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“Good morning!” Peeta’s voice is high and accented, a mocking of the Capitol, and it jolts Katniss out of a dreamless sleep. With an eye cracked open, she watches Peeta tug the curtains open, bathing their bedroom in sunlight. Katniss groans, burying herself further under the covers. It was far too early for Peeta’s nonsense.
He did not agree.
In a moment, the sheets were pulled away from her, the chill of the morning making her skin pebble. Damn him and his open windows. “It’s a big, big, big day!” he called, grinning like a fool. He took her hand to pull her up and was met instead with a pillow smacking him in the face. He stumbled back, shocked, then laughed, long and light. Katniss hid her smile, rolling to face away from him. She felt his arms wrap around her waist as he snuggled into her back, his cold nose pressed to the warm skin of her neck. “Well, that wasn’t very nice, Katniss,” he chided, his voice back to normal now.
Katniss snorted, turning to face him. His gaze was soft as he took her in. It made her chest feel warm. “Waking me with flashbacks to mornings spent with Effie isn’t very nice either.”
He smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her eyelid. “Aw, come on, don’t tell me you don’t miss her just a little.”
Katniss pulled back, an eyebrow raised. “I most certainly do not.” He rolled his eyes. He knew it was a lie. Katniss spent most of her days grateful that the mess of the games and everyone involved, save for Peeta and Haymitch, were far away, but she still managed to have something of a soft spot for Effie. She was ignorant, superficial, and somehow still infinitely considerate. Katniss couldn’t help but miss her and her impeccable time management skills just a touch.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Peeta mumbled, nuzzling into her neck once again. Katniss didn’t try to fight the grin that grew steadily on her face.
“Alright, what’s this big, big, big day you’ve got planned for me?” she asked, carding a hand through his tousled curls. Typically, they awoke at the same time. Peeta and his baker’s hours never truly shifted to allow him to sleep in, and Katniss was roused easily by his attempts at slipping from their shared bed quietly. The poor man clambered and stumbled wherever he went. It was like having an oversized dog in the house; Katniss loved it. Today, she’d managed to snooze on through his comings and goings, and now that she was fully awake, she could smell something sweet wafting from downstairs.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Peeta teased, kissing her neck gently. Katniss squirmed under his soft touches, pulling his face from her by his hair, careful but firm. She fixed him with a look, and he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry,” he shrugged, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. His cheeks rounded with his smile, and Katniss decided he was a puppy dog. His wide blue eyes and the tilt of his head—he was adorable.
She cupped his face, and his eyes fell closed. Her thumbs rubbed the apples of his cheeks, and when she was sure he was pleasantly lost to the feeling, she pressed her lips against his. She felt his little puff of air against her mouth and grinned. A moment later, he tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her back eagerly. When they broke apart, he was panting, pink-cheeked, and looking dazed. A smile split his face, and Katniss peppered kisses from cheek to cheek. How many times had they kissed? Hundreds, thousands, surely more. And yet every time, he was flushed and nervous when they parted. It made Katniss’s heart contract painfully. She loved him a ridiculous amount. She told him so, reveling in the kisses he attacked her with a moment later. Their teeth clacked together, and they both dissolved into tired, elated laughter.
After even more kissing, Peeta finally pulled her from their bed, wrapping her in his soft robe—his was larger and therefore much more comfortable; most nights, her identical robe went untouched, slung across the chair in the corner of their room. Peeta did not seem to mind.
He led her downstairs and sat her on their too-big couch. She was practically swimming in the cushions without him there beside her.
“Hurry up, Peeta,” she groaned after he’d been puttering around in the kitchen for a while, that sweet scent from earlier only intensifying, making Katniss’s stomach growl. Without his strong arm around her, she was growing rather chilly on the sofa, and she pulled the robe tighter around her shoulders, tucking her knees to her chest so she could cover her legs, too.
“Impatient woman,” she heard Peeta mumble, and she grinned. A moment later, he was before her, two large plates piled high with food in his hands and a dopey smile on his face.
“What’s this?”
Peeta somehow smiled wider. He set the plates on the table in front of them and settled into the couch beside her, tucking her under his arm. She sighed contentedly as the warmth of him slowly seeped through her clothes. “Well, I’ve been making a list of sorts. Of your favorite things.” Katniss arched a brow.
Peeta had his own memory book for her—things he had struggled to remember, even after months of doctor’s appointments and games of ‘real or not real.’ It had started as a way for him to keep his memories sorted. He’d ask her something, she’d tell him if it had happened or if it hadn’t, often elaborating a little, and he’d hum and jot it down in a little notebook. It developed into something of a scrapbook of her: all his sketches of her, pictures they’d taken since they’d both returned to District 12, pressed primroses, and the notes she left pinned to their bedroom door when she rose extra early to hunt. She wasn’t surprised he’d begun to keep track of the little things she liked. She did the same thing, just in her head. It was still difficult for Peeta to keep track of such small things, even though he wanted to.
“Did you?” she asked, mostly to let him know she was not put off by his notetaking. She found it endearing, if a bit silly.
“I did. And you love food.” Katniss snorted. “What? You do! It’s practically a love language to you. And I’ve noticed the foods you particularly like, and… I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said, quieter than everything else. Probably because he could feel the scowl that had worked its way onto her face.
“Peeta,” she said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
She felt his head shake, then his cheek rested against her hairline. “Wouldn’t have helped. I just needed to do something with my hands. So…” he sat forward, grabbing a plate and presenting it to her. “I baked!”
Baked was an understatement. Sure, there were still-warm cheesebuns and pastries and elegant little cookies that were to die for, but there were also little bits of fried ham, an assortment of berries, a small dish holding some kind of sauce or dip, and another bowl of what she could tell was lamb stew. Katniss’s eyes went wide as she took the plate, lowering her feet to the floor and balancing the dish on her thighs. Her stomach let out an obnoxiously loud rumble, and Peeta chuckled.
“Does that mean it smells good?” he asked.
She wasted no time in grabbing a golden pastry and shoving it in her mouth. She spoke around the baked good, which was so delicate it seemed to melt into buttery, sugary goodness on her tongue, “I knew I loved you for a reason.”
He laughed again, shaking his head fondly as he retrieved his own plate. He had significantly fewer sweet items but the same amount of everything else. At her inquisitive look, he shrugged. “I snack while I bake.”
She smiled and returned to eating everything in front of her as quickly as possible. He did tend to sneak bites of whatever he was making. She remembered a few weeks before, when he’d refused to let her try one of the ripe blackberries he was making a pie with. She’d pouted for half an hour before leaving to hunt. When she returned, he had a smudge of blackberry juice on the corner of his mouth. She’d given him a healthy amount of grief before kissing the sweetness away and demanding he give her a few berries for herself. He had, looking embarrassed to be caught.
It all smelled so good, a heady mixture of sweet from the pastries and savory from the buns and soup. It was not necessarily breakfast food, but if anything, it was even better. The strange assortment told a story—their story. The pastries and breads he learned to make in the bakery, where he’d tossed her that loaf all those years ago. The handful of berries they’d exchanged during their first games. The lamb stewed they’d feasted upon in the cave, then again in the Capitol as he passed the can over to her gingerly—a symbol of hope. Her old Peeta had still been in that fractured mind of his.
And it, of course, was representative of how well he knew her. All her favorite things were right there on her plate. And by her side.
“Better slow down there, girl on fire,” he teased. “You’re going to get sick.”
Through a spoonful of soup, she replied, “Worth it.”
She cleared the plate, less hasty once her stomach was filled, but not wasting a scrap—old habits die hard. They chatted idly, and Katniss tossed berries into the air for Peeta to unsuccessfully try to catch in his open mouth. Soon, pink juice stained their fingers and lips as they kissed some more. Peeta deftly slid their plates onto the table and pulled her into his lap, pressing feather-light pecks all over her face until she was giggling like a lovesick teenager.
“Still mad at me for waking you up?”
She pretended to ponder the question, suppressing a smile. “I suppose you've made up for it,” she said eventually, kissing him soundly on his berry-stained lips.