looks away first.

I could stop there. I should stop there. But I can feel the words bubbling up. A thousand things I could say, each one worse than the last.

I protect you. I’m your assistant, your fake fiancée, your first line of defense. I carry your concealer in my bag. I stand behind you when reporters ask about your father. I patch up your bruises and keep your secrets and-

But it’s not my life. Not my place. So instead, I swallow the fire and say:

“You’re right. It’s not my business. All just a part of the job.”

Peeta’s head snaps up. Like he knows that’s not what I really mean.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” I continue, voice flat. “Sorry for trying to protect you. Won’t happen again.”

I grab the concealer, like I’ve suddenly remembered I have somewhere better to be.

As I reach the door, I pause, just long enough to pull the same knife he’s been stabbing into me for the last two weeks and twist it into him. 

“I’ll let you play with the vultures.” I pause at the doorway. “You probably just think they’re pretty birds, huh?”

Then I’m gone, letting the door slam, locking my words in there with him.

I leave early.

Peeta doesn’t have any more meetings, no press calls, no interviews. I check the schedule twice just to be sure. Then I grab my things, tell Madge to keep an ear on the phone line, and head out before I can talk myself into staying.

The apartment is too quiet when I get home. I don’t bother turning on the lights. I take off my shoes, crawl under the blanket on the couch, and stare at the ceiling. My brain won’t shut up, but my body’s too heavy to move. I try to rest. I don’t succeed.

It’s nearing eleven when there’s a knock at the door.

I don’t move at first. Maybe it’s the neighbor. Maybe it’s DoorDash being delivered to the wrong floor. But then there’s a second knock. Firmer, more familiar.

I open the door.

Peeta.

He looks tired. Undone in a way I don’t often see. His hoodie is on over a shirt he clearly didn’t button all the way right, hair flattened from running his hands through it too many times. His eyes are sharp, unreadable.

“Can I come in?”

I nod, wordless, stepping aside. I shut the door behind him, already bracing.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even pace. Just spins to face me and lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“You know,” he says, “I didn’t think you could surprise me anymore.”

I cross my arms. “And yet, here you are.”

His eyes flash. “Do you really think pushing everyone away makes you strong?”

“Oh, and letting your mother bruise you makes you what, noble?”

That lands. His expression falters for a second before sharpening.

“She’s my mother.”

“She hit you.”

“She’s sick.”

“She’s manipulative. You know that.”

He throws up his hands. “And what do you want me to do, Katniss? Cut her off completely? Let the press eat her alive while she spirals and pins it on me?”

“I want you to stop pretending you owe people your silence just because they share your blood.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know enough.” I think of Gale's words from just over a month ago. 

“You think you’re better than everyone because you don’t let people in. Guess what? That’s not strength. That’s cowardice.”

That one hits me in the gut, but I don’t let it show. I step closer, refusing to back down.

“And you think loyalty is just letting people destroy you?”

He breathes hard, chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to snap. Then:

“You are the most impossible, egotistical person I’ve ever met.”

“Must’ve learned it from you,” I shoot back. 

He huffs out a laugh of exasperation. I can tell how upset he is, practically shaking with rage. He runs a hand through his hair like it might rip out, “You drive me insane , Katniss! You storm out, you slam doors, you throw concealer at me like it's a goddamn grenade-”

“You asked me to come in early-”

“You think you get to decide what hurts me!” he cuts in, voice rising further. “You act like protecting me gives you the right to judge every decision I make, like I'm yours to manage-”

“You are mine to manage,” I snap. “That’s my job , Peeta. In case you forgot.”

“Right,” he says bitterly, “And that’s the only reason?”

His question comes up short to me. My hesitation allows him to continue.

“That’s really all this is to you. A job. A paycheck. A fucking contract.”

I’m not entirely sure what we are talking about anymore. Of course this is a job. Of course the contract matters.

But then why the hell do I stay?

Why do I keep throwing myself between him and his mother, keep telling him not to let her treat him like he’s disposable, when he never listens?

When he just stands there and takes it like it's what he deserves.

But no matter how angry I get, the same question always shoves its way to the front: Who’s going to protect him if I don’t?

“It was your idea to even have the contract. It was your idea to have this fake engagement. It was your idea to keep this going. And it is you who keeps getting upset with me. I don’t even know why you’re so angry!” My voice rises with each sentence.

“You don’t know why I’m angry?” he’s shouting. I hate that a part of me loves it. Seeing him like this. In his full-blown rage. I can’t decide if anyone has ever really seen him this way, if it’s just a special piece he’s saved for me. Like stubborn asshole he is, “God, Katniss- are you serious? You smile for the cameras, you convince them, you touch me like it means something. But I’m the idiot for thinking it might be real.”

I don’t know why this comment surprises me. The fact that he might also think it feels real. 

He’s stepped closer to me.

“I never said you were an idiot.”

“You don’t have to say it! You look at me like I’m this wounded puppy who needs protection. Who needs saving.”

“That’s because you do.”

He laughs harshly, anger and anguish seeping in through the tones. “No, Katniss. You need me to need saving. Because if I don’t, then what is even your purpose? Right? If I don’t, then you’re just my assistant, who makes my schedules, and helps me with the press and conferences. And that's it.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. A part of me wonders if he’s right.

He barrels on, “You’re just protecting yourself. Because if any of this is real, if you feel anything real, it means you could get hurt. And that’s just not allowed, is it?”

My jaw clenches, and I want to deny it. To shout back at him, to throw something to distract from the truth. “Don’t pretend like you know me.”

“But I do know you!”

“No, you don’t! You don’t know anything about me. You sit there in your CEO chair and pretend like you've got it all figured out. Like you're saving everyone," I take a step closer as my voice is shaking from fury, "But I'm the one keeping you together. I manage your life. I cover your bruises and clean up messes you pretend aren't there. I do everything for you. But you don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, so that’s what you think? That I just sit in that chair and pretend?” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “You think I don’t see what you do for me? Every time you’ve cleaned up after me, covered for me. Every bruise, every lie, every time I walked into a meeting, like I had it together. I know it's because of you."

A pause, the air thick.

"Don't tell me I don't know anything about you. I know more than you want me to." His jaw is tight, voice a low burn.

I hate how much I want to believe him. How his words settle into something deep and dangerous in my chest, like they could stitch something shut if I let them.

“No, you think you do.” I shove past him toward the kitchen counter, like putting physical space between us will steady me. “You think because you’ve watched me long enough, you’ve earned the right to dissect me like some kind of project.”

He follows. Of course he does.

“I’ve never tried to dissect you,” he says, firm. “I’ve tried to love you.”

Silence. We both stand still with the words hanging between us in the air. He sighs. Tired of this. Of me.

His voice stays firm, angry, and desperate. "You think I don’t wake up in the middle of the night wondering if any of it meant something to you? You think it doesn’t kill me when you pull away the second the lights are off and there’s no one left to watch us? Or worse, when the lights are off and you still reach for my hand?”

My heart is thudding in my chest like a war drum. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to confess. I want to run. I spin around and face him, practically toe to toe now. 

“So what?” I breathe out, fists clenched at my sides. Tone matching his. “You think you can just throw out that word. Like- like it’s supposed to mean something to me? You think you can win me over with the right words like one of your goddamn clients?” 

His eyes darken slightly, and he looks at me with more disappointment and anger than I fear I can handle. 

“You.” He scoffs, “God. You drive me crazy .” The words drip with venom. In any other way, this could almost be a compliment. But with how he’s looking at me? I know it’s anything but. 

“I never meant for this to happen,” I respond, quieter now. I hope my words are as wounding as his tone, but it sounds pathetic the moment it leaves my mouth, “I didn’t mean to—” Feel this. Want this. Need this. 

But I can’t say it out loud.

His eyes flash, hurt and heat all tangled up. “You think I did?” I flinch. His voice is hoarse now. “You think I planned this? That I wanted to fall for someone who won’t even admit there’s anything real between us?”

I look away, jaw tight, throat burning. I can feel him watching me, waiting for me to say it. To admit something. To meet him halfway.

But I don’t. I can’t.

And that’s when he says it.

“And, believe me, I’ve tried to stop. God, I’ve tried—”

He stops, swears under his breath. I feel him moving forward, and I brace myself. For what? I don’t know. Peeta’s not one to hit. 

And then his hands are on my face. Not rough, not bruising, but burning. Like he’s been waiting to do this for months. Like he’s done waiting.

His mouth crashes into mine, and suddenly the fight inside me melts into something raw and urgent. His hands slide down my back, fingers digging in as he pushes me against the wall with a strength that takes my breath away.

This time, there’s no one to interrupt us.

I don’t think. I just respond. My hands tangle in his shirt, tugging, desperate to close the gap between us. Without warning, he lifts me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist, clinging to him like I might disappear otherwise.

“Peeta,” I breathe into his mouth, “We shouldn’t.”

His mouth moves to my neck, hot as he whispers, “Tell me to stop.” It sends a thrilling shiver down my spine. 

“I can’t.” But I should. 

His hands stay firmly on my hips, holding me closer, as we move towards the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind us, muffling the outside world. 

He lays me down on the bed like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Like this moment might, if he moves too quickly. He brushes my hair out of my face, eyes sweeping over my features, as if it's the first time he's ever truly looked at me. We're both already breathless. From yelling. From fighting. From pretending. So when he leans back down and kisses me again, slow, sure, and aching with something heavier than lust…

I finally let myself stop pretending.

Chapter Text

I wake up before the sun. Before the alarm. Before reality. Before I have to be anything at all.

The room is quiet. Still. I don't even have to open my eyes to know he's still here. I can feel his warm hand over mine, draped across my stomach. Our legs still tangled comfortably. 

When I finally open my eyes and glance at him, it’s like the air gets sucked out of my lungs.

His features are softer in sleep. The tension always coiled in his jaw is gone, his brow smooth, mouth slightly parted. There’s something achingly gentle about the way he rests. Like the world could never touch him at all right here. Like it never has. 

He looks so peaceful. So beautiful. 

I lie there, completely still, not daring to move. I just… take him in. The slope of his nose. The freckles lightly dotting his cheekbone. The faint mark where my fingers had gripped his neck too tightly last night.

I think about every time someone interrupted us. Rye. His mother. Even my own fear. Every moment we almost got here, and didn’t. And for the first time, I feel angry about it. 

Not confused. Not relieved.

Angry.

Like they stole something from me. Like they kept robbing me of this .

This peace. This certainty.

This… thing I still don’t have a name for.

I think about last night. About the moments of vulnerability shared between us. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have, and also didn’t say a lot of things I should have. 

He’s not angry at me for that… right? For dodging what he said. For leaving his supposed feelings hanging in the air. For refusing to offer my own.

I shift lightly. Guilt and shame creeping in where the softness was. Not from what we did, I don’t regret that. Guilt and shame of letting myself have this moment with him, knowing it can’t last. 

What I do know is one thing: I can’t be here when he wakes up. Even if it’s my apartment. 

I untangle myself from his legs, slip out of his arms, and creep out of bed. I grab my hoodie on the floor and my pants, pulling them on swiftly. 

I don’t look back as I slip out the front door. I don’t think about looking back until I’m down the stairs of my building onto the street. Then I glance back at my apartment complex.

I just left my boss, Peeta Mellark, sleeping in my bed. How did I let this happen?

In a few hours, I’ll see him at work. And before I’m back in the office pretending everything is fine, I need to figure something out:

Do I need this to mean nothing? Or do I want it to mean something?  

With this thought on my mind, I do the best thing I know how.

I go get coffee.

I walk into his office. He’s standing at the window, staring out like the weight of everything is pressing down on him.

I set a cup of coffee on his desk. “Coffee.”

Just one word. But what I really mean is: Are you mad?

He turns slowly, a soft but steady smile tugging at his mouth, “Is that why you’re late?”

Beneath this, I feel the real question burning through me: Where did you go this morning?

I clear my throat, pushing sarcasm into my voice, “Thought I’d be thoughtful. Happens every once in a while.”

Translation: I like thinking of you like this. I don’t know why I left. 

He hums for a moment, taking in our silent conversation, “Well. It’s not always in your character to be.”

Translation: I understand. I know you.

He doesn’t seem upset with me, so I release a small breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. 

“You have a call with Dunesberry at ten. Since our initiative wrapped, he wants in on whatever we’re planning next. Delly actually has a few vision board ideas. The ICE raids, the King's protests, the war in Israel and Iran. She wants to meet at one to discuss which one you want to go with.”

He gives a short nod. “Okay.”

Okay? It’s such a small word. I stay quiet for a second, debating whether to ruin the silence or preserve the fragile peace. I could say something more. Something stupid like: Last night was cool. I want it to happen again .

While I’m stuck in my head, I don’t realize he’s moved closer.  

“Is that all?” he asks, a smile playing gently across his lips.

“No.” I meet his eyes, heartbeat loud in my ears.

I hesitate, then swallow, my throat suddenly dry. 

“Finnick Odair also called. Asked you to call him back, since you weren’t answering your phone, and said it’s urgent. Refused to leave a message.”

He lets out a puff of air, like this is funny to him. This whole situation. Then he nods again. “Okay.”

I start to half-turn to leave, but then I catch something. His stupid tie is crooked.

I sigh and reach out, adjusting it gently, “What, you get dressed in the dark today or something?”

He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah. Something like that.”

I shake my head at him, brushing off any flutter that I feel in my belly. “Thought you would’ve had enough money to pay for electricity.”

“Well I wasn’t exactly in a place where I pay the bills. Or know where the light switches are.” There’s a beat while I digest what he’s said.

I feel my face start to heat up, so I nod curtly and actually turn to leave. 

His voice stops me. “Katniss?”

I glance back at him.

“Thank you. For the coffee. It, uh… It’s exactly what I needed.”

Translation: You’re exactly what I needed.

I feel the words he really means deep in my gut. Warmth slowly spreading, reaching up towards my chest like a hand reaching for help.

“I hoped so.”

And then I walk out the door. 

We don’t talk about it that day. Or the next. Or the one after that. And it’s fine. Really. 

I couldn’t care less. I didn’t want to talk about it anyway. It happened. We’re adults. It doesn’t have to mean anything. That’s what my decision was that morning anyway. That it meant nothing to me.

But now, four long, quiet, professionally civil days later… I’m pissed.

Not because I want to talk about it. Absolutely not. But because he won’t. 

He’s stayed so calm. So composed. Like nothing’s shifted. Like we didn’t cross a line that still is echoing through my body. 

He hands me reports like normal. Nods like normal. Grazes my hand occasionally, like that’s normal.

And this morning? This morning he hands me a cup of coffee and says, “Thought you might need it.” With that same stupid smile. Then he hands me notes for the new proposal and asks me to take them to Delly. Like. Normal.

And somehow, I’m the one who feels crazy. 

I enter Delly’s office, greeting her. She already has the rough sketch of the proposal for the new initiative. 

“Oh perfect Katniss, you just saved me an elevator trip.” I give a polite smile while she hands me the sketches.

“Give these to Peeta, will you? Mockups for the fundraiser. The themes, posters for the walls, slideshow talking points. The basics. We’re mainly making a call to change the system, raise awareness. The ICE raids are a depressing subject, but the funds going to helping impacted families and getting people their citizenship will be incredibly life-changing. It was a great idea you and Peeta came up with together.” 

I nod, taking the sketches and flipping through them. The sketches are pretty shit, but it’s fine. They usually are, and Peeta draws better anyways. I smile and hand her the notes Peeta gave me. 

I think of the time, a pitch meeting, where he hated the way the design team had drafted the storyboard. Said it looked like something a kindergartner scribbled in crayon. So he grabbed a napkin and sketched his own version right there at the table.

“I’d rather present this to the board,” he’d said, “than let them think that was my vision.”

In return, I framed the napkin, with the title: Most Egotistical Man. He still keeps in on his shelf.

I smile at the memory.

“Thanks Delly. I’ll get these to him right away,” as I start to turn, I see a silver necklace tracing her neck, it jogs my memory about the gift she gave me. “Oh- by the way, I still have that necklace you gave to Peeta. For me. You know, the one from the conference over a month ago?”

Delly looks confused. “Necklace?”

“Yeah.” I gesture vaguely, putting the sketches under my arm, “He said you let him borrow it when you lent me that dress? Gold chain, kind of delicate, a little charm with an emerald? He said you told him I could keep it, but I haven’t worn it because, I mean… it’s really nice. I didn’t want to accept a gift like that.”

Delly shakes her head, frowning lightly. “Katniss… I don’t wear gold.”

I feel the light papers under my arm get heavier, like the weight of something I can’t name has settled over them. The air shifts too, just slightly. I blink, forcing my expression blank.

“Oh,” I say dumbly.

Theres a pause. Delly watches me for a second, expression softening. Then she lets out a light laugh, “So… let me get this straight. Your fiancé gives you a necklace, knows you’ll make a fuss, so he pretends it’s from me?” She laughs, soft and a little smug. “God, you two are the cutest couple of liars I’ve ever met.”

The word liars sinks deep into my gut. It shouldn’t matter. What should matter is the necklace. The fact that he gave it to me. That he didn’t want credit for it. That I’ve never worn it again.

But it’s the word liars that echoes. Like it confirms everyone can see it. This contracted lie we are both in. Is it that obvious?

“Seriously Katniss. You guys are kind of giving the rest of us hope. True love does exist,” she winks, like that’s a good thing.

I feel nauseous. There it is again, that loaded word. Love. 

People do crazy things for love. Love is dangerous, and powerful. It ruins people. It’s a weapon… and a threat.

Hope? Hope is just another way to aim it.

I clear my throat, trying to force it all down. “Yeah. We’re… full of surprises.”

Delly laughs. “I’ll say. I’m still waiting for that wedding invitation!”

I manage something between a laugh and a scoff, already stepping backward. “Don’t hold your breath.”

And then out the door before the heat in my chest can crawl up into my face.

The hallway feels colder than it did five minutes ago.

I replay Delly’s voice in my head.

Cutest couple of liars I’ve ever met. Cutest couple of liars. Couple of liars. Liars.

I press the elevator button too hard, like that’ll shut it up in my head. As the button lights up, a new word loops: Love. 

True love.

Love is not what we are. It’s not what this is. Love doesn’t give expensive jewelry and fake engagements, and silence you swallow like it doesn’t suffocate you on the way down. 

The elevator dings. I step in alone. Thank God.

Suddenly, I’m very aware of the necklace still in my drawer. Of the coffee he handed me this morning. Of his voice. His smile. His hands on my skin.

Another ding. My floor. My feet move before I’m ready.

As I’m walking to Peeta’s office, the sketches tight under my arm, I feel the anger… and fear… and shame… rising again. Fast. Hot. Heavy. 

I reach his door and try to take a couple of breaths. Calm down. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear his voice through the door. Low. Secretive. 

He’s on the phone.

“I just… it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it.”

I freeze, fingers still resting on the handle. My fingers curl tighter around the folder, nails digging into the edges.

My first hope is that he’s talking about the SnowCorp merger. We’re supposed to meet with Snow in a few weeks to finalize the logistics. The how, the when, the oh-god-please-don’t-sell-your-soul details.

“I mean it, Finnick. I should’ve told her sooner, before it got this far. Before it started to feel like…” There’s a pause in which I’m assuming Finnick is responding. Then, a huff. “I wanted to give her the chance to pull back first.”

Another pause occurs while I sit there trying not to feel more embarrassed or ashamed. A mistake? That’s what he thought it was. That’s why he hasn’t tried to talk about it with me. 

That’s fine. Really. I agree, overall. Now we can just go back to work, and I don’t have to wonder where he stands on the matter. 

Then, there’s a soft laugh from him. I hate that it makes my heart flutter while my stomach sinks like a stone. “Yeah, I’ll figure it out. What I’m going to do with her.”

Do with… Do with me?

I step back from the door quietly, carefully. Like I haven’t heard a single thing. Like my brain isn’t already dissecting it word for word, syllable for syllable. You know what? Fine. If he wants to pretend it’s nothing? I’ll show him it’s nothing.

I shove open the door and stomp in.

Peeta’s head snaps up, and for just a second, he looks caught. Then, as always, that calm, collected expression settles over him like armor.

“Finnick, I gotta go,” he says into the phone, voice too casual. “I’ll call you later. Let you know.”
He hangs up.

I cross my arms. “What did Finnick want?”

“His wedding,” Peeta replies smoothly, already standing. “Best man plans. He was telling me where he wants to have his bachelor party. By the way, have you scheduled the dates on my calendar? I want to make sure we don’t have any other events clashing.”

I stare at him. Wedding stuff. Right. Liar. Couple of liars.

“You haven’t confirmed any dates with me,” I say.

Haven’t even confirmed when our supposed wedding is supposed to be.

He shrugs, too nonchalant. “I’ll send you his wedding invitation.” A pause, “You are coming, right?”

“Why would I?”

That hits. I see the flicker in his eyes, the brief confusion, then the slow dawning that something’s off. Very off.

“Because…” he starts carefully, like he’s testing the ice under our feet. “You’re my fiancée.”

Liar. Couple of Liars.

I meet his gaze evenly. “Am I?”

Peeta studies me, brow furrowing. “Unless something’s changed in the last twenty-four hours… has it?”

I stare at him. Longer than I probably should. Let the silence stretch.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I say evenly. “Has something changed for you?”

He falters. Just for a second. Then recovers with a careful shrug, the kind that says don’t look too hard at me .

“No. Of course not.” A beat, “Why would it?”

I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “Right. Why would it.”

There’s a longer silence. He just… stares at me. Like he’s trying to figure something out. And I stare back, waiting. Bracing.

“Sooo…” he starts, and I tense up. 

This is it. He’s going to do it. Rip the band-aid off. Cut it off with me. Say it was a mistake to my fac,e and go back to calling me Miss Everdeen like we’re strangers who don’t know what the other tastes like. 

“Are you going to tell me whatever you came in to tell me?”

Oh.

Right.

Now I feel stupid.

I hand him the folder. “Pitch drawings. Shitty pitch drawings. Meeting tomorrow with the proposal to finish developing and printing them, but it’s hardly finished.” 

He takes the drawings and immediately grimaces. A sigh follows, deep and exhausted, as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, I need to hire people who actually know how to draw.”

Silence stretches between us.

Last month, I could read him in these pauses. Finish his thoughts before he says them out loud. A few days ago, I could read beneath the words he was saying. That’s what happens when you work as someone’s assistant for two years. You learn them completely. 

Now? The silence just feels awkward, Tense. Stretched with everything unsaid by both of us. Especially from him and our ‘ mistake’ .

He’s frustrated, I know that much. Swamped with meetings. Staring at bad mockups. And I don’t know what he needs from me. I don’t know what he wants from me. 

He mutters a curse under his breath. Then, “Can you stay late today?”

I raise a brow. I should’ve seen that coming. Should’ve had the answer (no) ready on my tongue before he even opened his mouth.

“It’s a big pitch,” he says. “I’d rather have you helping me out when I get back than anyone else.”

I narrow my eyes. “Can’t it wait til tomorrow?” Arms crossed, trying not to sound tired, trying even harder not to sound affected.

“We have to propose it tomorrow at 10, we should finish it tonight.”

“Fine,” I mutter.

I don’t look at him. Don’t let myself meet those eyes, I practically drowned in the other night. I just turn around and walk out, before another lie can leave his soft lips. 

We don’t speak the rest of the day. He heads to meetings. I drown in emails and notes, and reminders I don’t bother setting. 

Time stretches. Snaps. Collapses in on itself. And before I know it, the office is quiet. 

I used to love this quiet, when I first started here. It’s the quiet that only happens when everyone else has gone home. The peace settles in you, and the eerie feeling keeps you calm. 

Now it’s just us.

We work in relative silence at first. I’m standing beside him, scanning a draft over his shoulder. He smells like coffee and cedarwood and something uniquely him. I keep my distance. Or at least, I try. But his hand brushes mine when I pass him a marked-up page. A casual touch. Harmless. Still, it shoots through me like a live wire. 

“Katniss,” he says after a few minutes, softly, “why are you avoiding me?” 

I stiffen. “I’m standing right next to you.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

I keep my eyes on the paper. “We’re working, Peeta.”

He sighs, leans back in his chair like he’s trying to find the right words in the ceiling tiles. “No. We’re not.” A pause, “We’re back to pretending, and I want you to tell me why.”

I shake my head, setting the paper down. “What do you want me to say, Peeta?”

“The truth would be a good place to start.”

I swallow hard. My hands twitch at my sides. 

The truth is, I heard him. I heard what he called this: us. I don’t know why I let myself believe anything he said that night in my apartment. 

Maybe it was all just heat-of-the-moment. A convincing lie I fell for. A lie I still don’t understand the purpose of telling. And worse, a lie I believed. 

So I reiterate what he’s already said. Out loud. “We crossed a line. And now we go back.”

This snaps him out of the kindness he was sitting calmly in, “Crossed a line?” His voice is curious, but sharp.

I glance away, throat tight. “It was a… mistake.”” His own words echo through me like a gut punch. And a part of me, a vindictive part, wants him to hurt from hearing it too. Just a sliver. Just enough to taste what he made me feel.

He turns in his chair to face me fully. “Really. That’s what you're calling it?”

I falter. “What else would it have been?”

He stands now, not touching me, but close enough that I feel it anyway. I feel it in my breath, in my spine, in the ache I’ve been pretending not to have.

His voice drops, quieter this time, more dangerous for it.

“Katniss, don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything to you. Don’t rewrite it just to make it easier to live with.”

I bite down on the words that are desperate to come out of my mouth: It did mean something. That’s the problem.

The pause I’ve taken has been too long. He catches it, of course he does. So as he starts to slowly reach out for my hand, I double down.

“But it didn’t mean anything.”

His hand freezes in place. Silence stretches between us, heavy and sharp. And it hurts, but I stay quiet. I cross my arms and keep my mouth set like it’s all so simple

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Then he steps back.

The space he puts between us feels colder than it should.

“Right,” he says, voice flatter now. 

He turns, picks up the marked-up papers I left on the desk. His movements are sharp, efficient. Polished in a way that tells me I’ve just been shut out. But wasn’t I already?

I hover there for a second, unsure if I should sit, speak, apologize . But I don’t. I just watch him flip pages and pretend my ribs aren’t tightening around my lungs.

“This is fine,” he mutters, scanning the notes. “Good feedback. You can go.”

I blink. “What?”

“You look tired,” he says without looking at me. “I’ve got what I need.”

There’s something so polite about it. So professional. It stings.

“I didn’t mean-” I start, but I don’t know how to finish it. Because I did mean it. Not in the way he thinks, but in the way of causing him pain. And I hate myself for it.

He finally looks up. His smile is the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Katniss,” he says. “I’m good at my job too.”

That line lands like a slap. Isn’t that practically the same line I’d used on him for two months? A part of me wants to stay and fight. For what? I’m not sure. 

So I nod once. Tight. Then I leave.

I hope he’ll show up at my apartment again tonight. Rehash the same information from last week. But I know he won’t follow me.

I’m barely holding it together by the time I reach my apartment. The walk home didn’t help. If anything, the silence gave my thoughts more room to spiral.

Why does it hurt so much?

He’s doing the same thing I’m doing; pulling back, pretending. So why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding?

I’m still fumbling with my keys when I see her.

Leaning casually against the wall near my door, arms crossed like she has every right to be there. Oversized sunglasses. A scarf tied dramatically around her head. Like she’s auditioning for a spy movie. At 8:30 p.m.

“Katniss,” she sings, smiling beneath the shades. “What a… quaint little place you have. So charming. Size of my shoe closet!”

I don’t even flinch. “What are you doing here, Glimmer?”

She shrugs, stepping forward like this is some social visit.
“Just came to talk. You know, wedding plans. Dresses. Locations. Seating charts. That sort of thing.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m always serious,” she says, smile sharp. “Especially when it comes to marriage… even if you aren’t.”

She walks past me, heels clicking against the tile, and then pauses.

“Well?” she tilts her head. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? I don’t feel like threatening you out in the hallway.”

I grit my teeth. Classic Glimmer. All glitter and venom.

With a tight smile, I unlock the door and step aside. “Please,” I say, voice flat. “After you.”

We walk inside and she takes her sweet time, eyes sweeping over every inch of the place like she’s appraising it for auction.

“This suits you,” she says finally, nose wrinkling. “Small. Messy. Weirdly annoying. And dark.”

She tosses me a saccharine smile like it’s a compliment.

I don’t rise to the bait. “Get to the point, Glimmer.”

“Oh, come now,” she purrs, circling lazily toward the window. “You don’t even want to pretend with me for a minute? You’re doing such a good job pretending with Peeta.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. She’s not wrong. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s right.

She sighs, almost bored. “You need to call this silly engagement off. We both know it’s not real.”

I grind my teeth together. “And why would I do something that stupid?”

Glimmer shrugs, running a manicured finger along the edge of my bookshelf. “It might just be in your best interest.”

A cold and hollow laugh leaves my throat, “There’s nothing you could have on me that would hurt me. People like you have threatened me before, Glimmer. It doesn’t work.”

She turns, and her smile is gone now. Her eyes are glittering, and not with amusement. With calculation.

“That’s the thing about threats,” she says smoothly. “You don’t go for the person. You go for what they protect. What they love .”

She steps closer.

“You find what they’d burn the world to save. And then you threaten to take that .”

I don’t mean to - I really don’t - but my eyes flick, just for a second, to the photo on the shelf. Me and Prim. Sunlight, summer. Her smile, full and unguarded.

At the same time, I reach to protect the engagement ring on my finger. I think of Peeta.

And that’s all it takes.

Glimmer follows my gaze. First to the picture, then glancing down at my hand. Her smile returns, slow and cruel.

“There it is,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

Then she walks out without another word. I wish I were stronger and had laughed. Instead, fear is swirling in my stomach, and that fear is threatening to be let out into the world, where it could actually hurt me.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since Glimmer's threat... Or lack thereof. I hate it. This waiting. Waiting for a call, waiting for Glimmer to be more specific, waiting for an actual threat.

Break off the engagement? Sure. Easy. It’s not real anyway. But what else does she want? There has to be more. It couldn’t just be that. Is it my final push to get Peeta to take Snow’s merger? I know he's still on the edge. The edge of saying no. But that wouldn’t make sense as a piece of blackmail because why would what I say matter? The board is already pushing him to take it, and at the end of the day, he listens to them. Isn’t that how we got into this mess in the first place?

Peeta’s voice is soft, but it breaks through my thoughts like a crack of thunder.

“Katniss?”

I blink. Realize I’ve been staring out the window for god knows how long.

Peeta’s voice is gentler than usual, but firm. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“No, sorry,” I say quickly, pulling my attention back. “What were you saying?”

“Finnick said he’d match donations up to twenty-five grand. He reached out to Johanna Mason, too- the CEO of ArborLux? Convinced her to match donations. Same amount.”

I nod quickly and jot it down, “Do you have her email? Or assistant's number? I’ll need to get in touch with her.”

He pauses, making me look up from my tablet.

He’s studying me. Trying to figure out a weak point in my shell. 

He responds with his own question instead of being helpful, “Everything okay? You’ve been quiet all week.”

I know the answer he’s hoping for. Something clean. Work-related. Maybe I’m tired, or stressed.

But I’m not tired.

I’m humiliated. Embarrassed. Aching with the memory of the word mistake , aching with fear of what Glimmer will conjure up against my little sister… and Peeta. 

“I’m fine,” I lie.

He turns back to his computer. His expression is unreadable. Gentle. Patient, like always. That might be worse. I can’t tell if he’s giving me space or just doesn’t care enough to push.

“Okay,” he says simply.

That’s it.

No gentle teasing. No peeling me open like he used to. Just a polite nod, and the silence returns.

I wish he would fight me. I wish he would say something.

“I’ll get Johannas' information, send it over to you when I have the chance.” He states. There's a hesitation between both of us. Both wanting to say more, neither taking the opportunity.

Finall,y he adds, “I have the poster mockup. Can I get your opinion on it?”

I nod and round his desk, leaning over his shoulder to glance at his computer. My hand stabilizes me next to his keypad, and I realize for a moment how close I am to him. Probably the closest I’ve been in a while.

The digital mockup of the event poster fills the screen. The drawing was done well; Peeta obviously added his own creative touch to it. Probably let the others just color it in, while praying they wouldn’t screw it up too much.

The poster’s centerpiece blazes in rich reds, yellows, and oranges; an imposing phoenix rises from the water, wings unfurled and flames licking the sky. At the base, nearly lost in the fire’s glow, is a small boat filled with shadowed silhouettes. The image pulses with fierce hope, the promise of rebirth amid chaos, and the quiet strength of those who endure. The tagline we landed on last week: “Breaking Barriers Together – Supporting Families in the Fight for Citizenship”

I look over it for a minute and feel a flicker of something in my chest. Not warmth, but conviction. Something solid.

For probably only the second time in the week, I smile.

“It’s perfect, Peeta.”

He leans back with an exaggerated sigh. “You should’ve seen the first drafts before I stepped in and saved it from eternal mediocrity.”

I squint at him. “I did. The ones I finally sent through to you were the best of them.”

“Well, that doesn’t say much for our team. Remind me why I hired them?”

Our team?

The word catches me off guard, because it’s strange. This is his team, it always has been. I can’t help but wonder why I’m suddenly being included in this. Like I’m not more than just his assistant. Like he hasn’t made that very clear with the word he chose. 

Mistake .

I raise a brow. “I assumed it was for the tax break.”

He smirks. “You think I hired five designers just to make myself look generous?”

“I think you’d hire five designers just to prove you could do it better.”

Peeta lets out a soft laugh, a real one, and it lands like a pebble dropped into still water. Quiet, but impossible to ignore.

For a moment, it’s just us.

No tension. No silence. No bruised pride or lingering looks. Just a sliver of our old rhythm. The easy back-and-forth that used to make every smile for the cameras feel oddly real. 

And I feel it. That flicker. 

So he still has the possibility of being normal with me. Still capable of making me feel like maybe I’m not totally alone in this thing. 

It shouldn’t make my chest ache the way it does, but here we are. 

“Well,” he says, locking eye contact with me, “I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

“Of course I do.” I don’t mean to let the softness weep into my voice, but I can tell I did by his reaction. His own softening, leaning forward slightly, eyes tracing my face again. 

So with sarcasm lacing my voice, I add, “On occasion.” As if that is going to make it better. As if I’m not going to be replaying this scene in my head when I fall asleep tonight. How he’s looking at me right now, how I responded softly , how I pulled back immediately. 

His small smile is another shot of nostalgia. The kind he used to give me before meetings, before cameras, when it was just us in passing glances and late nights and stupid inside jokes that meant more than they should’ve.

“I’ll take what I can get,” he murmurs, but the way he’s looking at me? It’s more than that. Like he’s searching for the part of me that let him in once. Like he’s hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’ll let him stay.

But why would he want that? Why would he want me to let him back in, let him stay? He made his choice. I’ve made mine. Obviously, my choice might’ve been influenced by his.

I can’t get the stupid word out of my head. Every time I think things might be good between us, or that he might actually want me back, that word comes back. Mistake . If I were such a mistake, why would he say what he did that night? Why would he be sitting here, looking at me with hope and admiration and… What is that? What else is in his eyes when he looks at me that makes me confused, and intrigued, and think: maybe he didn’t mean that word when he said it on the phone? 

I force a scoff and stand up quickly, stepping back from his desk, needing the air. “Don’t get used to it.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it dims a little. Like he’s used to this part of me now. The retreat. The shield. The part that punishes him for letting me get close.

“Noted,” he says softly.

I hate how gentle he is. How he doesn’t push. I hate how much I wish he would.

I start walking toward the door. “I’ll reach out as soon as I get Johannas' information. I reached out to a few other companies, waiting to hear back from some.”

“You don’t have to do that.” He says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. So quiet I almost miss it. I’ve reached the doorway, and I turn around to say: Yeah, I do, it’s my job . But he clarifies his statement slightly louder, “You don’t have to shut me out.”

I cross my arms again, as if it’s armor and will protect my heart. I stare at him, trying to figure out what answer he wants from me. Which answer could fix the situation we are in. He sighs and looks out the window, stuck in the same deep thought I was in a few minutes ago.

I think about everything I could say. Everything I should say. The truth. A lie. What’s the difference anymore?

So I say the only true thing ruminating on my mind, “I’m trying not to, Peeta.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just moves his gaze slowly from the window to me. Analyzing me. Dissecting me.

The floor is suddenly too interesting for me to pry my eyes away from, knowing I can’t look him in the eye for what I’m about to say next. “But you make it really hard.”

“I do?”

He does, just not in the way he thinks. Not in the way I made it sound. 

He makes it hard because he doesn’t push. He waits. Somehow, he finds the cracks in my walls I’ve spent years trying to hide and fill- and instead of breaking them down? He shines through, reminding me there’s light on the other side. Never forceful, never demanding. He simply waits for me to take them down.

I glance up, and regret it immediately. He looks concerned, worried, and a secret third thing I can’t decipher. I want to say hopeful, but what do I know.

I shrug, as if this is nothing to me. As if I’m not crumbling to pieces with vulnerability. Vulnerability has never come easily to me. Not with anyone but Prim.

My eyes find the window, as if it will help me see clearly. Like maybe, if I stare long enough, I’ll find a version of this future that doesn’t feel so heavy. A peaceful middle ground.

“I’m not trying to make things hard for you, Katniss, I just…” a pause, “I want things to be how they were between us.”

Part of me sinks. 

I don’t want what we were . I want more. More nights like the one where we both stopped pretending. At least… I thought we did. 

“Can they ever be?” I ask the window.

“I don’t know. But I want to try. It’s worth it to try.” 

I shrug again, arms crossed, not letting him get through to my soul. My heart. My body.

I drag my eyes back to his, “How are you going to try when I don’t make this easy?”

He holds my gaze, unwavering. “Nothing about you has ever been easy, but I’ve never cared.”

That catches me off guard. I want to snap back, to remind him all the times he did care too much, or too little, but the honesty in his voice cuts through my defenses.

Before I can say anything, he shifts, clearing his throat. “Even though you might not be easy, Katniss, you make everything else easier. That’s what I…” He stops and softens, just a little more, “That’s what I like about you.”

He says the last part so quietly, I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Like . Not need, not love, just like. Peeta likes everyone. It doesn’t mean much for me.

Yet it still lands like a weight in the center of my chest, pressing down on all the pieces I’ve worked so hard to keep in place.

I lean against the doorframe and take in his statement. “I make things easier for you? With my sarcastic remarks and constant glaring?”

He smiles at that. 

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I meant. Not that you defend me in meetings. Or make sure people don’t take advantage of me. Or that you glare enough to keep everyone on their toes… on my toes.” His smile fades, just a little, “Definitely not any of that.”

For a second, I almost believe it. That maybe all the sharp edges I carry have carved out a space for something good. That maybe, to him, I’ve been more than difficult- but worth the difficulty. 

But that hope feels dangerous. Too close to something I can’t afford to want or need.

So I settle for the safer route and offer him a small smile, “No. Of course not.”

I can tell he sighs, even if I don’t hear it. His eyes stay on me for a few moments before he finally turns back to his computer, where the fundraiser poster still glows on the screen.

He clears his throat, which has become dry apparently, “You’re still my date for the fundraiser next weekend, right?”

I frown, “I have a choice?”

“You’re under contract, sure. But I’m asking you to be my date.”

I roll my eyes, trying to hide the real smile that’s forming, “Since you obviously can’t find anyone else to accompany you to this very fancy cocktail attire event, or be fake-engaged to, I’ll accept.”

“No, I could find someone else. I just want you.”

I can feel the blush coming up my cheeks, so I scoff and add, “Right, well, I want you to quit distracting me and find Johannas' information.”

He shakes his head slowly with a quiet laugh, as if he knew how I would respond, and says, “I distract you?”

I push off the doorframe and point at him, “Johannas' information.”

His hands go up in mock surrender, and he turns back to his computer. I try not to smile as I walk away. But there it is. Lingering, just beneath the surface. Just like him.

I’m barely back at my desk when my phone buzzes. 

Prim’s name flashes across the screen, and everything in me comes to a stop.

There was no warning, no countdown, no official blackmail. She got to Prim. She found something, and this is it. Prim is calling to tell me Glimmer posted something career-damaging, life-ending, or worse-

“Prim? Is everything-”

“Katniss! I got it!” Her voice bursts through the speaker, bright and breathless, “I got the job with Dr. Halbrook! After graduation, starting in the fall!”

For a moment, I forget about anything else. I forget about Peeta, Glimmer's threats, and fake relationships that have to come to an end eventually. All of it.

In this moment, it’s just Prim. My sister. Laughing in my ear.

And I get to be happy for her.

“Prim! That’s amazing !” My voice breaks a little with my statement, “I knew they’d offer it to you. They’d be stupid not to.”

I hear her laugh on the line, and the sound is sunlight. It cuts through the fear, doubt, and weight that’s settled on my shoulders over the past week. 

But the relief feels like smoke in an open sky. 

Already fading.

Prim keeps talking, telling me about the offer and how excited she is, and I try to stay with her. I try.

But the world around me is suddenly narrowing. My chest feels too tight for my body, and it’s starting to crush my lungs. 

I can’t catch my breath, but I know I’m breathing. 

I know I am. I can hear it. I can count it. But I can’t feel it. I can’t feel the air inflating my lungs.

I find it in me to breathlessly mutter, “I’m sorry Prim, I’ll call you back.” Then I hang up and shove my way into the nearest bathroom that is on my route towards my desk. 

The door shuts behind me, and I twist the lock desperately fast. Just in time

My hands land on the sink, and that’s when I feel it. My face is wet. Am I sweating?

My eyes are blurry, my breath is shallow. And then I hear the oddest, softest, broken sounds. Whimpers.

They’re coming from me. 

My knees buckle before I can stop them. I collapse, my hands above me still trying to stabilize on the sink. The tile is cold beneath me, so I let go and push my back up against the wall, arms wrapping my legs close. 

The bathroom is too bright. Too white. Too clean. It’s not for me.

My body shakes with every breath I try to take, like it’s fighting against me. 

I press my forehead to my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse. It makes every sound louder. 

I can’t stop whatever Glimmer will find. Whatever she’ll curate. 

I clench my jaw and try to stop the spiral from coming. But it bears teeth.

I can’t protect them. I would let myself burn before Glimmer touches my sister. Before she touches Peeta. I just hate living in this state of waiting. Waiting for her to pounce. Waiting to lather myself up with gasoline and give her the matches. 

Whatever she wants, I’ll probably do it. Because she was right. You don’t go after someone, you go after what they love. And I love my sister. 

I don’t know how long I sit here. It could’ve been 10 minutes, could’ve been 30. It doesn’t matter. Eventually, the storm in my chest starts to settle. Still there, but quieter now. Bearable. 

I wish Peeta were here with me. I don’t know why.  There’s no real rhyme or reason to it. Nothing specific I can point to. Just the ache of his absence.

I think about the conference two months ago. The one where Glimmer made some vague threat that was hardly a threat, not like the one she is going to make. I remember he had stepped between us, stopping her. He pulled me aside after that, eyes shining with anger, saying something like, “It was a threat. I didn’t like it.”  

What would he say now? What would he do if he found out about this real threat? 

I sit on the floor of the bathroom, trying to calm myself before I go back to work, and I think about what else he said. 

“I’m just saying,” his voice was soft, filled with concern, “ you shouldn’t have to stand there and take it alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I’d replied, “You were standing right there. Looking like you were going to leap across the floor and bite her or something.”

He had brushed imaginary dust off his suit and said, “Tempting.”

I’d probably rolled my eyes. Acted like it didn’t matter. But maybe… maybe he had a point. 

I can be sharp, and difficult. I know I get under people’s skin, and a lot of the time I enjoy doing that. But maybe, for once, I don’t want to stand here and face this alone.

Maybe I want someone to stand with me. Someone in my corner.

Maybe… I want it to be Peeta.

Chapter Text

I walk into his apartment wearing a black satin slip dress that clings just enough to feel dangerous. The hem brushes mid-thigh, and there’s a low swoop in the back that’s almost too much. Almost. Around my neck, the gold necklace he gave me rests cool and delicate against my collarbone. I wonder if he’ll notice. If he’ll say something about it. If he’ll remember.

He’d texted me twenty minutes ago:

Come over before the fundraiser. I need opinions on the best suit to wear tonight. Are we matching?

Also bring the speech cards.

The door is unlocked like he promised, and I let myself in quietly. For a moment, he doesn’t hear me.

He’s standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose around his neck, hair still damp from a recent shower. His eyebrows are drawn together, focused on the papers in front of him, lips moving silently as he reads. He looks effortlessly handsome, like this version of him doesn’t even try and still manages to knock the air from my lungs.

I shut the door just loud enough for him to hear.

He looks up.

And when he sees me, his entire face changes, softens in that slow, unguarded way he only ever gives me .

“Wow,” he breathes, taking a step closer, eyes dragging down my figure before finding their way back to my face. “You look...”

I raise an eyebrow. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to sounding sincere.”

That earns a faint smile, one that tugs gently at the corner of his mouth. “I was going to say stunning, but sure, insufferable works too.”

My heart stutters, just once.

His eyes flicker to my neck. The gold catches in the light.

He doesn’t say anything about it. But he notices. I can tell by the pause. The way his jaw shifts slightly. The way his eyes linger just a second too long.

And then he’s turning away, walking over and grabbing two suit jackets off the back of the couch.

“Okay,” he says, holding them up like shields. “Navy or charcoal? Be honest. I’m aiming for ‘respectable’’ but I’ll settle for ‘makes Katniss smirk.’”

I shorten the distance between us and grab both from his hands, lining each one up separately to him. 

“Charcoal,” I decide, “Brings out your eyes more. And dare I say it might even make me smile.”

“A full smile? I’d be lucky.”

I chuckle. Quiet, involuntary. “Don’t get greedy now.” I hand him the charcoal suit, our hands brushing. 

He takes it, but he doesn’t move. Just stands there holding it, his eyes flicking up to mine and then back down again.

I narrow mine slightly. “Are you going to go get changed, or say whatever you’re obviously holding back?”

He scoffs under his breath, looking away, and for a second I think that’s the end of it. But when he turns back, his eyes catch on the necklace.

“You haven’t worn it since the conference,” he says quietly.

My hand lifts to it before I can stop myself, fingers brushing the small pendant like it might burn me. I laugh once, short and nervous. “Well… I didn’t want to ruin it. It was a really thoughtful gift.” 

Theres a pause, another silence hanging between us. So I clear my throat and carefully add, “I’m surprised Delly let me keep it.” 

It’s not really a statement. It’s a question, and we both know it. We both know the truth, I’m just dangling it there for him. Silently trying to get him to admit it. To take back the word of mistake and replace it with meaning. 

His jaw shifts slightly. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s debating whether to say it or swallow it down.

“She didn’t,” he says finally. His voice is soft, but there’s something firmer beneath it. 

My chest tightens, breath catching. I try to keep my expression neutral, like I hadn’t been waiting, hoping , for that exact confession.

Still, my voice is too quiet when I ask, “Then why did you say it was, Peeta?”

He looks at me then. Really looks at me. His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften. If anything, it steadies like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Because I didn’t think you’d take it if you knew it was from me.”

I can’t speak. I don’t know how. I don’t even know what to feel.

But he keeps going, voice low and careful, almost like he’s afraid that if he stops- I’ll run. 

“And I wanted you to have it. I saw it and—” he exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a small, incredulous smile. “It just looked like you. Strong, and sharp, and too damn beautiful to ignore.”

My fingers are still resting on the pendant. I drop my hand.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. So I settle for something safe. Something I don’t mean.

“Well,” I murmur, “You were right. I wouldn’t have taken it.”

But the look in his eyes tells me he doesn’t believe that.

There’s a long pause. Neither of us moves. He’s waiting for me to say more. A thank you, maybe. A kiss?

Instead I ask it. That quiet, unavoidable, question that’s been on my mind for weeks, “Why did you call it a mistake?”

His brow furrows slightly. “What did I call a mistake?”

I exhale, but it shakes on the way out. “I heard you. On the phone. With Finnick. It was just barely over two weeks ago. You said that night, when you came to my apartment… you called it a mistake.”

The shift in him is immediate. His whole posture changes, straighter, tense, like he’s bracing for impact.

“What- I didn’t- you were the one who said you wanted to ignore it Katniss.”

“Only after I heard what you said. I thought it’d be better that way.”

“Do you still think that?”

I don’t answer right away. Just stare past him for a moment. “Most of the time,” I lie. “Yeah.”

He lets out a bitter sort of breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “What else did you hear?”

I draw my eyes back to him, but he’s already watching me. Like he never stopped.

He’s not denying it.

“I didn’t hear much. I was pretty distracted. You know, by feeling stupid. And used.”

“Katniss,” his voice is apologetic, regret leaking into my name. He reaches out, fingers brushing toward mine. “You weren’t-”

I pull back my hand quickly before he can touch it. He flinches, and I hate that he flinches at my movement. 

“You need to get changed.” I say quietly, turning before I can see his face again. “We’re going to be late.”

He stays where he is, hand still hovering in the air like he doesn’t know whether to reach again or just let it fall.

For a second, I think he’s going to push. That he’ll say something else, demand something real from me. Let the truth be laid out between us. 

Then his jaw tightens. His eyes flicker with all the things he wants to say.

But he doesn’t.

He exhales, sharp and quiet, and then turns around. Walks to the bedroom without another word.

I stand there, staring at nothing. My eyes burn. Hot. Heavy. But I won’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Not where he might see.

So I blink until the sting fades, until the sound of the door clicking shut behind him is all that’s left.

And I pretend it doesn’t hurt.

The ride over is silent.

I hand him his speech cards as his driver picks us up, and we pull out onto the street. He murmurs a thanks, flipping through them one by one, reading under his breath. Over and over. Like he doesn’t already have them memorized. Like if he says them enough times, it’ll fill the space between us with something less damning.

I watch the city lights blur past the window. My hands stay folded in my lap. We don’t speak.

When the car finally slows to a stop, the world outside feels loud. Cameras already flashing at the entrance, voices rising with anticipation.

He starts to open his door, but I reach for him first. Without thinking, I slide my hand into his.

He looks over, startled for a second, but doesn’t let go.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. Because whatever happened before, whatever was said or left unsaid, I’m still glad he’s here with me.

His presence steadies something in me, and I’m going to need it. Because Glimmer’s inside, and I still don’t know what she has on me. 

The car opens to a wall of sound. Peeta steps out first, then helps me out. My heels hit the pavement and I square my shoulders. Smile. Breathe. Pretend. 

Flashes are going off as we start walking up the staircase. The press follow close.

“We really admire all the hard work you’ve put into this Peeta,” one of the reporters says over all the commotion. She angles her mic towards him, an unsaid question asked.

Peeta smiles his natural, disarming grin that makes everyone lean in a little closer. “Well, I’m lucky to have such a great fiancee to help me.” He kisses my cheek, and the reaction is immediate.

A few camera flashes go off in quick succession. Someone lets out a dramatic “aw”. I force a smile, even as my eyes sweep over everyone who is arriving. I see Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, Johanna Mason. 

But I don’t see her . 

Peeta beside me has put on his charm, answering questions with ease.

“What made you choose this fundraiser?”

“What’s your connection to this cause?”

“What are your hopes with the merger for SnowCorp?”

“When is the wedding?”

He’s articulate. Passionate. Present. All the while giving vague answers that he won’t have to follow up on later. 

I stay quiet, smiling where appropriate, letting him do the talking. He’s better at this. At people. At keeping the narrative controlled.

But then a new voice cuts through the crowd, this time directed at me.

“Ms. Everdeen,” a woman near the front leans over, mic in hand. “You’ve remained pretty silent through all this. How has it been, stepping into such a public role? Does it feel real yet?”

My mouth opens slightly, caught off guard.

Real?

The cameras flash. The weight of Peeta’s hand in mine suddenly feels warmer. More grounding. My heart beats faster, not just because of the question, but because I don’t know how to answer it honestly.

Because it is real to me now. In ways they’ll never understand. In ways Glimmer could ruin.

I manage a practiced smile. “It’s been… an adjustment,” I say, carefully. “But I’ve had a good partner to walk through it with.”

Peeta glances sideways at me, and squeezes my hand once. Whether it's support or gratitude, I can’t tell.

But I hold on tighter anyway.

The reporters start shouting again, questions piling on top of each other like a wave about to break. Peeta raises a hand, calm but firm. “That’s all the questions we’ll be answering for now.”

Some of them groan, others keep their cameras flashing.

He offers them a smile, smooth as ever. “We hope you’ll continue to throw your support behind this cause. This fundraiser isn’t just a photo op, with big names. It’s about real people. It’s about families being torn apart by outdated policies, and the fear that far too many live with every day.”

He glances across the crowd, his voice firming. “We believe the system can be changed. It has to be. And tonight, we’re standing with those who are fighting for that change. We are fighting for safety, for dignity, for a path to citizenship that doesn’t come with fear.”

He looks back toward the doors, then adds, “So thank you for being here. Thank you for listening. Let’s not just talk about it, let’s do something.”

They press burst back into trying to ask questions. Instead, Peeta gently tugs on my hand and guides us toward the entrance.

Inside, the lights are warmer, but the pressure is heavier. Laughter echoes off the vaulted ceilings, champagne flutes clink, and every few feet someone stops Peeta to shake his hand, to compliment his vision, to congratulate us both.

I smile when I’m supposed to. Nod. Stay close. Let his hand rest against my back. 

And then just like that, it’s just us again.

Peeta shifts beside me, his hand still grazing the small of my back despite no one watching us. His voice is low when he says, “You handled them well. The press. You always do.”

“They’re not that scary.”

He glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. “You are.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, but there’s something sharper behind his smile. “You walk into a room and people pay attention. You hold your ground. You’re terrifying in the best possible way.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything. Just let myself breathe for a moment, trying to hold on to the calm before everything spirals again. Because it always does. And I can already feel it coming.

“Katniss I know what you think you heard on the phone that day… But it’s not that.” He pauses, waiting for me to interrupt or argue. For once I don’t. I stand still and listen. 

“I was talking with Finnick about us, that’s true.” He swallows nervously. It’s weird to see Peeta, usually bossy and always confident, surrounded by this quiet cloud of unease. He continues, “But what you didn’t hear was-”

“Peeta! There you are!” Delly cuts him off, bright and oblivious as she bounces into view. She doesn’t notice the way we both go rigid. She doesn’t feel peetas hand twitch like I do against my back, a twinge of annoyance towards the interruption. 

“I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere. Peeta, my intern has been BEGGING to meet you. This is Savannah,” Suddenly Delly pulls out of nowhere a girl roughly my age with thick black, wavy hair. 

Delly smiles, “She has been looking forward to talking with you tonight.”

“Wow, Mr. Mellark, you are even hotter than your photos.”

I raise my eyes at Delly, she laughs. Peeta awkwardly shifts and moves his hand to slip into mine, pulling me closer. 

“Thank you.” A smile. But it’s not the kind of smile he gives at galas or in interviews. It’s the forced one, the one that doesn't reach his eyes. The one I’ve seen a hundred times when he's uncomfortable but too polite to say so.

“I just wanted to say I think everything your doing is amazing. It’s not everyday we see someone with your status using his power to uplift stories like mine and my families.”

As Savannah talks with Peeta, her words coated in admiration and maybe a little too much lingering eye contact, I let my eyes drift around the room. Looking for Glimmer. 

That’s when I make eye contact with someone else, someone still familiar. 

Gale. 

Across the room, near the bar. Leaning against a pillar, his eyes find mine, as if he’s been waiting this whole time for me to look at him. And then he tips his chin toward the hallway just behind him.

Subtle. Deliberate.

My stomach turns.

He knows something. Something about her .

I shift beside Peeta, leaning in close so only he can hear me. “I’m going to use the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

He starts to turn toward me. “Do you want me to-”

But I’m already slipping my hand from his and moving away.

I don’t look back. I can’t. Because whatever Gale’s about to say, I know it won’t be good.

I slip into the hallway, the noise of the fundraiser muffled behind the door. Before I can even catch my breath, Gale’s voice is low, urgent.

“I tried to stop it, Katniss. Really, I did. I tried to protect you and Prim. But she’s found something.”

My heart skips, tight in my chest. “What did she find?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes drop, pleading. “I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it, but it’s out of my control.”

“What do you mean you thought I could handle it?” I ask, my voice low but firm.

Gale hesitates, swallowing hard. “She came to me first. Glimmer. Asked me to dig. I thought if I gave her surface-level stuff, she’d drop it eventually. I gave her some info about Prim, but—”

“You gave her information?” I cut him off, voice rising. “Gale, do you even understand what you did?”

He snaps, frustrated. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else. Someone who’d find way worse.”

He steps closer, hand reaching out. I recoil, stepping back.

“What. Did. You. Give. Her?” Each word is a knife wound into him.

“An underage drinking ticket. It was buried. Passed off as some community service picking up trash.”

I remember that. Prim wasn’t even drinking; she was driving other underage kids. Charges got dropped. But still, she got taken in.

“That wasn’t-”

“I know. But it looks bad. Glimmer’s going to send it to her school’s disciplinary board. Then her internship director. She wants it to look like Prim got special treatment. Or that it got covered up. It’ll hurt her, especially to her medical career. They don’t take those things lightly.”

My fists ball at my sides.

“So what does she want from me?”

He sighs, voice low and hard. “Break off the engagement. Convince Peeta to marry her-”

I scoff. “He hates her more than me. He wouldn’t ever-”

“I’m not done,” Gale cuts in, voice sharp, threatening. This isn’t the Gale I grew up with. The one who promised he’d protect my family, and I’d protect his. “He wants you to... break his heart. Should be easy enough. The guy looks at you like you’re his whole world.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Gale scoffs. “Katniss, come on. You think I haven’t seen it?” His tone is bitter now, laced with something dangerously close to jealousy. “You breathe near him and he looks like he’s about to rewrite his will in your name.”

I grit my teeth. “Stop.”

“I’m serious,” he pushes. “And you’re either blind, or you’re pretending not to see it. Which is worse?”

My hands clench at my sides. “It doesn’t matter how he looks at me. This isn’t about him.”

“Yes it is,” Gale snaps. “It’s all about him. And Glimmer. And what she’s holding over you. She wants you gone. The city, the state, wherever. She wants you to disappear. Without a trace.”

I swallow hard. “Why?”

Gale’s voice softens, just a bit, and he looks away. “Because you’re a threat, Katniss. If she wants things her way, she needs you out of the picture. Because you’re strong. Smart. Protective.”

I look down.

“I’ll go with you.” Gale adds.

My eyes snap back up, “I don’t want you anywhere near me or my family Gale.” 

His eyes weaken, “Katniss it wasn’t my fault. The ticket is easy to push under the rug. You’re lucky I did this for you.”

“I’m lucky? I’m lucky Gale?” I scoff shaking my head. “After everything. All our promises, our protection, telling eachother we would never become like them. You are exactly like Snow and Glimmer. Worse. You became them.” 

His eyes darken, “Don’t act like Peeta isn’t included in that statement.”

“You don’t get to talk about Peeta.”

“Oh, Katniss. Don’t tell me you actually like the guy.”

I hesitate, and that’s all he needs.

“Katniss, really? Him ? He’s- God, he’s everything we hate. Arrogant. Uses his wealth for stupid things. Has drivers take him everywhere. And has you do everything for him. He’s an elite asshole. Do you think he actually cares about this?” He gestures around the fundraiser. Fury rises inside me.

“You’re everything I hate, Gale.” He opens his mouth to speak more but I cut him off, “Peeta is kind. Good. Gentle. He does care about this. Who do you think chooses what we fundraise for? Who spends late nights rewriting and redrawing presentations because he wants it perfect? It’s his vision. You don’t get to talk about him like you know him. Because you don’t.”

“And you do?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Gale shakes his head, bitter. “You are blind, Katniss.”

I square my shoulders. “Get out, Gale. We’re done.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine.” My voice is cold now. Steady in a way I don’t feel. “Then I’ll leave.”

I turn on my heel, shoes sharp against the marble, and storm toward the end of the hall. I round the corner too fast, slamming directly into a broad chest.

Strong hands catch me. Steady me.

Peeta.

He holds onto my arms just a second longer than necessary, eyes scanning my face. His touch is gentle, grounding, and completely unraveling.

“Katniss?” he murmurs, brows drawn together. “Are you—?”

Then Gale appears around the corner, slowing when he sees us. He scoffs loud, dismissive. Then he mutters, “Right. Good luck, Katniss. You’ll need it.”

Peeta’s gaze snaps to him, then flicks back to me. 

He lets me go. I want to collapse. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Confusion, yes, but layered with something heavier. Something close to betrayal.

“Are you done talking to your boyfriend?” he asks.

I feel something in me crack, about to break. That’s what he thinks Gale and I are? After I just defended him, his empire, his name. He just thinks I’m making a fool out of him. It spikes anger in me that I can’t quite define. Anger and a black hole.

“Not right now, Peeta.” I go to shove around him but he grabs me by my hand and spins me back to look at him.

“Katniss, I’m sorry. That wasn’t… Please, just tell me whats going on.” His eyes switch from blame to guilt and worry.  

But I can’t answer. Not yet. My mouth opens, but the words don’t come. My throat feels tight again. I can still hear Glimmer’s threats echoing in my ears. She didn’t even have the gall to do it directly. She sent someone who used to be my best friend instead. That hurts worse. 

He’s still holding my hand, and all I want is to lean into him. I just don’t want to be alone with this anymore.

My lungs start tightening. The hallway feels too bright. I blink, trying to steady myself, but the walls feel like they’re closing in.

“I can’t-” I gasp, barely above a whisper, my eyes darting toward the ballroom doors, toward anywhere but him.

Peeta doesn’t hesitate.

In one swift motion, he pulls me gently but urgently toward a nearby door. He pushes it open, guides me inside, and closes it behind us.

A coat closet.

Dim. Quiet. Hidden.

No one sees us go in.

He lets go of me only to turn and lock the door, then turns back. “Hey,” he says softly, hands coming up to hover near my arms. “Breathe, Katniss. Just breathe.”

I shake my head, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes. “I’m fine. I just- I need a second.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, voice low, concerned. “You’re shaking.”

His words aren’t accusatory. They’re laced with worry, with something warm and careful. Something that makes my throat close even tighter.

And for a second, all I want is to fall into him.

But I can’t do that either.

“I told you,” I breathe, not quite steady, “you don’t need to worry about me.”

He doesn’t move, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I always worry about you.”

I sink to the floor, back against the wall, trying to make myself smaller. Maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll disappear into the wood.

Peeta doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask for permission.

He just sits beside me.

Then, slowly, carefully, he pulls me into him. One an arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other resting gently over my hand, grounding me. I don’t resist. I lean into the warmth of him, the steadiness of him.

And that’s when the tears come.

Quiet. No sobs. No gasps for breath. Just silent crying, like my body is mourning something it hasn’t even named yet. It’s not one thing. It’s everything . The fear. The confusion. The lies. The not knowing what comes next.

He holds me like he’s done it before. Like he remembers how. Like he never forgot.

Neither of us says a word.

He just lets me break in peace.

A few quiet minutes pass. Two, maybe three. The kind that feel longer when you're falling apart.

Then Peeta shifts, just enough to turn toward me. He gently pulls me from where I’m curled into his chest, his hands warm against my arms. One brushes up to my cheek, wiping away what’s left of my tears. 

His touch is careful, like I might break again if he’s not gentle enough.

“Katniss,” he whispers, voice low and thick with worry, “what happened?”

And somehow, the way he says it- soft, not demanding- makes it even harder to breathe.

My voice comes out before I even realize I’m speaking. Barely above a whisper, like if I say it any louder, it’ll become more real. “Glimmer has something on Prim.” 

Peeta stills. His brows draw together, but he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t ask how or why or what right away. He just waits. Like he always does. He knows me well enough to let the words come out in the order I can manage them. 

“She’s going to send it to her school, to her internship. She wants me to… back off. To leave. To disappear.” My throat closes up again, and I shake my head, tears threatening to fall all over again. “She wants us to break off our engagement and…” 

He stares at me patiently, waiting for me to continue. So I give a dry laugh and look away with an eye roll, “She said to break your heart. She still doesn’t know this is fake. I guess no one does.” 

Peeta’s face doesn’t change right away. But his eyes harden. Just slightly. Like the weight of my words hits somewhere he wasn’t braced for.

His silence stretches, taut like a wire between us. I expect him to brush it off, to play along with the script we’ve memorized by now. Maybe even joke, like he sometimes does when things get too heavy. But he doesn’t.

Then, very quietly, he says, “Stop doing that.”

I freeze. He’s not angry, but his voice cuts through the space between us like a blade. It’s raw, and pleading. 

“Doing what?” I ask quietly. 

He shifts a little closer, his voice still gentle, but there’s an edge to it now. “Act like none of this would matter to me. Like I wouldn’t care. Like it wouldn’t destroy me if you left.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting him to deflect. To tell me it’s okay. That we’ll figure it out. Not… this.

I look down, realizing he moved his hand to be just barely brushing mine. Not grabbing, not forcing, just… offering

“What if it is real?” he asks, eyes searching for any hint of what I’m thinking. “At least on my end.”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than anything Glimmer said.

I want to give him a clear answer, something sharp-edged and definitive to keep this wall between us intact. But all I can manage is the truth.

“I don’t know,” I whisper

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, there’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Like he expected it. Like he knows me well enough to know that not knowing is its own kind of honesty.

I swallow hard, and fight everything in me that says to push down my feelings. “Just let me burn, I’ll take the heat. If it’ll protect Prim… and you.”

“That’s the thing Katniss, you think the only way to survive is by burning.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You don’t need to burn to keep the ones you love warm. If you share that pain, that fire… it doesn’t hurt as much.

His words hang in the air, wrapping around me like warmth I wasn’t sure I needed. I stare at him, trying to absorb what it means. For him, for me, for us. There’s a lump in my throat and a weight pressing against my ribs. 

“Is this… real for you?” I ask, finally. I hope that he hears in my voice how much I want this. It feels like the only time I can tell him. Everything seems to be falling apart anyways. 

He’s still looking at me like I’m a universe he’s memorized. Like I’m breaking and he wants to hold all the pieces steady.

“Why else did you think I came looking for you? Why else do I keep reaching for you, even when you pull away? Even when you fight me, and refuse to listen. Forgiving you, and letting you come back as if it’s not breaking me.” 

I swallow hard. He brushes a stray hair behind my ear, then he lets his hand stay there. Fingers gently laced in my hair.

His voice lowers to a whisper, “I let you break me Katniss because It’s the only way to keep you here with me. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.”

His eyes are so open it hurts to look at them. Like he’s afraid of how this ends, but not afraid of trying. I can see every emotion carved into his expression: the ache, the hope, the quiet devotion.

I realize that I don’t want to be the reason Peeta is broken. I don’t want to be the one who takes his softness, and turns it into regret.

He must see something shift in me, because he leans in just a little bit more, “I let you break me because… I need you. And I’m hoping you need me too.”

Those words hit me like a wave, breaking down every wall I’d built. It’s the final confirmation I needed.

“I do.” I whisper back, barely trusting my voice. 

His eyes filled with quesitons, but I don’t give him time to ask them. Without thinking, and without hesitation, I close the space between us. My lips find his in desperation. It’s everything I’ve been holding back and everything I want to hold onto. 

And he kisses me back, thank God he kisses me back.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer like I might disappear if he lets go. Every doubt, every fear, every ache I’ve carried presses into that moment, and somehow, it all melts away.

His lips move against mine with a mix of urgency and tenderness, like he’s both desperate and gentle all at once. I press my hands back into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid, real, and it fully grounds me.

Then I move into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips as I settle against him. His hands climb my thighs, sitting just beneath the hem of my dress. His fingers dig into me, like he’s trying to tether me to him. I press in closer. 

“Katniss,” he warns, voice low. I ignore it. My fingers tangle in his hair, giving a small tug. His breath hitches against my lips, heavy and ragged.

His hands settle at my waist like he’s trying to anchor us both.

“Katniss,” he says again, more of a plea this time. It makes me stop and pull back, just a little. “Don’t do this unless you mean it.”

The air between us is thick, electric. My fingers tremble where they rest against his jaw. I want to say something clever, something sharp to deflect how raw this feels. But I can’t. There’s no armor left. Just me. Just him. Just the weight of everything we’ve never said, or barely said, crashing into everything we’ve always felt.

It finally hits me. I do mean it. 

I mean it in ways I don’t fully understand yet. I mean it in the way my hands still tremble against his chest, in the way my body fits against his like it was always meant to. I mean it in the way the thought of walking out of this closet and pretending nothing happened feels impossible now.

“I do,” I repeat the two words like vows, then state my truth I’ve been holding, “I want this. You. I want you.”

Something breaks in his expression then. Something soft. Something vulnerable. He just looks at me for a moment, like he’s trying to memorize every part of this. Of me. Then he leans in, and this time the kiss is different. Softer. Slower. It isn’t about urgency now, it’s about being sure. About feeling everything all at once and not rushing past any of it. 

His lips brush mine like he’s trying to say all the things neither of us know how to put into words. His hands stay steady at my waist. My fingers curl at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little closer, feeling the warmth of his skin under my fingertips.

He exhales into the kiss, like he’s been waiting for it since that night. 

I kiss him back just as gently, just as fully. Because I want to remember this moment. Even if it is just for tonight. 

“But not here.” he murmurs, his hands tracing my thighs which seem more exposed in this position than they should be. His eyes are screaming with desire.

I pull back a little more, my eyes filling with defiance and questions. 

“Why not?” I breathe, every word trembling.

He swallows hard, and chooses his words carefully as if plucking them individually from a hat. “Becasue if we start… I’m not going to be able to stop. And I’m not sure I’d want to.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Heavy.

His words settle somewhere low in my stomach, spreading like fire. I’m not sure I’ve ever been looked at the way he’s looking at me now. Like I’m the only thing keeping him in control. Like I’m the only thing thats about to make him lose it.

Still in his lap, I feel the tension ripple through his body, the restraint it’s taking for him not to pull me back in. His knuckles are white where his hands grip my upper thighs, holding me there and holding himself back all at once.

My voice breaks through his tension, “I don’t want you to stop.”

His eyes close, like the words hurt. Or heal. Maybe both. He leans his head backwards with a soft thump against the door. 

“Katniss.” he says, voice low, cracked open. He opens his eyes again and he searches my face with a silent plead. “Don’t make me be the responsible one.”

I lean forward again, barely brushing my lips against his.

“You’ve never been the responsible one.” I whisper against his mouth.

He exhales hard, the last thread of his restraint unraveling, but neither of us move forward. Neither of us kiss again. 

I rest my forehead against his and let him hold me like this for a moment. His fingers trace slow, soothing circles on my thighs. He gives me the time I need to think. To clear my head. To choose him for real, once we leave this closet.

“About Glimmer…” I finally start. He frowns, but the gentle movement on my thighs doesn’t stop. “We’ll find something on her. Should be easy enough.”

He shakes his head, voice quiet but firm. “We don’t need to be like her Katniss. We don’t need to threaten and lie to get what we want. We don’t have to lose ourselves trying to keep the ones we love safe.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

He takes a slow breath, eyes steady on mine.

“We fight smarter. We hold onto who we are, not what she wants us to become.”

“How do we do that?”

“Backing out of the merger. Letting the board know the truth of who she is. No threats, no lies, just let the truth show itself.”

I don’t say anything. I just nod.

What I want isn’t quiet justice. I want her to burn. I want her and her uncles empire to turn to ash for trying to hurt me. My sister. Peeta.

But Peeta’s looking at me like he believes in something better, and I believe in him enough to try it his way.

But if we burn? I’ll make sure she burns with us.

Chapter Text

Is it better to speak or to die?

I was always confused why people didn’t understand this quote. I felt I knew what it was saying. Is it better to stay silent? Or share your truth, no matter how someone else reacts?

The difference between me and other people is I choose silence. It serves just as high a purpose as speaking. Its powerful. People end relationships over silence. It’s an answer to questions that you’re too scared to ask. It can instill fear in others. But why does silence have to contribute to death? 

Peeta always speaks. He doesn’t let silence be his statement like I do. He has all the words. He knows how to use them, how to make them powerful.

“Katniss?” Peeta's voice slices through my inner ramble. 

My eyes shoot up, and I hum a response.

“The quarterly budget notes, do you have them?”

Right. Of course. 

No gentle “How are you holding up?” or flirtatious move. 

Just business. Numbers. Charts. Stupid budget meeting reports.

I hum again and quickly grab out the notes from the folder I brought, handing them over to where he is sitting on the other side of his couch. 

Peeta had texted me about an hour ago, around 9 pm (of course), saying we had to review the notes on the budget reports due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’. The original report included the next few months goals involving the merger. The dissolving and integration of different departments. But now… well, we needed to rewrite the entire thing.

We’re just doing a final review of it before tomorrow. Before he lays it all out to his staff. And afterwards, the board.

I almost said no. Showing up at his apartment? Late at night? When we still haven't talked officially about last week's closeted make out session? No way.

But then he added that he was really craving Chinese takeout.

And so was I.

He opens the documents, glancing over them, pretending to read them.

He nods, as if this confirms every single question he’s ever had. As if this silence between us right now answers his questions.

I wish I could speak again. The same as I did in that closet. You’d think it’d be easier now, this knowing. Knowing he wants me. Knowing I want him. You think that it would be rainbows and butterflies and now we could be a real couple. 

But if that’s how it was, would it be us? 

Instead I greet him with silence. With kisses behind closed office doors. With lingering glances, and brushing hands. 

“Looks good,” he states, “I’m sure the board will absolutely have a field day with it. Losing money by the bucketloads.” 

He passes back the report to me while I avoid eye contact. I hate this. Feeling like it’s my fault the board will go ballistic on him. His company losing money, possibly even stock holders. It’s my fault he’s not going through with the merger. And Glimmers.

“As if money actually matters.” He adds, trying to be reassuring.

I think about how to respond, because I can feel he is expecting one. Any one. A short chuckle. Or maybe a simple nod. 

My silence continues to speak for me instead.

His breath escapes in a sigh, the sound pulling my head toward him like a current

“Are you really not going to say anything?” He asks.

My mouth opens as if words are going to grace our presence, but I come up short.

“Alright, well if you’re not going to say anything, I’ll take it as… agreement.” He says finally, leaning back into the couch. 

Agreement to what? The stupid budget notes that were already perfect before he invited me over?

I pretend to not notice how much closer he’s gotten to me. Pretend to not notice the faint edge of frustration hidden underneath his calm demeaner.

Agreement.

“You know, Katniss, sometimes silence isn’t powerful. Sometimes it just… hurts.”

I feel a stone drop in my gut. I don’t want to hurt Peeta. I decided that on the fourth of July, when meeting his family. I don’t want to be the reason Peeta loses any spark he might have, or feel like he needs to be silent to get me to speak. 

Love isn’t about changing the other person to fit you. 

I feel my throat burning with potential, but I still don’t speak. Instead I focus in on the budget papers. Putting them in the folder extremely slowly. Making sure they’re nice and neat. Placing it on the tabletop in front of me. Straightening it out. Re-straightening it because I feel like it’s out of place. Like I’m out of place.

And he waits. Patiently. Kindly. He waits for me to fix this pain I’ve brought to him. To bring out a band-aid and place it on his heart, sealing it with a kiss. 

“What if,” I hear myself say, voice fragile and unfamiliar, “silence is all I have?”

The words feel wrong the second they leave me. Too raw, too exposed, and nothing like me.

Regret runs through me instantly, like a wildfire that burns through the brush of insecurity. Maybe it is better to die than speak. To let silence take reign, and to regret not having said anything rather than something. 

My eyes wander to his eventually, where they wait, kind and searching. Searching for the right words to comfort me. But he doesn’t speak right away, and for the first time tonight it’s his silence filling the space between us.

Then he tilts his head, hand reaching out gently to touch one of my French braids. I watch his fingers move carefully, reverently, as if the single braid could unlock everything he needs to know. Everything that is hidden deep within me. 

My breath slows in spite of myself, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to lean into him. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. It’s the tone I think I’ve only ever heard him use with me. “Then I’ll take your silence,” he murmurs. “If that’s all you can give me, Katniss. I’ll take it.”

The words hang in the air, a silent promise. Never demanding more than I can give, or punishing me for what I can’t say. 

Acceptance.

I don’t answer. But instead of the silence filling the space in between, I lean forward and seal the band-aided promise with a kiss.