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Chapter Text

The school bell let out its usual sharp clang, and the heavy wooden doors swung open as students poured into the warm afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of freshly tilled soil from the fields beyond the town and the faint sweetness of the bakery a few streets away. The schoolyard buzzed with the usual end-of-day chaos—kids laughing, trading bits of gossip, or kicking at the dirt in lazy conversation.

Peeta Mellark stood by the low stone wall near the edge of the schoolyard, his arms folded casually, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his trousers. His blond hair was a little tousled from the spring wind, and a faint smudge of flour still clung to his sleeve—a leftover from the early morning at the bakery. He leaned back slightly, scanning the crowd for a familiar flash of red curls.

Near the steps, Daphne Miller was saying goodbye to Delly Cartwright. Her wild, copper-red hair was unruly in the breeze, bouncing around her shoulders in a tangle of curls. She was shorter than most of the girls in their grade, but her presence was anything but small. Her blue eyes were bright, and there was always something defiant in the way she held herself—a spark that Peeta had always loved about her. Even now, as she hugged Delly goodbye, she spoke with her hands, gesturing animatedly, her thin but curvy frame brimming with energy.

"Just let me know if you need help with your history notes, okay?" Daphne called over her shoulder as Delly waved and headed off. She turned, her eyes lighting up the moment she spotted Peeta waiting by the wall.

A grin stretched across her face as she crossed the yard toward him. Without hesitation, she slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. Her skin was warm, and her grip was firm, like she never wanted to let go.

"Ugh, I swear Mr. Winton is going to be the death of me," she huffed dramatically as they started walking toward the merchant part of town. "He spent, like, half the class trying to explain the same stupid problem and still made it more confusing. I think I actually forgot how to add fractions just listening to him."

Peeta chuckled softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Maybe he's trying to prepare us for a future where we need to barter with fractions of bread loaves," he teased.

She groaned, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. "Great. So when someone offers me three-fourths of a crust for a pair of socks, I'll accidentally give them my entire wardrobe."

He smiled, glancing down at her. The late afternoon sun caught the copper in her hair, making it gleam. She was still rambling about math, scrunching her nose and gesturing with her free hand, making it clear she was more irritated by the wasted time than the subject itself. She was like that—never one to hold back her frustration, but quick to move on the moment she made her point.

As they walked, the dirt path gradually turned into the worn cobblestone of the merchant sector. The familiar scent of freshly baked bread and roasted nuts drifted through the street, blending with the faint traces of soap and dye from the laundry shop. The tailor shop her family owned sat a little further down, with a hand-painted wooden sign that swung slightly in the breeze.

Peeta slowed his steps slightly, almost reluctant to let their walk end. With Daphne's hand in his, it was easier to forget about the reaping just days away. Easier to imagine that the peace of walking home together could last forever.

The familiar jingle of the bakery doorbell chimed softly as Peeta pushed it open, holding it for Daphne as they stepped inside. The sweet, yeasty warmth of fresh bread filled the small shop, making the air feel heavier but in a comforting way. The scent clung to the wooden beams and worn countertops, making it impossible not to breathe just a little deeper when you walked in.

Daphne let go of Peeta's hand and made her way toward the counter with the kind of casual ease that only came from spending countless hours in the same place. Without hesitation, she hoisted herself up onto the edge of the counter, swinging her legs slightly, her heels tapping against the wood. She leaned back on her hands, glancing around at the neatly stacked loaves and small display of pastries.

"Think your mom would notice if I rearranged the whole display again?" she teased, casting Peeta a mischievous grin.

He shot her a mock glare as he moved behind the counter and started untying his school tunic, replacing it with his work apron. "Oh, she'd notice. She's still suspicious about the 'accidental' bread tower you made last week."

Daphne laughed, the sound light and easy, like it belonged here. She reached over and grabbed a wooden spoon from a nearby basket, twirling it between her fingers. "Hey, it was artistic," she protested with a smirk. "The baguette base was structurally sound. The whole thing only collapsed because your dad sneezed."

Peeta shook his head, biting back a smile as he started on his chores. He crossed to the sink to scrub off the flour-crusted mixing bowls from earlier. The rhythmic scrape of the sponge against the metal blended into the familiar hum of the bakery—the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs, the clatter of pans from the back. It was easy, comfortable.

The shop door opened again, and Peeta's older brother, Graham, walked in from the back room. His apron was streaked with flour, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead—he'd clearly been helping with the afternoon bread batch. He paused when he saw Daphne perched on the counter and smirked slightly, already making a beeline for the display case.

"Wow, shocking," Graham teased, grabbing a day-old muffin from the tray. He turned and lobbed it toward Daphne. "You live here now or what?"

She caught it easily, rolling her eyes but grinning. "Yeah, I'm thinking of moving in. You've got all the essentials: food, warmth, and free muffins."

Graham snorted, wiping his hands on his apron. "That one's practically a brick, you know. Day-old muffins aren't exactly gourmet."

Daphne peeled back the crinkled paper wrapper anyway and took a bite. "It's free, which makes it taste better." She grinned cheekily, then added in a stage whisper, "Besides, your baking's always a little heavy-handed anyway."

"Rude," Graham deadpanned, but he was already moving toward the back, shaking his head with mock exasperation.

Daphne glanced over at Peeta, who was still at the sink, his back turned to her. She swung her legs slightly, enjoying the warmth of the bakery—the golden light filtering through the front window, the hum of the oven in the back. It was a stark contrast to the tailor shop she'd left behind earlier. The back room there was always dim, the windows small and dusty, the scent of fabric dye and machine oil clinging to the air. She'd spent most of her childhood in that room, but she always preferred being here.

Here, it smelled like cinnamon and butter and warmth. And here, Peeta was always right there, close enough to brush flour off her cheek or sneak her bits of pastry when his mother wasn't looking.

She took another bite of the muffin and watched him quietly. His shoulders were slightly tense, the way they always were lately. The reaping was only a few days away, and she knew he was thinking about it, even if he wouldn't say so. She could see it in the way he held himself, in the slight furrow between his brows, even now as he scrubbed a stubborn bit of dough from a bowl.

"So," she said, her voice a little softer now, "how many names in this year?"

Peeta paused for half a second, just enough for her to notice. He didn't turn around. "Five," he said simply.

She frowned slightly, the muffin suddenly less appetizing in her hand. Five slips. Five chances. It wasn't the worst she'd heard—some kids from the Seam had four times that many. But it was still five too many.

She hopped down from the counter, padding over to where he stood. Without a word, she slipped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek lightly against his back. He stilled for a moment, then exhaled slowly, leaning into her warmth.

"I hate this," she muttered against his shirt, her voice barely above a whisper.

Peeta's hand found hers, his fingers curling over hers where they rested against his stomach. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to. They both knew there wasn't anything to say.

Daphne stayed there for a while, her arms wrapped around Peeta's waist, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing calm the gnawing tension in her chest. She wished she could hold him like this forever—away from the reaping, away from the Capitol, away from anything that could take him from her.

Eventually, he turned in her arms, his hands sliding down to her waist, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt ever so slightly. His touch was warm, grounding. She glanced up at him, her blue eyes searching his. She could see the weight there—the same worry that had been etched into his face all week. He tried to hide it, but she knew him too well.

"Hey," she murmured softly, brushing a curl of blond hair back from his forehead. "You're gonna be okay, you know that, right?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he just watched her, his gaze softening slightly. His hands tightened briefly on her waist, almost like he didn't want to let her go. Finally, he gave a small, half-hearted smile.

"Yeah," he said, but it wasn't convincing.

She reached up and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the rough patch of flour still clinging near his jaw. Slowly, she leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was slow and familiar—the kind they'd shared a hundred times before. But today, it felt heavier. She lingered a little longer than usual, letting her lips linger against his, like she could will the fear away if she just kissed him hard enough.

When she finally pulled back, she stayed close, resting her forehead against his. Her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, not quite ready to let go.

"Don't work too hard, alright?" she whispered softly, her lips still brushing his.

Peeta gave a small, half-laugh. "No promises."

Reluctantly, she pulled away, her fingers trailing down his arm before finally letting go. She gave him one last, lingering glance before slipping out of the bakery. The little bell over the door gave a faint chime as she left, and she glanced back once, just long enough to see him still standing behind the counter, watching her go.

The walk back to her house was shorter than she wanted it to be. By the time she reached the tailor shop, the afternoon sun was starting its slow descent, casting long, golden streaks across the dusty cobblestone street. She slipped in through the front, weaving around the mannequins draped with half-finished dresses and vests. The shop itself was neat, but the back room was another story entirely.

As soon as she pushed through the curtain into the workshop, the noise hit her.

"Give it back!" Abel, her twelve-year-old brother, shouted, lunging for a small wooden soldier.

"No!" came the defiant cry from their nine-year-old brother, Jesse, who clutched it to his chest with a mischievous grin, darting behind a crate.

"Mom said it's mine!" Abel yelled again, frustration turning his face red. His voice cracked slightly, still caught between childhood and something older.

Nearby, their youngest brother, Sam, was giggling uncontrollably as he ran in circles around the crate, seemingly thrilled by the chaos.

"Boys!" Daphne barked sharply, her voice cutting through the din. She placed her hands on her hips, fixing them with a stern glare.

Jesse immediately stopped mid-laugh, eyes wide, while Sam slowed to a sheepish shuffle. Abel, however, shot her a glare, his face still flushed. He swiped at his eyes quickly, turning away slightly.

"Jesse, give it back. Now," Daphne ordered firmly.

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Jesse held the toy out to Abel, clearly annoyed at having been caught. Abel snatched it back and stomped off toward the corner without another word.

Daphne exhaled slowly, her eyes lingering on Abel for a moment. She could tell he was upset—really upset. Not about the soldier. About everything else. About the fact that he was twelve now. Old enough for his name to be added to the reaping bowl. She watched the way his small hands clutched the toy too tightly, like he was trying to squeeze the fear out of it.

Her stomach knotted. She wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but she didn't know what words could possibly make it better. Instead, she turned to Jesse and Sam, giving them both a sharp look.

"Out," she said. "Go play in the front."

They didn't argue. Jesse bolted immediately, Sam right on his heels. She waited until the door shut behind them before glancing over at Abel again.

He was still turned away from her, sitting on a low stool, staring down at the wooden soldier. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight. She crossed the room quietly, sitting down on the floor beside him. For a moment, she didn't say anything. She just sat there. Close enough for him to feel her presence, but not pushing.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and sullen. "You think I'm gonna get picked?"

Her chest tightened at the small, uncertain voice. She shook her head quickly, firmly. "No," she said, with more certainty than she actually felt. She reached out, gently brushing a strand of red hair away from his eyes. "You won't."

Abel frowned slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into her just a little, letting his shoulder press against hers. For a moment, he was still her little brother—the one who used to hold her hand when he was scared of the dark, the one who still smelled like soap and grass after playing outside.

She squeezed his hand once, then slowly got to her feet. She had a mountain of clothes to get through before supper, and she knew she wouldn't finish if she didn't start now.

She made her way over to the worktable, pulling her hair into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The pile of garments was large—shirts with missing buttons, trousers with torn hems, dresses with fraying seams. She slipped a needle through her fingers automatically, her hands working with practiced ease.

But her thoughts were elsewhere. On Abel. On Peeta. On the reaping.

Her fingers moved steadily over the fabric, but she barely felt the coarse material. All she could feel was the tightness in her chest. The growing fear she couldn't shake.

Daphne woke before the sun. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, watching the faint lines of morning creep along the cracked plaster. The house was still quiet, but she could hear the soft, uneven breathing of her brothers in the next room.

For a moment, she stayed in bed, staring at the patch of light on the ceiling, willing the day not to start. But the sooner it began, the sooner it would be over.

With a heavy sigh, she slipped out from beneath the thin quilt. The floor was cold against her bare feet as she padded quietly across the room. She didn't bother lighting a lamp—the early light was enough. She dressed quickly, slipping into the soft pink dress she had laid out the night before. It was the nicest thing she owned—simple but well-made. She'd sewn it herself last spring, careful to line the hem with neat, even stitches. The fabric was slightly worn now, but it still fit well, the soft color warming her complexion.

Her hands were steady as she brushed through her hair, but her stomach was tight. She smoothed the curls carefully, coaxing them into neater ringlets than usual. By the time she was done, her reflection in the small cracked mirror was almost unfamiliar. Too polished. Too composed. It felt wrong, looking pretty on reaping day.

The house was still silent when she slipped out the back door. The sky was pale, streaked with early morning pink and lavender. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few early risers, but she knew where she was going.

She crossed the square quickly, keeping her head down as she passed the Justice Building, already hating the sight of the stage being set. When she rounded the corner to the bakery, she spotted him immediately.

Peeta was sitting on the back steps, already waiting for her.

The sight of him made the tightness in her chest ease slightly. He was still in his good trousers and a clean white shirt, but he had rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, as if trying to feel less suffocated. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hand through it a few too many times. He held a small cloth bundle in his lap.

When he saw her, he smiled softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Daphne didn't answer. She just sat down beside him, close enough that their thighs brushed. Without a word, she reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his. His palm was warm and a little rough, his grip steady. She let out a slow breath, some of the tension melting from her spine.

Peeta rested his chin briefly on the top of her head, then shifted slightly, nudging the small bundle in his lap toward her.

"Cookies," he said softly, almost apologetically. "Figured we deserved something sweet."

She glanced down at the little parcel and smiled faintly. She untied the cloth, revealing three perfectly round sugar cookies. She picked one up, turning it over in her hand.

"Trying to bribe me into feeling better?" she teased softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a small, rueful chuckle, but his eyes were still heavy with worry. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand slowly, absently.

"Do you know how many names you have in this year?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head slightly. "Ten."

His jaw tightened, just barely. His eyes dropped to their intertwined fingers.

"That's so many chances," he muttered under his breath.

She squeezed his hand gently. "I'll be fine," she said firmly, tilting her face toward him, trying to catch his eye. She offered him a small, reassuring smile. "You're the one I'm worried about."

His eyes flicked back to her, sharp and a little incredulous. "Me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her fingers traced the side of his hand slowly, her voice softening. "You've got five slips, Peeta." She stared at him as if that wasn't double her number, her throat tightening slightly. "And Abel's in there for the first time."

Peeta's expression flickered slightly, his eyes softening with understanding. He knew how much her brothers meant to her. Knew how much she hated that Abel's name was in the bowl now. His free hand reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. "He'll be okay."

But she could see the worry in his eyes. He didn't know that. Neither of them did.

She turned slightly, shifting so she could curl into his side, resting her head against his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, holding her close. They stayed like that for a while, their fingers still intertwined, the warmth of his hand steadying her.

The back door swung open suddenly, nearly catching Peeta in the back. His older brother, Rye, stumbled over them dramatically, letting out an exaggerated grunt as he barely avoided toppling over.

"Ugh, seriously?" Rye huffed, shooting them a mock glare as he straightened. "Can't you two make out somewhere that's not right in front of the door?"

Daphne cracked a smile, lifting her head slightly. "You're just mad you almost face-planted."

Rye scowled playfully, but she caught the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned back to the door, reaching inside the bakery, and grabbed another cloth bundle from the counter. With a dramatic sigh, he thrust it into Daphne's hands.

"Here," he said, feigning annoyance. "Since you're practically family anyway, I brought extras. For the boys."

Daphne blinked in surprise, glancing down at the bundle. She untied the corner, her heart softening at the sight of three more cookies tucked inside. She glanced back up at Rye, her expression soft.

"Thanks," she murmured sincerely.

He gave her a small wink before disappearing back into the bakery, the door swinging shut behind him.

Daphne glanced at Peeta, her throat tightening slightly. She held the bundle close to her chest, already imagining the way Abel's eyes would light up when she handed him a whole cookie. Sam would probably get crumbs all over the floor, and Jesse would tease him for it.

She looked back at Peeta and slowly reached for his hand again. She didn't want to let go.

"We should probably head to the square soon," she murmured quietly, but she made no move to get up.

Peeta's fingers tightened around hers slightly, as if holding on could keep them here, in this moment, where nothing had gone wrong yet.

"Not yet," he whispered.

So they stayed, their hands still intertwined, the sweet taste of sugar cookies lingering on their lips, pretending for just a few more minutes that the reaping wasn't coming.

The square was already filling by the time Daphne and Peeta made their way over. She gripped his hand tightly as they slipped into the crowd, the warmth of his palm the only thing keeping her from trembling. The midday sun was bright and hot, making her pink dress stick to her back uncomfortably.

When they reached the check-in tables, Daphne reluctantly let go of Peeta's hand. She shot him one last glance before stepping forward. A peacekeeper pricked her finger with a sharp jab, leaving a small bead of blood on her fingertip. She pressed it to the paper with a shaky breath, then quickly scanned the crowd.

She spotted Delly near the edge of the square, standing with a few of the other merchant kids. The moment Daphne saw her best friend's familiar blonde hair, she weaved through the crowd. Delly spotted her instantly and waved her over, her face tight with forced cheer.

"Hey," Delly greeted softly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "You look pretty."

"Thanks," Daphne murmured. Her voice was quieter than usual, almost lost in the crowd.

Without hesitation, Delly reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Daphne clung to it, desperate for something steady. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

They stood in silence as the square grew more crowded. The younger children were ushered into the front rows, Abel somewhere among them. Daphne scanned the sea of faces, but she couldn't spot him. Her chest tightened.

Her eyes flicked toward the stage. The mayor was already taking his place. The district seal was hanging stiffly behind the podium. To his right stood Effie Trinket, her garish outfit almost laughable against the dull grey stone of the Justice Building. Beside her, Haymitch Abernathy leaned against the railing, looking surly and already half-drunk.

Daphne barely heard the mayor's speech. His words about the Dark Days and the rebellion blurred together in a dull hum, her ears roaring with her own pulse. She stared down at the ground, feeling Delly's hand tighten slightly in hers.

Then Effie Trinket's voice rang out, cutting through the square with practiced precision.

"Ladies first!"

Daphne's head snapped up as Effie plunged her hand into the large glass bowl. The entire square seemed to hold its breath.

Please not me. Please not Delly. Please, please, please.

Effie pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with a flourish. She smiled brightly.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Daphne blinked in surprise. She knew the name—she'd seen the girl around town a few times. A small, soft-spoken thing with blonde hair and delicate features. She couldn't be more than twelve.

A hush fell over the crowd. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a shrill, panicked voice rang out.

"No! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

Daphne's breath caught. Her eyes snapped toward the sound just in time to see Katniss Everdeen pushing through the crowd, shoving her way forward with wild eyes.

It was happening so fast. The little girl—Prim—was crying as peacekeepers tried to drag her back. Katniss was frantic, her voice cracking.

"I volunteer!" she screamed again, voice thick with desperation.

Daphne's stomach twisted sharply. She squeezed Delly's hand tighter, her fingers trembling slightly.

Katniss stumbled onto the stage, breathless, her face pale. The crowd was deathly silent.

Effie recovered quickly, plastering on her artificial smile. She clapped her hands together daintily. "Ah, how exciting! Our first volunteer in District Twelve ever!"

Daphne exhaled slowly, her stomach still knotted. Her legs felt weak, but relief flooded her chest. She wasn't going. She was safe. Delly was safe.

But the relief was short-lived.

"Now," Effie trilled, her voice far too chipper. "For the boys!"

Her hand dipped into the second bowl. Her fingers swirled slowly through the names. The crowd stilled. Daphne barely breathed.

Effie pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with a delicate snap. She smiled, and her voice rang out clearly.

"Peeta Mellark."

For a moment, Daphne couldn't breathe.

She stared at the stage, her mind refusing to process what she'd just heard. For a fraction of a second, she thought she must have misheard. She had to have.

But then she saw him.

Peeta.

He was moving through the crowd, slowly at first, like he was walking through water. His face was pale, but his expression was steady. Calm.

No.

The word tore through her chest, but her lips didn't move. Her throat locked, choking her. Her legs felt suddenly unsteady, her knees threatening to buckle.

"No," she whispered hoarsely, the sound barely audible.

She felt Delly's hand tighten around hers, but she barely noticed.

Peeta climbed the steps to the stage. His shoulders were squared, his expression unreadable, but she could see the slight tremor in his hands.

He turned slightly, scanning the crowd. For the briefest of moments, his eyes found hers.

And in that instant, her entire world shattered.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Her chest felt too tight, like it was caving in. She shook her head slightly, her fingers trembling in Delly's grasp.

Delly's arms were suddenly around her, pulling her close. The warmth of her friend's embrace was the only thing keeping Daphne upright. Her hands fisted weakly in Delly's dress as she pressed her face into her shoulder.

She couldn't watch. Couldn't look at him standing up there, couldn't watch them take him away.

Delly's arms tightened around her, holding her together as Daphne silently fell apart.

The cold stone walls of the Justice Building seemed to press in on Daphne as she was led down the narrow hallway. Her footsteps barely made a sound against the worn floor, her legs trembling with every step. Her mouth was dry, and her hands felt numb at her sides.

A peacekeeper opened a heavy wooden door and gestured her inside. She stepped through quickly, her heart slamming against her ribs.

And there he was.

Peeta stood near the window, his back partially turned, shoulders tense. His fists were clenched at his sides, and she could see the way his knuckles had gone white.

The door clicked shut behind her.

"Peeta."

At the sound of her voice, he turned. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and clouded with barely contained emotion. His jaw was tight, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

She didn't stop. She didn't hesitate. She crossed the room in three quick steps and threw her arms around him, clutching at his shirt.

He caught her instantly, wrapping his arms around her, holding her so tightly it was almost crushing. Her face pressed against his chest, and she could feel how fast his heart was beating.

"Peeta," she breathed, voice trembling.

His fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, gripping her as though letting go would tear him apart. He buried his face into her hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice breaking against her temple. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't," she whispered sharply, lifting her head to look at him. Her hands gripped the sides of his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Don't you dare apologize. You didn't do anything."

His eyes were raw with emotion, his breath shaky. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his eyes sweeping over her face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Her thumbs brushed against his cheekbones, wiping at the tears he was trying so hard to hold back.

"What happened?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw tightened again, and his eyes flicked away for half a second, as though he didn't want to answer.

"My mom," he finally muttered hoarsely. His throat bobbed. "She came in here and told me…" He swallowed hard. "Told me she thinks Katniss will win."

Daphne's entire body stiffened. Her fingers curled slightly against his jaw, her heart beating faster with a sharp spike of anger.

"That bitch," she spat venomously.

Peeta's eyes flicked back to hers, startled by the harshness in her tone.

But she didn't care. She wasn't going to let that woman's cruelty seep into him—not now. Not when he needed every bit of strength he had left.

She cupped his face more firmly, her voice steady but fierce.

"Don't you listen to her," she said firmly, her eyes burning into his. "She doesn't know anything. You are going to fight, Peeta. And you're going to come home."

His throat worked, and he shook his head slightly, his expression fracturing.

"Daph—"

"No," she cut him off, her voice cracking slightly. She shook her head, her fingers tightening against his skin. "Promise me. Promise me you'll do whatever it takes. You'll fight. You'll survive."

His face twisted slightly, his breath hitching. He squeezed his eyes shut again, leaning into her touch.

"I'll try," he rasped. "I swear, I'll try."

Her chest tightened painfully, her vision blurring with tears. She surged forward, pressing her lips to his with sudden desperation.

His arms came around her instantly, holding her so tightly against him that she was almost lifted onto her toes. His hands fisted in the back of her dress, and she clung to him just as fiercely, her fingers tangling in his hair.

The kiss was raw and searing—filled with fear and love and all the words they didn't have time to say. She could feel the slight tremor in his hands as they held her, the way his breath caught in his throat.

Her tears mingled with his as their lips moved desperately against each other, neither one willing to let go.

But they didn't have time.

A sharp knock at the door made Daphne flinch slightly, but Peeta didn't pull away. His grip only tightened, as though he could hold her there forever if he just held on tightly enough.

The door creaked open slightly. "Time's up," a gruff voice announced.

"No," Daphne choked out, her arms tightening around Peeta's neck.

But he was already pulling back slightly, his hands gently prying hers away from him. His lips brushed against her forehead, lingering there for a fraction of a second.

Her vision blurred completely as he leaned down and pressed one last kiss to her lips—soft and reverent.

"I love you," he murmured brokenly against her mouth.

A sob caught in her throat, and she clung to his hands as he started to step back, her fingers slipping from his grasp.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice cracking.

And then he was gone.

The door closed behind him, and Daphne was left standing in the empty room, shaking violently. Her chest heaved with uneven breaths, and her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Her legs gave out. She sank onto the small wooden bench near the wall, trembling violently as sobs ripped through her. She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but she couldn't contain it.

Peeta was gone.

And she didn't know if she would ever see him again.

Chapter Text

Daphne barely remembered leaving the Justice Building.

Her legs moved on their own, carrying her numbly through the crowded square. The world around her was a blur—the grey stone, the faces of familiar people, the too-bright sun overhead. It all bled together, distorted by the tears clouding her vision.

Her limbs felt heavy, like her body was made of lead, but she kept walking. Kept moving. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, as if holding her own body together was the only thing keeping her from falling apart entirely.

She didn't stop. Didn't look at anyone.

She barely noticed the sea of faces watching the Mellarks as Peeta's family emerged from the building. She didn't care. She was already walking away, her feet carrying her towards her parents' shop, her mind barely functioning.

But before she reached the back steps, she heard her name.

"Daph!"

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She turned sharply toward the sound, and through her blurred vision, she saw them.

Rye and Graham were standing at the side of the bakery, just beyond the crowd. Both of Peeta's brothers were staring at her, their faces stricken.

"Daph," Rye called again, his voice breaking slightly.

She saw the pain in his eyes, the unspoken grief weighing on his broad shoulders. He was pale, his face drawn tight with shock, but the moment he saw her tear-streaked face, he was moving.

Graham was faster. He crossed the space between them in a few long strides, wrapping his arms around her before she could even react. His embrace was strong, almost crushing, but she barely felt it.

Rye was right behind him, his arms circling both of them, squeezing her tightly.

They were warm, and familiar, and steady. But the moment they touched her, Daphne's chest clenched violently.

She couldn't breathe.

Her fingers curled into Graham's shirt, trembling against the fabric. She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to pull herself together, but the moment she felt Graham's hand smoothing over the back of her head, her throat closed.

"Hey," Graham murmured softly, his voice raw but gentle. "It's okay. We've got you. We—"

"No," Daphne rasped sharply, the word breaking from her throat in a choked sob.

She pushed against his chest with trembling hands, trying to break free.

"Daph," Rye said softly, reaching for her, but she shook her head violently.

"I—I can't," she gasped, her voice cracking.

She shoved herself out of their arms with a desperate jerk. Her legs were shaky, unsteady, but she didn't stop.

Her feet were already moving, carrying her backward.

Graham's eyes widened slightly, and he took a step toward her. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay—"

But she was already turning. Already stumbling back.

"Don't!" she choked out hoarsely, her voice strangled.

She took another shaky step back, her chest heaving. She couldn't do this. Couldn't let them hold her. Couldn't let them see her like this.

And then she turned and ran.

Her legs carried her down the dirt road, her thin shoes barely making a sound against the packed earth. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps, but she didn't stop. She didn't slow down.

She ran past the bakery. Past the square. Past the gawking faces of the villagers.

Her legs burned and her lungs ached, but she didn't stop.

She didn't stop until she saw the familiar outline of her family's tailor shop, its small stone façade and narrow windows blurred by her tears.

She stumbled through the back door, nearly tripping over the uneven threshold.

The familiar scent of fabric and thread filled her nose, but she barely noticed. The worktable was cluttered with half-mended shirts and spools of thread, and she shoved past it blindly.

Her mother's voice called from somewhere in the front of the shop, but Daphne didn't respond. She didn't slow.

She sprinted into the back room, slammed the door behind her, and collapsed against it.

Her knees hit the wooden floor hard, but she didn't feel it. Her trembling fingers fisted in the skirt of her dress as she hunched forward, her body wracked with silent, violent sobs.

Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, her breath hitching in broken gasps. She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but the ragged sobs still clawed their way free.

She felt like she was breaking apart, her chest caving in.

Her forehead pressed against the rough wood of the door, her tears soaking into the fabric of her dress. Her throat was raw, and her lungs burned, but she didn't care.

Peeta was gone.

And there was nothing she could do but fall apart.

The next day was a blur.

Daphne moved through it as though underwater, every sound muffled, every motion sluggish. Her limbs were heavy, her head fogged. Her eyes were sore and swollen from crying, and her throat still ached from the sobs she hadn't been able to contain the night before.

But now there were no tears.

She stood in the square, stiff and unmoving, her arms limp at her sides. The large screen loomed overhead, flickering with static before the familiar seal of the Capitol appeared. The crowd pressed in around her, but she barely noticed. Their voices buzzed faintly, their words indistinct.

She didn't want to be here.

Didn't want to see it.

But she had no choice.

These could be Peeta's last days. His last moments. And if that was true—if this was all the time she had left with him—she was going to see every second of it.

So she stood there, her feet planted firmly on the worn cobblestone, and stared at the screen with vacant eyes.

The footage cut to the Capitol, and the roar of the crowd filled the square. The cameras panned over the gleaming city—its blinding lights and shining towers. The streets were flooded with cheering people, dressed in outrageous colors and costumes, their faces painted with glitter and dyes.

The world they lived in might as well have been another planet.

And then the chariots appeared.

Daphne's breath caught slightly, and her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she waited.

District One. District Two. District Three.

The chariots rolled on, one after another, filled with wide-eyed tributes dressed in elaborate, often absurd outfits. She barely noticed them. Barely registered the fanfare or the pomp.

Her eyes stayed on the edge of the screen, waiting for him.

And then she saw him.

Her breath faltered slightly.

Peeta stood tall, dressed in a sleek black outfit. His broad shoulders were square, his posture stiff. He was handsome—he always was—but the sight of him made her chest ache violently.

His face was carefully blank, his jaw tight. But she could see the faint stiffness at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes seemed a little too wide.

He was afraid. She could see it, even if the crowd couldn't.

But then her eyes slid to the girl beside him.

Katniss Everdeen.

Her dress was engulfed in flames, flickering with bright, controlled fire. The crowd erupted into cheers at the spectacle, roaring with delight.

And Peeta… Peeta reached out and took her hand.

Daphne's stomach turned sharply, an unfamiliar wave of nausea twisting through her.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

She knew why he was doing it. Knew he needed to endear himself to the Capitol—needed to play along with whatever angle his team was using to keep him alive.

And yet, somehow, that knowledge didn't make it any easier to watch.

Her chest tightened painfully as she stared at their intertwined hands. Katniss's face was calm, blank, focused straight ahead. Peeta's expression was steadier now, almost relaxed, though she could see the slight tremor in his fingers where they laced with the girl's.

She shouldn't feel bad about it.

She knew that.

But the dull ache blooming in her chest didn't care about logic.

Her throat tightened slightly, and she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to let it show.

Suddenly, she felt someone's hand brush against hers. She blinked and glanced to her right.

Delly.

Her friend was standing beside her, her eyes wide and slightly glassy, her face pale. Without a word, Delly slipped her hand into Daphne's and squeezed it tightly.

Daphne blinked once, then exhaled shakily and squeezed back.

Together, they watched the Capitol cheer.

The crowd was wild with admiration. People in the square clapped along with the broadcast, caught up in the Capitol's excitement. Shouts of "Girl on fire!" rang out across the square, as though Katniss was the only one there.

No one seemed to notice Peeta.

No one except her.

The camera zoomed in for a closer shot, and Daphne's breath stilled as she took in his face.

His eyes were slightly narrowed, his jaw set. But then, just for a moment, his gaze flicked upward. His blue eyes seemed to scan the crowd.

It was fleeting, almost imperceptible. And she knew he wasn't looking for her—he couldn't be. He wasn't even in District 12 anymore.

But for half a second, it felt like he was.

Her nails pressed into her palm slightly, and her breath caught as she stared at his face.

He was there. He was alive.

For now.

She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

Because she didn't know how many more times she'd get to see him.

The next few days were hard.

Harder than Daphne expected.

She had thought the crushing grief of the reaping would dull with time. That once the shock wore off, she'd feel less hollow. Less raw.

But she was wrong.

If anything, the ache grew heavier with each passing day.

She threw herself into her work, spending long hours in the back of the tailor shop, mending seams and replacing buttons. She worked until her fingers were sore, until the needle felt stiff in her hand and the thread blurred in her tired eyes. She took in the occasional commission too, hemming skirts or repairing torn trousers, anything that kept her hands moving.

When she wasn't working, she was with her brothers.

Abel, Jesse, and Sam were always underfoot—loud, boisterous, and full of energy. It was almost impossible to keep up with them, but she tried.

She helped Abel with his chores, though he protested, insisting he could handle them on his own. She scolded Jesse when he nearly broke his wrist trying to do a handstand on the stairs. She played tug-of-war with Sam when he demanded her attention, the small boy wrapping himself around her leg and giggling uncontrollably.

They were a whirlwind of laughter and chaos, too young to fully grasp the weight pressing down on her chest.

And she clung to them.

She needed their noise—their normalcy—because the second the house grew quiet, the only thing left was the sharp, splintering pain in her chest.

But she avoided the Mellarks like the plague.

She saw Rye once through the window of the bakery when she went to the square. She spotted Graham when she was rushing home from Delly's house, their eyes meeting briefly across the road.

Both times, she turned on her heel and walked the other way.

She couldn't face them. Not yet.

She knew they were hurting too. She knew they missed Peeta just as much as she did. But it was different for her. It had to be. And somehow, letting Rye and Graham see her like this—barely holding herself together—felt like it would make everything worse. So she kept her distance.

Instead, she stuck close to Delly, clinging to her like a lifeline.

Delly was a welcome distraction. She kept Daphne entertained with whatever scraps of gossip she could find—who was sweet on who, which shopkeeper had been caught shortchanging customers, or what outrageous color the mayor's wife had dyed her hair.

It was nonsense, but it was the only thing that kept Daphne from drowning.

But no amount of idle chatter could stop her from thinking about him.

No matter how much she tried to stay busy, her mind still wandered. She thought about Peeta in the Capitol, about the training center. About how he was probably lying in one of those sterile, luxurious beds alone at night, maybe thinking of her too.

And when the day came for the tribute scores to be revealed, her stomach twisted into knots.

She hadn't wanted to watch.

But she still ended up in Delly's living room, sitting stiffly on the couch, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirt so tightly her knuckles ached.

The television screen flickered, and the parade of faces began.

She barely paid attention as the tributes from the other districts were shown. She didn't care about their scores or their odds of survival. She only cared about one face.

And then it appeared.

Peeta Mellark: 8.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes lingered on his face, but she hardly saw it. All she could focus on was the number beneath it.

An 8.

She didn't know what she had been expecting—maybe something higher, maybe something lower—but the number made her stomach twist.

Because she knew exactly what it meant.

It meant he wasn't a threat. It meant no one would see him as dangerous. It meant he would be written off before the Games even began.

And then Katniss's face appeared.

Her score flashed in bold print. 11.

The highest of the group.

Daphne's stomach sank.

She watched the screen in stunned silence as the cameras zoomed in on Katniss, the Girl on Fire, the star of the show. The Capitol's darling.

And Peeta?

He was already being overshadowed. Swallowed up by Katniss Everdeen and her blazing, undeniable presence. Daphne barely noticed the broadcast ending. She hardly registered Delly's hand on her arm, offering her a comforting squeeze.

When she left Delly's house, her legs felt shaky and her throat was tight. She kept her head down and walked quickly, needing to be alone.

But just as she turned the corner toward the tailor shop, Rye Mellark stepped into her path.

She stopped short, her heart slamming against her ribs.

"Rye," she muttered, taking a step back. Her voice was colder than she intended. "I need to get home."

But Rye didn't budge.

He stared at her with a firm expression, his lips pressed into a tight line. His jaw was clenched, and there was something hard in his eyes that she hadn't seen before.

"You've been avoiding us," he said bluntly.

She stiffened. "No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have."

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and her nails dug into her palms.

"Rye, I—"

"No." He cut her off sharply, his voice firm but not unkind. "You don't get to push us away."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm not pushing anyone away."

But Rye shook his head, clearly not buying it.

"Daph…" He exhaled sharply and took a step closer, lowering his voice slightly. "Before Peeta left… the one thing he asked us to do—the only thing—was to look after you."

Her throat tightened painfully, but she didn't respond.

Rye's eyes softened slightly. His voice was lower now, quieter.

"So stop. Stop pretending you're fine. Stop shutting us out." He paused, his voice rougher than before. "You need to let us help you."

For a moment, Daphne couldn't breathe.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't know what to say.

Rye's eyes were steady, but there was something strained in them. Something tired. Something vulnerable.

Her hands slowly loosened at her sides.

She suddenly felt small.

Rye didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.

Instead, he reached out and gently touched her wrist. His fingers were warm and solid, grounding her.

And just like that, the fight drained out of her.

Her shoulders sagged slightly, and her chest tightened, hot and heavy with the grief she had been trying to bury.

Without thinking, she took a step closer and pressed her face against his chest. She didn't sob—her eyes were dry and aching—but she stayed there, gripping the fabric of his shirt, needing to feel something steady.

Rye's arms circled around her without hesitation, holding her tightly.

And for the first time in days, she didn't feel quite so alone.

Daphne sat stiffly on the Mellark's worn couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be sitting in the Mellark's cramped living room, watching the tribute interviews on the old, flickering television set. She didn't want to be surrounded by Peeta's family, sitting in the very house he had been ripped away from.

But Rye and Graham hadn't given her a choice.

When she tried to protest, Graham had simply grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the house without a word. Rye had stood by the door with his arms crossed, making it clear that there was no escaping. They didn't care that she wanted to be wanted her there.

So here she was.

Graham sat on the floor at her feet, his broad back resting against the couch, while Rye perched on the armrest beside her. Their father was in his usual chair, his weathered hands resting on his knees, his face unreadable.

And Peeta's mother?

She wasn't even there.

Daphne didn't ask where she was. She didn't care.

She sat stiffly as the television blared in front of her, the Capitol's garish colors swirling across the screen. She barely noticed when Graham shoved a small tart into her hand, nor when Rye handed her a plate with a still-warm slice of apple pie.

They were trying to comfort her in the only way they knew how—feeding her sweets and pastries, pressing food into her hands like she might shatter without it.

And she let them.

She took the food numbly, biting into the tart without tasting it, her eyes locked on the screen.

She knew the interviews would be painful to watch.

But she had to see him.

She had to watch Peeta in what might very well be one of his last moments of life.

So she sat between his brothers, holding her breath as the interviews began.

One by one, the tributes came forward, each one preening and posturing for the cameras. The careers bragged and smirked with sickening confidence, charming the crowd with their cocky grins and false bravado. The smaller tributes—the fragile ones—tried to play to the Capitol's sympathies, their voices soft, their smiles trembling.

But Daphne barely paid them any attention.

She was only waiting for two faces.

And when Katniss Everdeen finally stepped onto the stage, Daphne tensed slightly.

She watched as the girl sat down gracefully beside Caesar Flickerman, her expression cautious, her movements careful.

But then she spun.

The flame-colored dress—her burning, spinning skirts—swallowed the screen, and the Capitol gasped in awe.

Daphne's throat tightened.

It was clever. Smart. Daring.

Katniss was captivating, her beauty and poise undeniable.

Daphne wasn't surprised when the audience erupted into applause, bewitched by the Girl on Fire.

But even as she watched Katniss command the stage, Daphne knew—she knew—that as dazzling as Katniss was, she wouldn't be the star.

Not tonight.

Because Peeta was next.

And no one could outshine him once he opened his mouth.

And she was right.

The crowd was already charmed the second he appeared, his boyish smile and golden curls making him look like the perfect District Twelve underdog.

But then he spoke.

And the room melted.

Peeta had always been good with words. Always.

Even as kids, he had a way of talking himself out of trouble. Sweet-talking old Mr. Halbrook into giving them an extra scoop of candy. Convincing Daphne's mother to let her stay out later, promising he would walk her home safely.

He had been charming since he was five years old.

And now, the entire Capitol was falling for him.

Daphne's lips twitched faintly despite herself, the barest hint of pride pulling at the corners of her mouth.

That's my Peeta.

But then Caesar's voice cut through the cheers, his tone warm and teasing.

"So, Peeta," he said, leaning toward him with an exaggerated grin. "Do you have a special girl back home?"

Daphne's heart faltered.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the tart still in her hand, her knuckles going white.

The camera cut to Peeta's face, and for a split second, she thought she saw something flash in his eyes.

Pain.

Hesitation.

But then it was gone.

And he smiled.

"No," Peeta said easily, his voice smooth. "No one back home would ever take notice of me."

Daphne blinked.

Her stomach twisted sharply.

What?

She stared at the screen, her eyes narrowing slightly, sure she had misheard him.

But Peeta didn't stop.

"There's this one girl," he added, his voice softer now, almost wistful. He glanced down at his hands, the perfect picture of shyness. "I had a crush on her forever. But she never even knew I was alive."

Daphne felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath her. Her fingers slackened slightly, and the tart slipped from her hand, landing with a soft thud in her lap. She barely noticed. Her stomach felt hollow. Her hands trembled slightly as she stared at the screen.

She knew the cameras would cut away. She knew they were going to show her face next.

And they did.

Katniss Everdeen.

Caesar grinned, leaning closer.

"And now that you're here?" he asked slyly. "What if she does notice you if you win?"

Peeta's smile turned rueful. His eyes lowered slightly, his voice soft and resigned. "That won't help. Because she came here with me."

The crowd erupted in wild, euphoric cheers.

But in the Mellark's living room, the only sound was Daphne's ragged breath.

Her Peeta. Her boyfriend. Her childhood best friend.

Pretending like she didn't exist.

Her ears were ringing. Her chest felt tight, her stomach twisting painfully.

Beside her, Rye was motionless, his eyes locked on the screen in stunned disbelief. Graham's mouth was slightly open, his expression dazed. Their little brother had been head over heels for the red head on their sofa for years.

Mr. Mellark cleared his throat softly, breaking the silence.

"Daphne," he said gently, his voice kind and steady. "It's probably just a ruse. To get more sponsors. You know how clever Peeta is."

But Daphne barely heard him.

Her vision blurred slightly as she stared at the television, her hands trembling faintly in her lap.

She told herself she wouldn't cry.

But she could feel the burn building behind her eyes.

Peeta was still smiling on the screen, still playing the part of the hopeless, star-crossed boy.

And as she watched him smile at Katniss Everdeen, she felt something in her chest splinter.

Daphne couldn't breathe.

The second the screen faded to black and the Capitol cut to a garish commercial for some sparkling blue drink, she shot to her feet.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor, but she barely heard it.

Her chest was tight, her stomach twisted in knots so painful she could barely stand. Her hands were trembling violently at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

Without a word, she spun on her heel and fled.

"Daph!" Rye's voice barked behind her, but she didn't stop.

She shoved through the front door, bursting out into the cool evening air, the sound of her boots slamming against the stone path as she ran.

"Daphne, wait!" Graham's voice was closer now, heavy footsteps pounding behind her.

But she didn't stop.

She couldn't.

Her throat was closing, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, her vision blurring as she sprinted blindly through the alleyways of the merchant quarter.

The pain in her chest was suffocating, crushing her from the inside out.

He acted like I didn't even exist.

Her legs burned, her calves aching, but she didn't slow.

He said she didn't even know he was alive.

Her foot slipped on a loose stone, and she stumbled, catching herself against the wall of the apothecary. Her palms scraped against the rough brick, stinging sharply, but she barely noticed.

She shoved herself off the wall and kept running.

Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't stop to wipe them away.

She heard the heavy thud of footsteps behind her, heard Rye's voice, frantic and breathless.

"Daph, stop!" he shouted.

But she didn't.

Her hair whipped violently around her face as she tore through the narrow streets, her heart pounding in her ears.

She only slowed when she finally caught sight of her family's shop—the tailor's sign barely visible in the dim light.

Her lungs were burning, her breath hitching painfully, but she kept moving.

She slammed through the door, making the bell jingle violently, and staggered into the shop.

Her legs nearly gave out, but she forced herself to stay upright.

"Daphne!" Rye's voice snapped behind her.

She whirled around, breathless, eyes wild.

Rye and Graham both stumbled into the shop, both of them panting heavily.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Graham panted, hands braced on his knees. "Just—just calm down, okay? You—" he wheezed slightly, still winded from the chase, "—you can't just run like that!"

But Daphne shook her head violently, backing away from them, her curls wild and tangled, sticking to her damp cheeks.

"Don't," she choked out, her voice hoarse.

Her hands were trembling violently at her sides, clenched into fists.

"Daph, stop—" Rye stepped forward, his face pale, his eyes sharp and worried.

But she shook her head again, stumbling backward.

"I can't—" her voice cracked as her breath hitched painfully.

She felt like she was falling apart.

Her lungs were raw, her throat tight.

"Daphne, please," Rye tried again, his voice softer now, his hands out in a placating gesture.

But she just shook her head again, taking another step back.

"I can't!" she rasped brokenly.

And then she turned.

She tore through the shop and ran straight into the back room, slamming the door behind her.

Her knees buckled the second she was out of sight.

She slid down against the wooden door, crumpling onto the floor, her fingers tangling in her curls.

She sucked in sharp, broken breaths, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face.

Outside the shop, Rye and Graham stood frozen, panting heavily, exchanging a helpless glance.

Graham ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"She's—she's just in shock," he muttered, almost trying to convince himself. "She just—she needs a minute."

Rye exhaled sharply, his chest still heaving.

"Yeah," he muttered hollowly, though his eyes were still locked on the door Daphne had disappeared behind.

Neither of them noticed the figure in the shadows across the square.

Gale Hawthorne.

He had been walking along the edge of the square, heading home after spending the day in the woods, his game bag slung over his shoulder.

He had already been in a foul mood.

Seeing Katniss on stage, dressed in flames, holding Peeta's hand—the Capitol swooning over them—had turned his stomach.

But then he had seen her.

Daphne Miller.

Red curls wild and tear-streaked.

Running like her life depended on it.

He had stood frozen in place as she stumbled into the tailor's shop, his jaw tightening slightly when he saw Rye and Graham chasing after her, their voices calling out desperately.

He hadn't meant to watch.

But he had.

He had seen the raw grief twisting her face, the agony choking her.

And suddenly, his anger felt heavier.

He realized, in that moment, that he wasn't the only one in District Twelve who was watching someone they loved fall for someone else.

And as he watched Daphne disappear into the tailor's shop, he felt an unfamiliar pang of empathy.

He knew that kind of pain.

It was the kind that sank into your chest and stayed there.

And somehow, knowing that someone else was feeling it too made his own hurt just a little less suffocating.

The entire district was gathered in the square.

The large screen loomed over them, its cold, flickering light casting eerie shadows against the stone buildings as the anthem played.

Daphne stood near the back, wedged between Delly and Abel, away from the bulk of the crowd. She wanted nothing to do with the front rows or the overly eager faces of the few who actually seemed interested in the spectacle.

Delly's fingers were laced tightly with hers, holding on like she was afraid Daphne might float away.

"Breathe," Delly whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. She gave Daphne's hand a gentle squeeze.

But Daphne barely heard her.

Her eyes were locked on the screen, her pulse pounding in her ears, drowning out everything else.

From across the square, she could feel Rye and Graham's eyes on her. She didn't need to turn her head to know they were watching, the same wary, helpless looks on their faces.

But she ignored them.

She didn't need their pity.

Not right now.

The screen shifted, and suddenly, there they were. The twenty-four tributes. Standing on their metal platforms. Surrounded by the glimmering golden Cornucopia and the scattered blood-red feast of weapons.

Daphne's nails bit into Delly's hand.

The countdown began.

Ten.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Nine.

Her eyes locked on him.

Peeta.

Dressed in the same plain black shirt and pants as the others, but still somehow looking softer, kinder. He was turned slightly, his eyes scanning the area with careful precision.

Eight.

Her stomach knotted violently.

He looked so small standing there. So terribly out of place.

Seven.

The camera panned over Katniss.

The girl on fire.

Her face was set in hard, determined lines, her eyes sharp.

Six.

Daphne barely noticed her.

Her eyes were only on Peeta.

Five.

He flexed his hands, rolling his shoulders slightly.

Four.

Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts.

Three.

His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the Cornucopia.

Two.

Her fingers were trembling violently in Delly's.

One.

The gong rang out.

Her chest tightened violently.

For a split second, Peeta didn't move.

Her stomach plummeted.

But then he turned—and ran.

Daphne's breath left her in a sharp rush, almost like she'd been punched.

She sagged slightly against Delly, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her as she let out a near-silent sigh of relief.

He was running.

Thank God, he was running.

Her grip on Delly's hand loosened slightly as she watched him sprint away from the Cornucopia, dodging a girl with a knife, narrowly escaping a boy swinging an axe.

Her knuckles were still white, her heart still slamming against her ribs, but he was alive.

And he was getting away.

She barely even noticed the screams that erupted across the square as the bloodbath began, as the first cannon sounded, then the second, then the third.

Her eyes were only on Peeta.

She stared, her heart in her throat, watching him disappear into the trees, out of range of the bloodbath.

She exhaled sharply, her lungs burning from holding her breath.

"He's okay," she whispered under her breath, her voice shaking. "He's okay."

She was so focused on the screen, so dazed with relief, that she hardly noticed when someone stepped up beside her.

"You know," Gale Hawthorne's voice came low and casual from her left, "she might actually win this thing."

Daphne's eyes remained locked on the screen, barely sparing him a glance.

She didn't want to talk.

Not to him.

Not to anyone.

Gale let out a low, humorless chuckle.

"Bet you didn't expect to be watching the two of them holding hands," he muttered darkly.

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she ignored him.

The screen showed Katniss sprinting through the woods now, a net bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. Her face was grim, focused, not even looking back.

Gale let out a sharp exhale.

"It's weird," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Being in the same boat."

That made her head snap toward him, eyes flashing.

She turned sharply, fixing him with a piercing glare.

Her blood boiled instantly at his words.

She hated the casual way he said it—the assumption, the implication that they were the same.

The same bitterness. The same pain.

They weren't.

"No," she hissed sharply, her eyes cold. "We are not in the same boat."

Gale's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Katniss barely even glances at you," she bit out, her voice low and venomous. "Meanwhile, Peeta and I have been together for over a year." Her breath caught slightly, her voice cracking, but she didn't look away. "So no," she spat bitterly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We are not in the same boat."

Her nails dug into her palms as she glared at him, chest heaving slightly, eyes bright with fury.

Beside her, Abel's small hands balled into fists.

Despite his young age, despite the way his eyes were still wide with innocence, he leveled Gale with a glare that could have matched her own.

His small shoulders squared slightly, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

And for a second, Gale's eyes flickered to him.

He stared at the boy—this scrawny twelve-year-old with red curls and sharp eyes that were too familiar.

And then he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His jaw tightened briefly, his eyes hardening.

Without another word, he turned and stalked away.

Daphne didn't watch him go.

Her hands were still trembling.

Abel tugged slightly at her hand, his small fingers slipping into hers.

She glanced down at him, her heart clenching at the tight, concerned frown on his face.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

And then she turned back to the screen.

Peeta was still alive.

That was all that mattered.

Daphne stood in the square for hours.

Her legs ached, her feet sore from the uneven cobblestone, but she barely noticed.

Her eyes were glued to the screen.

She didn't move when her stomach growled with hunger. She didn't shift when the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows over the crowd. She barely even blinked when Abel mumbled something about going home, when Delly squeezed her hand and whispered that she had to leave.

She just stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her heart in her throat.

Her stomach twisted painfully each time the cameras flickered to another tribute, afraid she'd suddenly see him—wounded, cornered, dying.

But each time she spotted him, he was still alive.

He was walking now, carefully and quietly, winding his way through the woods. He was keeping his head low, his body slightly crouched, trying to make as little noise as possible.

She exhaled shakily, relief rushing through her when she spotted the small backpack slung over his shoulder—the one he'd snatched from the outskirts of the bloodbath.

She squinted at the screen, trying to make out the contents when he stopped near a fallen tree. He crouched low, opened the bag carefully, and pulled out a small container of crackers and a plastic water bottle.

Her throat tightened as he unscrewed the cap and took the smallest of sips.

He had water.

She almost cried in relief.

She watched as he nibbled on a cracker, his movements slow and cautious, his eyes darting around nervously, scanning for any signs of danger.

The camera panned away again, cutting to one of the Careers setting up camp near the Cornucopia.

Daphne's hands clenched into fists.

She could feel the warmth of the sun fading from her skin, the evening air growing steadily cooler.

But she didn't move.

Her mother was probably worried by now.

Her father was probably too drunk to care.

But it didn't matter.

She couldn't leave.

Her eyes remained locked on the screen, even as the crowd around her slowly began to thin.

She didn't notice the faces trickling away, one by one.

She didn't notice the evening shadows stretching into the dark.

She barely noticed anything but him.

Her knees were starting to ache, her legs trembling faintly beneath her, but she didn't care.

The night dragged on.

More cannons sounded.

More faces appeared in the sky.

But Peeta was still alive.

And so she stayed.

Her hands were trembling slightly by the time Graham's voice cut through the hum of the screen.

"Daph," he muttered from behind her, his voice low but firm.

She barely heard him.

"Daph," he repeated, louder this time.

She blinked, slowly turning her head, but her eyes didn't leave the screen.

He stepped in front of her.

Her eyes shifted slightly, narrowing as he blocked her view.

Her voice was sharp and raw when she snapped at him.

"Move."

But he didn't.

His eyes were tired and gentle, but unwavering.

"No."

Her hands clenched into fists.

"Graham—"

"He's asleep, Daph," he cut her off firmly, his voice steady but calm. "There's nothing you can do."

Her eyes flashed with frustration, with stubbornness, but he didn't budge.

"He's fine. You saw him. He's fine." His voice was gentler this time, but still firm. "But you need to go home."

Her stomach tightened.

She didn't want to leave.

Couldn't leave.

But before she could argue, he took a step closer.

"Please," he muttered softly, his eyes almost pleading. "You're dead on your feet."

She glared at him.

But her legs were shaking.

Her fingers were trembling slightly from fatigue, her skin cold and numb.

And she was so tired.

Her lips parted, ready to argue, but before she could get the words out, he reached out and gently tugged on her wrist.

Her breath hitched slightly.

Her shoulders sagged.

And somehow, she let him pull her away from the screen.

Her legs were stiff and shaky as they made their way through the thinning crowd, moving toward the merchant section of town.

She barely noticed the houses they passed or the flickering candlelight in the windows.

She didn't even remember walking through the front door of her house.

It was all a blur—the weight of her legs, the ache in her chest, the suffocating weariness pressing down on her.

Graham walked her straight to her room, his hand still lightly wrapped around her wrist.

She felt her knees buckle slightly as she sat down on the edge of her bed, her legs too shaky to hold her.

Graham crouched in front of her, his hands lightly resting on her knees, his eyes level with hers.

He didn't say anything.

He just stared at her, his eyes soft, his brows faintly drawn.

Her throat tightened.

Her vision blurred slightly.

And before she could stop herself, she let out a trembling breath.

His arms were around her in seconds.

She sagged into him, her hands clutching at his shirt, her shoulders trembling violently.

He held her there, letting her shake in his arms.

When her legs finally stopped trembling, when her breath evened out slightly, he pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

"Go to sleep," he muttered softly, brushing her hair back from her face. "You need rest."

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could argue, he added, "For him, Daph."

Her chest ached.

And she hated how quickly her body betrayed her—how heavy her limbs felt, how sluggish her movements were.

She hated how Graham was right.

And so, with her hands trembling slightly, she let herself fall back against her pillow.

Her eyes were still blurry, her throat raw, but she let him tug the blanket over her.

Her eyelids were already growing heavy.

But before she drifted off, her eyes flickered once more toward the window, toward the square beyond it, toward the screen she knew was still glowing faintly in the distance.

She closed her eyes and silently prayed.

Please, let him be alive when I wake up.

Chapter Text

By the time Daphne got to the square the next morning, Sam was practically hanging off her legs.

She struggled to walk as he clung to her like a stubborn little leech, his arms wrapped tightly around her calf, his face pressed against her knee.

"Sammy," she muttered, dragging her leg forward with him still clinging to it. "You're not a vine, you know."

He giggled and clung tighter.

Jesse ran ahead, his red hair bouncing slightly, while Abel trailed behind them, hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes downcast.

She glanced back at him but didn't say anything.

He hadn't spoken much that morning.

It made her chest tighten.

Once they reached the square, Jesse immediately bolted toward the other kids, already challenging them to some makeshift game of tag. Sam finally released her leg, squealing as he toddled after his brother, leaving her to breathe for the first time since they left the house.

She let out a sigh and rubbed her sore calf.

"Little menace," she muttered under her breath.

Her eyes scanned the crowd for Delly, but before she could spot her, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"See?" Gale's voice rang out, loud and cocky. "I told you they'd be scared of Katniss."

Daphne's eyes narrowed slightly as she turned toward the sound, weaving through the crowd until she spotted him standing near the front with some of the other Seam boys.

She frowned slightly, confused for half a second—until her eyes flicked toward the screen.

And there he was.

Peeta.

Her chest tightened.

But the relief she felt at seeing him faded almost instantly as she took in the scene.

He was walking alongside the Careers.

Her stomach flipped violently.

No.

She blinked hard, trying to convince herself she was seeing things.

But she wasn't.

Peeta Mellark was walking beside Cato, Glimmer, and Marvel.

With them.

Her fingers curled into fists, her nails digging sharply into her palms as she watched.

She didn't even hear the rest of Gale's smug rant at first—her ears were ringing too loudly, her pulse roaring in her head.

But when she saw Peeta unsheath his knife, she heard Gale's voice again.

"See?" he scoffed. "They let him join because they're scared of Katniss. They know she's the real threat."

Daphne's eyes snapped toward him.

Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She very briefly considered punching him in the face.

Her stomach clenched as she turned her eyes back to the screen.

The Careers were closing in on a girl—the District 8 tribute.

Peeta was right beside them.

Her throat tightened.

The girl stumbled backward, panicked, her face streaked with dirt and blood.

Her hands trembled violently as she tried to fight them off.

But there were too many.

Cato struck first, shoving the girl to the ground.

Daphne flinched.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

And then she saw it.

Peeta.

Stepping forward.

His grip tightening on the knife.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He hesitated for only a second.

But then he lunged forward and drove the blade into the girl's chest.

Daphne's knees nearly buckled.

Her hands shot up, clamping over her mouth as a sharp, strangled gasp tore from her throat.

Her eyes were wide, her stomach twisting violently, bile rising in her throat.

She could barely breathe.

No, no, no...

Her chest tightened painfully, and for one agonizing moment, she felt like she might throw up right there in the square.

But then the camera zoomed in on Peeta's face.

And she saw it.

The pain.

The flash of guilt in his eyes.

The barely-there tremor in his hands as he wiped the blood from his blade.

He turned away from the body too quickly, his jaw clenching slightly, his eyes flickering downward.

He couldn't look at her.

Daphne felt her breath hitch sharply.

He was doing it to survive.

Her throat tightened as she stared at the screen, her heart aching in her chest.

She could see how much it hurt him.

He was trying to hide it—trying to keep his expression calm, trying to bury the guilt deep inside him.

But she knew him.

She knew the slight furrow in his brow, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the brief flicker of shame in his eyes.

Her Peeta.

Her innocent, kindhearted, selfless Peeta.

He was doing it to stay alive.

And then Gale's voice cut through the square again, smug and biting.

"Pfft," he scoffed. "What a coward. Pretending to be one of them. He's just weak."

Her head snapped toward him so fast her neck nearly cracked.

Her eyes narrowed sharply.

"Peeta's the opposite of weak, Hawthorne," she snapped, her voice cold and sharp. "He can lift a fifty-pound flour bag with one hand."

Her eyes narrowed further, her voice lowering venomously.

"You think you're stronger just because you can swing around a bow?" she sneered. "You'd be dead in there by now."

Gale's eyes flashed slightly, his jaw clenching as he opened his mouth to argue.

But before he could get a word out, a voice from behind them rang out.

"Oh, shut up, Gale," Madge Undersee snapped, her tone sharp and exasperated.

Daphne blinked in surprise, her eyes flicking toward the mayor's daughter.

Madge was usually quiet—reserved, delicate, polite.

But her voice was firm and unwavering now, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she added icily, crossing her arms. "So just be quiet."

Gale's mouth opened slightly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her.

But for once, he didn't say anything.

He merely let out an irritated huff, his eyes flashing with frustration before he turned and stalked away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Daphne watched him go, her fists still clenched.

Her jaw tightened as she turned her eyes back to the screen.

Peeta was still walking with the Careers, his back stiff, his expression carefully neutral.

But she knew.

She knew he was breaking inside.

And she hated that there was nothing she could do.

The crowd slowly started to thin as people drifted away from the square.

But Daphne didn't move.

Her feet felt rooted to the ground, her eyes fixed on the screen as Peeta and the Careers disappeared into the woods.

She knew the broadcast would cut away soon—there would be recap footage, interviews with analysts, maybe some smug Capitol commentary—but she couldn't tear her eyes away.

Her heart ached in her chest.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

She wanted to scream.

To hit something.

To throw something.

To do something.

But she couldn't.

So she just stood there.

Her eyes stung.

Her throat tightened.

She barely registered the sound of small, unsteady footsteps scurrying toward her.

"Daph!"

The tiny voice tugged at her ears, faint and sweet.

She blinked sharply and turned her head just in time to see Sam racing toward her, his arms full of scraggly, colorful wildflowers.

Her heart twisted painfully.

"Look!" he chirped brightly, holding them out toward her. "For you!"

His blue eyes—so much like her own—were wide and bright, his face beaming with pride.

Her throat tightened.

The flowers were a tangled mess—vivid pink and purple clovers, bright yellow dandelions, a few delicate white wild daisies.

A haphazard, clashing bouquet.

But it made her breath catch.

Because she knew them.

They were the same wildflowers Peeta used to pick for her.

The same ones he used to gather when they were kids, his hands stained with flour, his blond hair dusted with a thin coat of it.

The same ones he used to tuck behind her ear before grinning shyly, his face pink with boyish affection.

The same ones he still brought her sometimes when he met her by the back steps of the bakery, holding them out with that soft, crooked smile that always made her chest flutter.

Her legs suddenly felt weak.

She stared at the flowers, her vision blurring slightly.

Sam's smile faltered slightly when she didn't take them right away.

His small face scrunched with confusion.

"Don't you like them?" he asked softly, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Her throat closed.

Her chest tightened sharply.

And before she could stop herself, she dropped to her knees.

"Sammy," she choked out softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her arms wrapped tightly around his small frame, pulling him to her chest.

The flowers fell from his hands as she hugged him fiercely, holding on as though he might somehow keep her from falling apart completely.

Sam let out a surprised squeak at first, but his small arms quickly wrapped around her neck, clinging to her.

"Don't cry, Daph," he whispered, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

But she couldn't stop.

Her chest heaved against his small frame, her tears falling silently against his hair.

Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, holding him so tightly it almost hurt.

He was too young to understand.

Too innocent.

He didn't know the flowers were breaking her heart.

Didn't know that the boy who used to give her those flowers was hundreds of miles away, fighting for his life, pretending to be someone he wasn't.

That he was stabbing knives into strangers, hiding his pain behind a mask of calm.

That he was walking beside people who would kill him the second they found out who he really was.

Sam's small hands gripped the back of her dress, his voice soft and gentle.

"Please don't be sad," he whispered. "Peeta's gonna come home. He has to."

Her chest caved.

Her fingers fisted into the back of his shirt, and she clung to him even tighter.

She wanted to believe him.

Wanted to believe that Peeta would come home.

That he'd walk through the square again, covered in flour and smiling softly as he reached for her hand.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the knife in his hand.

And the blood on his face.

Her throat burned.

Her shoulders shook violently.

But she held Sam tighter.

As if somehow, keeping him close would keep the pieces of her heart from shattering completely.

The next few days blurred into a hazy, painful routine.

Daphne barely noticed the passage of time.

She woke up.

She went to the square.

And she watched.

Always watched.

She stood silently in the crowd, her eyes never leaving the screen, no matter how much it hurt.

Even when she was shaking.

Even when she wanted to scream.

Even when she couldn't breathe.

She watched.

Because if she didn't, she might miss something.

She might miss the last few seconds of Peeta's life.

The thought made her stomach twist violently.

She didn't eat much.

Didn't sleep much.

Her fingers felt raw from wringing her hands together.

Her throat burned from holding back sobs.

Her legs ached from standing so long.

But she didn't care.

She refused to leave.

Only when Rye or Graham showed up would she be forced to go home.

And they always came.

Sometimes it was just one of them, sometimes both.

Sometimes it was Abel, his small hand gripping hers tightly, his eyes pleading with her.

"Please, Daph," he'd whisper. "You have to come home."

And she would.

Because she couldn't say no to Abel.

And because she knew Peeta wouldn't want her to waste away.

But the second she woke up, she was back in the square.

Watching.

Waiting.

Clinging to the flicker of hope that Peeta would somehow make it through the day.

But nothing could have prepared her for the fifth day.

Nothing.

She was standing in her usual spot near the back of the square, her arms wrapped around herself.

Abel was with her again, his hand clutched tightly in hers.

Delly stood nearby, but she wasn't talking.

No one was.

The crowd was silent, all eyes locked on the screen.

And then the world started to crumble.

She watched as Katniss Everdeen, in a moment of daring brilliance, cut down a tracker jacker nest.

She watched as it fell into the middle of the sleeping Careers.

She watched them scramble, their faces twisted in panic as they fled.

And she watched Peeta fight.

Fight for Katniss.

Her chest tightened painfully.

Her nails dug into her palms.

Her fingers clenched tightly around Abel's small hand, making him squirm slightly.

"Daph," he mumbled softly, tugging at her hand.

But she didn't loosen her grip.

She couldn't.

Because she was watching Peeta.

She watched him shove Katniss away.

Watched him swing his sword at Cato, buying Katniss time to escape.

Cato.

The hulking tribute from District 2.

The one who had been gunning for Katniss since the bloodbath.

The one who could snap Peeta in half.

And Peeta fought him.

She could barely breathe.

She flinched as she saw Cato's sword slash across Peeta's leg.

She staggered slightly as Peeta stumbled.

Blood poured down his calf.

He could barely stand.

But he still fought.

He slashed at Cato again, keeping him at bay for one more precious second before he finally turned and ran.

Her breath caught as he limped into the woods.

His leg was coated in blood.

Every step looked agonizing.

His face was twisted with pain.

He was falling behind.

And Cato was gaining on him.

"No," Daphne whispered, her voice trembling.

Her nails dug into Abel's hand.

Her legs shook.

Her stomach flipped violently.

"Come on, Peeta," she rasped under her breath. "Come on."

He was slowing.

Staggering.

His leg gave out.

He fell.

"Get up!" she gasped, her voice cracking slightly.

She barely noticed Abel flinching at the sharpness in her voice.

Her eyes stung violently.

Her fists clenched.

Get up, get up, get up!

And somehow—somehow—he did.

He shoved himself back onto his feet and limped away.

And then—by some miracle—he vanished into the trees.

Out of sight.

Cato didn't follow.

The pack had turned their attention back to the others, still reeling from the tracker jackers.

Peeta was safe.

For now.

Daphne released a sharp, shaky breath, her legs trembling beneath her.

Abel's small hand was still clutched in hers.

Her grip was too tight, but she couldn't loosen it.

"Daph, you're hurting me," Abel whimpered softly, his voice uncertain.

Her eyes widened slightly.

She blinked sharply, looking down at him.

Her fingers immediately released their death grip, and she knelt in front of him, grabbing his hand gently.

"Sorry," she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

She smoothed her fingers over his small hand, her throat closing tightly when she saw the faint red marks her nails had left behind.

Her stomach twisted with guilt.

Abel's lower lip wobbled slightly, but he didn't cry.

He was too stubborn for that.

He simply squeezed her hand back.

She pressed her lips to his knuckles.

But she didn't say anything.

Because the screen flickered again.

And Peeta reappeared.

He was staggering through the trees, clutching at his leg, his face pale.

Blood coated his hands.

His eyes were dull with pain.

He couldn't walk anymore.

Her breath hitched violently in her throat.

He was dying.

And she could do nothing.

But then—then—he collapsed onto the forest floor.

And she watched, eyes wide, as he did something that made her heart stop.

He dipped his fingers into the mud.

And he began to paint.

She barely registered the gasp that escaped her throat.

Her eyes locked onto the screen, watching in stunned disbelief as he carefully, methodically, painted himself into the ground.

Her legs almost gave out.

Because it was so Peeta.

Even now—wounded, bleeding, fighting for his life—he was still him.

Still creative.

Still resourceful.

Still a baker.

Still an artist.

And when he finally disappeared into the forest floor, his body expertly camouflaged, she released a shaky breath.

Her throat closed tightly.

Her fingers trembled.

She barely noticed when Abel reached for her hand again, holding it softly in his small palm.

She squeezed it gently, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

She couldn't lose him.

She wouldn't lose him.

Because he was still her Peeta.

Her baker boy.

Her artist.

And he was still fighting.

The next few days passed in a tense blur.

Daphne stood in the square, the sun beating down on her shoulders, but she barely felt it.

Her eyes were locked on the screen.

She barely moved.

Barely blinked.

She just watched.

Watched as Rue and Katniss formed their alliance.

Watched as Peeta remained hidden in the ground.

And watched as Katniss and Rue plotted to destroy the Careers' supplies.

Her fingers were balled into fists at her sides as the plan unfolded.

Katniss, swift and silent, sent a series of arrows to trigger the explosives.

The supplies erupted in a massive fireball, scattering the Careers and leaving them with nothing.

Nothing but their weapons.

Her throat tightened slightly when she caught a brief flash of Cato's furious expression.

That was going to be a problem.

But it was one Peeta wouldn't have to face.

Because he was still hidden.

Still lying somewhere in the woods, painted into the ground, completely undetectable.

She watched the brief flash of his unmoving, camouflaged body as the camera panned over the area.

He hadn't moved in two days.

She could only imagine how much pain he was in.

Her stomach twisted violently.

But she held onto the fact that he was still alive.

Still breathing.

Still safe.

For now.

And then came day nine.

The day she had been dreading without even knowing it.

Because the camera crews arrived.

Her stomach dropped the moment she saw them.

The slick, brightly dressed Capitol reporters standing in the square, their cameras scanning the crowd.

Top eight.

They always did interviews at top eight.

Footage of family and friends, sobbing over their tributes, recalling fond memories, making desperate pleas for sponsors.

And that posed two very big problems.

Gale.

And her.

Daphne immediately tried to slip away, slipping back toward the rear of the crowd, Abel's small hand clutched in hers.

She ducked her head slightly, trying to blend in.

But she could feel people's eyes on her.

They were pointing.

Murmuring.

Because everyone knew.

Everyone knew Gale was in love with Katniss.

And everyone knew she was Peeta's girl.

And the Capitol was going to come for them.

Sure enough, one of the Capitol reporters spotted Gale first, a manicured finger pointing directly at him.

"Him! Him!" the woman cried, grabbing her cameraman's arm. "That one! That's the Everdeen boy!"

Daphne's eyes widened slightly.

Everdeen boy?

She blinked sharply, watching in bewilderment as the woman practically sprinted over to Gale.

There was a brief, frantic conversation.

And then—just like that—Gale was Katniss's cousin.

Her cousin.

Daphne stared, wide-eyed, as Gale's face remained stoic, calm, his voice steady as he confirmed the reporter's assumption without so much as a twitch of hesitation.

He glanced toward her briefly, his eyes sharp, clearly daring her to call him out on the lie.

She didn't.

Because she knew exactly what he was doing.

Protecting Katniss.

Preserving Peeta's ruse.

Keeping the star-crossed lovers narrative alive.

And then—it was her turn.

Before she could even think to flee, she felt an arm drape around her shoulders.

"Oh, there she is! Peeta Mellark's girl!"

Her stomach dropped.

She tensed sharply.

But before she could even take a step, she felt Rye's arm tighten protectively around her.

She jerked slightly, blinking in surprise, only to feel him pull her flush against his side.

Her eyes widened slightly, her head snapping up to look at him, confusion flashing across her face.

But he didn't look at her.

He was already looking at the reporter.

And then, with the calmest expression she'd ever seen, he smiled.

"Actually, she's my girl," Rye said smoothly, his voice perfectly casual, perfectly firm.

Daphne's eyes snapped toward him.

Her jaw clenched.

Her teeth gritted.

What?!

She immediately opened her mouth, her eyes flashing as she prepared to rip him apart for the ridiculous claim.

But before she could so much as breathe a word, she felt a sharp elbow jab into her ribs.

She inhaled sharply, biting back a wince, her eyes snapping toward the source of the blow.

Graham.

He was staring at her with a warning look, his eyes wide, practically begging her to stay quiet.

She clenched her teeth so hard it hurt.

But she didn't say a word.

Because she understood.

They were protecting Peeta.

Protecting his strategy.

Protecting his best shot at survival.

And so she let Rye's arm stay around her shoulders.

Let him keep her pressed against his side.

Let him look at her like she was his.

Even though she wanted to shove him away.

Even though her stomach churned violently at the words.

Even though it felt so wrong to stand there and pretend that she wasn't Peeta's.

The reporter, oblivious to the tension, beamed brightly and shoved the microphone toward Rye.

"Oh! You're Peeta's older brother, yes?" she asked excitedly. "And you're dating his friend?"

Rye's grip on her tightened slightly.

"That's right," he said smoothly, his voice steady, his eyes deceptively calm.

"Just happened to be good friends with Peeta, too," he added, a casual shrug in his voice, his hand giving her shoulder a light squeeze.

The reporter's eyes lit up in delight.

"Oh, how wonderful!" she gushed. "And how is it watching your boyfriend—"

She caught herself with an exaggerated gasp.

"Oh! Sorry! Your boyfriend's brother competing in the Games?"

Daphne's throat tightened painfully.

Her chest burned violently.

Her hands ached from clenching them into fists.

But she didn't say a word.

She couldn't.

Because she felt Graham's elbow pressing against her side, firm and unwavering, silently reminding her not to blow it.

So she kept her mouth shut.

And let Rye's arm hold her close.

Because she knew it was for Peeta.

And she would do anything for him.

As soon as the interview ended, Rye didn't give Daphne a chance to process.

His hand stayed firmly on her shoulder, guiding her through the crowd with Graham flanking her other side.

Neither of them said a word.

They simply steered her away from the square, away from the reporters, away from the eyes of the district.

Away from the cameras that had just plastered the lie across every screen in Panem.

By the time they reached the bakery, Daphne was barely holding it together.

The moment they slipped through the back door, the dam broke.

Her legs buckled slightly as she stumbled into the room, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts.

And then she crumpled.

Right there by the back worktable.

Her knees hit the cool stone floor with a dull thud, her hands clutching at her chest as she doubled over.

The sobs tore from her throat violently, ragged and broken.

The sound filled the room, bouncing off the flour-dusted walls, sharp and guttural.

She pressed her face against her hands, her fingers trembling against her cheeks.

She couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

All she could feel was the overwhelming wrongness of it all.

Because she was Peeta's girl.

Not Rye's.

Not Rye's.

And now the whole country thought otherwise.

She felt Graham kneel beside her, one hand curling gently around her back as he rubbed slow, soothing circles over her spine.

She barely felt it.

Her sobs shook her violently, her fingers clawing at her chest as if she could somehow tear the ache out of herself.

And then Rye was there too, crouching in front of her, his face grim.

Without a word, he reached out, prying her hands away from her face, gently but firmly.

Her glassy eyes snapped up to meet his.

And through her tears, she saw the guilt there.

The sadness.

The regret.

Her chest tightened further, a strangled sob catching in her throat.

But she forced herself to breathe.

And somehow, she managed to choke out the words.

"Thank you," she rasped brokenly, her voice barely more than a whisper, raw and cracked.

Her hands trembled slightly in his grip.

"For coming up with something," she added softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Rye's jaw clenched slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

But he gave her hand a light squeeze.

And then he exhaled sharply, sitting back on his heels with a tired groan.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, his voice gruff, "you're not gonna be so grateful in a minute."

Daphne's bloodshot eyes narrowed slightly, blinking at him in confusion.

She sniffled sharply, wiping at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Wha—" she croaked, her voice raspy, but he cut her off with a pointed look.

"We're gonna have to keep it up," he said flatly, his expression stony.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She stared at him, her breath hitching slightly.

"What?" she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking slightly.

Rye ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily, clearly agitated.

"You heard me," he grumbled, his jaw tight. "The whole damn district just watched me claim you. And you sure as hell better believe the Capitol saw it too. If we suddenly act like we hate each other tomorrow, they're gonna notice."

Daphne's eyes flashed sharply, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

She was already shaking her head.

"No," she choked out, her voice rough, barely above a whisper.

She stumbled to her feet, her legs trembling violently beneath her.

"No, I'm not—"

Her voice cracked sharply, and she cut herself off.

Her throat burned as she tried to swallow the sob clawing its way up her throat.

But Rye was already standing too, his eyes hard, stubborn.

"Daph," he muttered firmly, grabbing her by the wrist before she could turn away.

His grip was strong but gentle, unyielding but not rough.

She wrenched her arm back violently, breaking his hold, her eyes blazing as she glared at him.

"No!" she snapped harshly, her voice thick with emotion.

Her eyes stung, fresh tears threatening to spill over.

Her hands trembled violently at her sides.

But she didn't care.

Because she couldn't do it.

She couldn't stomach the thought of pretending to be with Rye.

Not when Peeta was still out there, still fighting, still risking his life.

Not when he was still hers.

Her chest constricted painfully, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

But Rye's voice was firm, steady, and completely unwavering.

"Yes," he said flatly, his eyes hard, no trace of his usual gentleness. "You will."

Her throat tightened violently.

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could argue, his face hardened further.

"And you're not the only one who doesn't like it," he added bitterly, his eyes narrowing.

Her brows furrowed slightly, confused.

But before she could ask, he muttered the words under his breath, grumbling them almost as an afterthought.

"Not exactly thrilled about it either," he muttered, his voice low, barely more than a grumble.

Her eyes narrowed sharply.

And for the first time, she caught the faintest flush of color in his cheeks.

Her breath caught slightly.

"What?" she asked faintly, blinking sharply.

Rye's lips pressed into a hard line, clearly trying to brush it off.

But Graham—still leaning against the worktable—smirked slightly, far too amused by the situation.

"Oh, you know," Graham drawled lightly, his tone far too casual, too smug.

He shot Rye a sideways glance, his smirk widening.

"The girl at the general store," he added with a teasing grin.

Daphne's eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise.

And despite the ache still crushing her chest, despite the nausea still twisting in her gut, her brows lifted slightly.

The girl at the general store.

It clicked immediately.

Rye liked someone.

Her eyes flicked toward Rye again, and she caught the flash of discomfort in his expression—the faint clench of his jaw, the way he suddenly averted his eyes.

And somehow, despite the leaden weight in her chest, she managed to let out a breathless, broken laugh.

It was soft and shaky and nowhere near genuine.

But it was something.

And for just a brief moment, her heart didn't hurt quite as much.

The next morning, Daphne stood at the edge of the square, her hands shoved into the pockets of her worn jacket, her eyes trained on the screen.

The sun was barely up, but the district was already gathering.

The Hunger Games were on, after all.

There were only six tributes left.

She could feel the weight of Rye's presence beside her, his broad shoulder nearly brushing hers as he stood close, his arm slung casually over Sam's small frame.

The four-year-old clung to Rye's hand tightly, his round face alight with excitement.

Too young to fully understand the horror he was watching.

Too innocent to know any better.

He tugged impatiently on Rye's hand, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Can I get on your shoulders?" Sam asked eagerly, craning his neck to look up at Peeta's older brother.

Rye's lips twitched slightly.

Without a word, he crouched down, gripping Sam's legs and hoisting him easily onto his shoulders.

The boy let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands together triumphantly as he wobbled slightly on his perch.

Daphne barely noticed.

Her eyes were glued to the screen.

She hardly even blinked.

Her fingers curled into tight fists in her pockets, her knuckles white with the effort.

Because Peeta was still hidden.

Still painted into the ground.

Still weak and bleeding somewhere in the arena.

But he was alive.

She held onto that.

Clung to it.

It was the only thing keeping her upright.

Rye stayed close to her, keeping Sam occupied.

It wasn't subtle.

And she knew it wasn't just about keeping up appearances.

He was giving her space.

Letting her watch the screen without having to worry about keeping her fake smile in place.

And for that, she was grateful.

She barely noticed when he began walking Sam around the square, bouncing the boy slightly on his shoulders, making him squeal with delight.

She didn't even register it.

Because everything else faded away.

The moment she saw Rue.

The small girl from District 11.

Terrified.

Desperate.

Running.

The breath caught sharply in Daphne's throat.

Her hands tightened further in her pockets, her nails digging painfully into her palms.

Her chest clenched violently.

Because she knew.

She could feel it.

Rue wasn't going to make it.

And she was right.

She saw the glimmer of Marvel's spear before Rue even turned.

Her stomach twisted painfully as she watched it plunge into the little girl's chest.

Her knees nearly buckled, and she had to force herself to keep standing.

And then came Katniss.

She let out a raw, guttural scream.

Her arrow buried itself in Marvel's chest, the boy crumpling with a dull thud.

But Daphne barely noticed.

Her eyes were locked on Katniss.

On the way she dropped to her knees beside Rue.

The way her hands trembled as she smoothed Rue's hair back from her face.

The way she sang softly to her, her voice barely more than a whisper, cracking with grief.

Daphne's throat tightened violently, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Because Rue was so small.

So young.

So fragile.

And yet, Katniss stayed with her.

Held her.

Comforted her.

And honored her.

She watched as Katniss gathered the wildflowers scattered across the forest floor.

She watched her place them carefully, deliberately, around Rue's small, still form.

A crown of beauty in the midst of bloodshed.

And then Katniss pressed her fingers to her lips and lifted her hand, sending Rue off with the quiet salute of District 12.

Daphne's breath caught sharply.

Her eyes burned.

Her chest ached.

For once, she didn't fight it.

Because Rue was gone.

And she deserved to be grieved.

Daphne barely noticed when Rye approached her again, Sam still perched on his shoulders.

But as if sensing the shift in the air, Rye's arms reached up swiftly, plucking Sam down from his shoulders.

"Hey, bud," he said softly, giving the boy a small smile, his voice calm and steady.

"You wanna go see if the bakery's got any day-olds?"

Sam blinked up at him, confused, his face scrunching slightly.

"But I wanna watch," he pouted.

Rye's hand came down gently on the back of Sam's head, ruffling his hair lightly.

"I'll let you pick two muffins," he added, his voice playful but firm.

The boy's face brightened slightly at the promise.

And with only a little more coaxing, Rye led him away.

Daphne barely registered it.

Her eyes stayed locked on the screen.

Watching Katniss gently fold Rue's hands over her chest.

Watching her trembling fingers brush Rue's cheek.

Watching her give the young girl the only dignity the Capitol would allow her.

And somewhere in the distance, she heard soft footsteps returning.

Rye.

When he stood beside her again, her voice was low, almost too casual.

"General store girl saw you with Sammy," she muttered softly, without looking at him.

Rye's lips twitched faintly.

She didn't take her eyes off the screen.

Didn't even blink.

But still, Rye spoke softly.

"Good," He murmured dryly.

His voice was hoarse, raspy with the weight of Rue's death.

But still, she let the faintest smirk tug at the corner of her lips.

Because she could feel Rye's eyes flicker toward her.

And she could sense the way he rolled them.

But he didn't say anything.

Because his hand found hers.

And he gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

And for just a brief moment, she let herself hold on.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Daphne stood with Delly and Madge at the edge of the square, the three of them huddled close as the midday sun beat down on them.

The crowd was restless, buzzing with quiet conversation.

The Hunger Games had been going on for ten days now.

And District 12 was still holding on.

Two tributes still breathing.

Daphne wasn't sure if she should be relieved or terrified.

Her hands were cold despite the warmth of the sun, shoved deep into the pockets of her thin jacket.

Madge stood to her left, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowed slightly at the screen.

Delly stood to her right, her hands clasped in front of her, her fingers twisting anxiously.

Daphne could feel her friend trembling faintly, could see the way her eyes kept darting toward her every few seconds, clearly waiting for her to crack.

But Daphne was steady.

At least on the outside.

She had to be.

She couldn't let them see how tightly she was clenching her fists in her pockets.

Or how she was biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Because Peeta was still out there.

Hurt.

Alone.

Bleeding.

She could feel her stomach clench violently, the memory of his blood-soaked leg flashing behind her eyes.

But she forced herself to stare at the screen.

To watch.

To breathe.

Because he was still alive.

She had to hold onto that.

No matter how much it hurt.

"Hey, Daph?"

Delly's voice was soft, hesitant, as though she was afraid to disturb the fragile stillness between them.

Daphne blinked, turning her head slightly.

Delly offered her a small, cautious smile.

"Madge brought cookies," she said gently, her voice overly light, clearly trying to be cheerful.

But Daphne just shook her head once.

The thought of food made her stomach turn.

Madge didn't say anything.

She simply held out the small bundle of sweets, her eyes slightly narrowed, her expression unreadable.

But Daphne didn't take them.

She just turned back to the screen.

And then it happened.

The anthem played.

And the cameras panned out over the arena.

Her breath caught sharply.

Because she knew what was coming.

A rule change.

There had to be.

The Capitol wouldn't let Katniss and Peeta both become martyrs.

They were too valuable.

And she was right.

When Claudius Templesmith's voice rang out across the square, Daphne felt herself go perfectly still.

She didn't even blink.

Because she was too afraid she might miss the words she'd been praying for.

"This year's Games will allow two victors if they come from the same district..."

There was a beat of stunned silence across the square.

And then the crowd erupted.

The murmuring turned into a roar.

Gasps and shouts of disbelief filled the air.

Delly's hand clamped around Daphne's wrist, gripping it tightly, her knuckles white.

Madge let out a soft breath of surprise, her eyes flickering toward Daphne briefly, but she didn't say anything.

And Daphne didn't move.

She couldn't.

Because she was too busy staring at the screen.

Too busy watching Katniss.

She was already on her feet, her grey eyes wide, frantic.

Without hesitation, she called out.

Her voice was hoarse and raw from disuse.

But still, it rang clear across the arena.

"Peeta?"

And the crowd around them erupted into cheers.

Delly gave a small, strangled gasp of relief.

The edges of Madge's lips twitched faintly, the barest flicker of hope passing over her face.

Because they could all see it.

Katniss was going to find him.

Going to save him.

And for once, Daphne didn't feel a shred of jealousy.

Because she could feel her own heart stutter violently in her chest.

Her hands trembled faintly, her fingers curling into fists.

Because she was grateful.

Grateful that Katniss was the one calling his name.

Grateful that she was still standing.

Grateful that she was strong.

Because Peeta needed help.

And now, with the rule change, he had a chance.

A real chance.

Her eyes stung, her throat tightening painfully as she stared at the screen.

And suddenly, she could feel Delly's arms wrapping tightly around her.

The other girl was trembling, gripping her hard, as though trying to hold her together.

"They can both win," Delly whispered shakily, her voice cracking slightly.

"Daph, they can both win."

And for once, Daphne didn't flinch at the mention of they.

She didn't care that Katniss was the one being paired with Peeta.

She didn't care that the Capitol was branding them as lovers.

Because Peeta was hurt.

And now, with Katniss by his side, he had someone to fight with.

Someone to fight for.

And she clung to that hope like a lifeline.

Daphne stood in the square, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her nails digging into her skin. The early afternoon sun was hot overhead, but she felt cold.

Her heart was pounding, every muscle in her body coiled so tightly she thought she might snap.

Because Katniss had found Peeta.

Finally.

The relief had nearly knocked her off her feet when she saw him on the screen, pale and shaking but alive.

She could barely breathe as she watched Katniss clean his wounds, press medicine to his burning skin, help him drink.

Peeta was okay.

For now.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she watched the screen.

He was propped up against the cave wall, his leg stretched out, covered in dried blood. The medicine was working, but it wasn't enough.

His face was still too pale, his blue eyes dimmer than she'd ever seen them.

Daphne swallowed hard, her chest tight.

But he was talking.

He was still fighting.

Still Peeta.

She let out a slow breath, letting her hands relax just slightly.

He was going to be okay.

Then, Peeta spoke again.

Soft, low, voice rasping against the quiet hum of the screen.

"Remember that day at school?" he murmured, a small, tired smile flickering across his face. "When I saw you sing for the first time?"

Daphne's breath caught.

Katniss blinked.

There was the barest flicker of confusion in her grey eyes before she forced a small, hesitant smile and nodded.

But Daphne knew the truth.

Because Peeta wasn't talking about Katniss.

He was talking about her.

The school assembly.

She had been the one to stand on that rickety wooden stage at ten years old, her voice trembling as she sang the old folk song her mother had taught her.

She had been the one Peeta teased about her braids, tugging the ends playfully when they were children.

She had been the one he walked home, year after year, fingers intertwined with hers.

Not Katniss.

But Katniss played along.

She had to.

And Daphne understood that.

She did.

But that didn't stop the pain from slamming into her like a physical force when Katniss leaned forward—

And kissed him.

Her Peeta.

Daphne's stomach twisted violently.

And then he kissed her back.

Daphne's breath hitched sharply, her vision blurring.

The square around her seemed to spin.

She barely had a second to react before she felt an arm wrap tightly around her shoulders.

Warm, solid, unyielding.

Rye.

He turned her into his chest, blocking her from view.

From the crowd.

From the cameras.

From Peeta kissing Katniss.

She pressed her face into his jacket, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe.

"Don't look," Rye muttered, his voice rough, quiet, meant only for her.

"I wasn't planning to," she choked out, voice thick.

Rye's arm tightened around her.

And she let herself fall into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because if she had to watch even one more second—

She might break.

Daphne stood in the square, arms crossed so tightly over her chest it almost hurt. The cool morning air did nothing to soothe the fire burning inside her as she watched the screen.

In the cave, Katniss was crouched beside Peeta, her fingers brushing through his hair.

Daphne swallowed hard.

She had spent the night trying to convince herself that Peeta's kiss with Katniss meant nothing. That it was all part of the act, just like she had always known it would be.

But every day that passed, it got harder and harder to believe that.

Because it didn't feel like an act anymore.

Katniss had started looking at him differently.

Not just as an ally. Not just as a ticket home.

As something more.

And that terrified Daphne.

She could barely breathe as she watched Katniss hold out the small silver container, coaxing Peeta to drink.

Peeta was too tired, too sick to question it.

He trusted her.

So he drank.

And within minutes, he was unconscious.

Daphne's stomach clenched.

Katniss had drugged him.

She was going after the medicine at the Cornucopia.

Daphne knew it was the only option.

Peeta's leg was bad. Really bad.

If he didn't get that medicine, he wasn't coming home.

And Katniss knew that.

She was doing what she had to do to save him.

Daphne should have been grateful.

She should have felt some sense of relief.

But all she could focus on was the way Katniss had stroked his hair before he passed out.

The way she had whispered to him.

The way she had looked at him as he slept.

That wasn't just an act.

Maybe it had started as one.

But now?

Now Daphne wasn't so sure.

She tore her gaze from the screen, staring at the cracked cobblestone beneath her feet.

Every day, this was getting harder.

Every day, she felt herself slipping further and further into something she didn't want to name.

Because Peeta wasn't just fighting for his life in that arena anymore.

He was slipping away from her.

And she didn't know how to stop it.

Yet again, Daphne stood in the square, her hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails dug into her palms. The sun was high overhead, beating down on the gathered crowd, but she barely felt it. All she could feel was the sharp, suffocating panic that had gripped her the second the cannon fired.

On the screen, Katniss had whirled around, screaming Peeta's name.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat.

She watched as Katniss ran through the trees, her eyes wild, frantic.

And then—there he was.

Peeta.

Alive.

Katniss crashed into him, her hands gripping his face, his shoulders, checking him over as if she didn't believe he was real.

Daphne felt sick.

The relief in Katniss's eyes, the way she clung to him, it wasn't an act.

It wasn't for the cameras.

It was real.

Daphne couldn't breathe.

Delly's hand found hers, squeezing tightly, but it did nothing to steady her.

Because for the first time, Daphne had to face something she had been trying to ignore.

Katniss cared about Peeta.

And Peeta…

Peeta let her hold him. Let her touch him. Let her press her forehead to his as she caught her breath.

He hadn't pulled away.

He hadn't looked uncomfortable.

He had just held her right back.

Daphne forced herself to swallow against the lump in her throat.

She had spent the last week trying to convince herself that this whole thing was still just a strategy. That Peeta was playing his role, doing what he had to do to survive.

But now?

Now she wasn't sure.

He was alive.

They were both alive.

And there was only one thing standing between them and coming home.

Cato.

The end of this nightmare was close.

But Daphne had a sinking feeling that just because Peeta survived the Games, it didn't mean she wouldn't still lose him.

The square was deathly silent.

Daphne barely noticed the press of bodies around her, barely heard Delly's anxious breathing beside her. The only thing she could focus on was the massive screen in front of her, where Peeta and Katniss stood atop the Cornucopia, bloodied, exhausted, but still standing.

Cato, however, was not.

The last Career tribute was on his hands and knees, barely recognizable beneath the mass of wounds covering his body. The mutts had torn him to pieces, but he was still alive, still breathing, still suffering.

And Peeta, her Peeta, was looking down at him with something almost like pity.

Daphne swallowed hard, watching as Peeta lifted his hand—his injured hand—and pressed it against Katniss's bow, guiding it into position.

For a moment, she thought she might be sick.

Peeta had already killed once in these Games, but that had been in the heat of battle, in a moment of pure survival.

This was different.

This was mercy.

This was something he had to do.

Katniss didn't hesitate. The arrow flew straight and true, and Cato collapsed into the mess of fur and teeth below.

The cannon fired, signaling the end.

For a long moment, no one in the square moved.

Daphne's heart pounded so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

It was over.

It was finally over.

They had won.

Peeta was coming home.

But then—

The voice of Claudius Templesmith echoed through the arena.

"The previous rule allowing two victors from the same district has been revoked."

The world seemed to tip sideways.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat as the words repeated over and over in her mind, but the reality of them didn't set in until she saw Katniss and Peeta.

The way they slowly turned to face each other.

The way Peeta dropped his bloody knife.

The way defeat settled into his expression.

No.

No, no, no.

Daphne's nails dug into her arms.

This wasn't happening.

They had won.

He was supposed to be coming home.

"Go ahead," Peeta said, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. "I'm already dead."

Daphne choked back a sob.

She didn't want Katniss to kill him.

But what scared her even more was the fact that Peeta was ready to die.

For her.

For Katniss.

Not for his family.

Not for his friends.

Not for her.

For Katniss.

Daphne shook her head violently, as if that could somehow change the reality unfolding before her.

But Katniss didn't lift her bow.

Instead, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of dark berries, and held them out to Peeta.

"Trust me?"

Daphne's stomach plummeted.

The crowd around her was murmuring, shifting uneasily, but she couldn't hear them.

She could only hear the rapid pounding of her heart as she watched Peeta nod.

As she watched him take her hand.

As she watched them count to three.

And then—

"Stop!"

The arena speakers crackled as Claudius Templesmith's voice boomed through the sky.

"We have our winners!"

For a moment, Daphne didn't move.

She couldn't.

Because her body had gone completely numb.

It took a long second for the words to actually register in her brain.

And when they did, the dam broke.

The entire square erupted.

People screamed, shouted, cried—Daphne wasn't sure if it was out of joy or shock. Probably both.

She felt herself trembling as the screen flashed with the image of a hovercraft descending into the arena.

Peeta was still alive.

Peeta was coming home.

Daphne gasped, clutching at Delly, at Abel, at anyone she could reach, but her whole body was shaking too hard to hold on to anything.

He had survived.

Despite the Careers.

Despite the mutts.

Despite the Gamemakers themselves trying to tear him away from her.

He had survived.

Daphne let out a broken, choked sob, relief slamming into her with the force of a tidal wave.

Because for the first time in over two weeks—

For the first time since they had called his name at the Reaping—

She knew she was going to see Peeta Mellark again.

For a week, Daphne had been trapped in limbo.

She had no idea when Peeta was coming home. No idea how he was doing. No idea if he was even Peeta anymore.

The Capitol had stopped airing anything after their victory, leaving District 12 in silence. Daphne forced herself back into routine—sewing, looking after her brothers, doing anything to keep herself from spiraling. But every time the bell above the shop door jingled, she jerked her head up, hoping for news that never came.

Then, one afternoon, everything changed.

The door to the shop slammed open so hard it rattled the walls.

"Daph!" Rye's voice boomed through the room.

She barely had time to turn before Rye and Graham were suddenly there, out of breath, grinning wildly.

"The train!" Graham gasped. "The Capitol train just arrived!"

The world tilted.

Daphne dropped the dress she'd been mending, barely registering the way the needle clattered onto the floor.

The train.

Peeta.

Her legs were already moving before she could think, pushing past them, through the door, onto the street. People were running toward the station. She wasn't the only one who had been waiting for this.

She barely felt Rye grab her wrist, pulling her faster.

The station was packed by the time they got there. The entire district had turned out, desperate for a glimpse of their victors.

And then—

The train door opened.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat.

Katniss was first, stepping into the afternoon light, her braid neat, her eyes scanning the crowd with carefully masked nerves.

And then him.

Peeta.

Daphne felt like something had hit her in the chest.

His golden hair was combed neatly, his Capitol clothes crisp, but he looked—tired. His eyes weren't the same bright blue she'd memorized a thousand times.

And he was holding Katniss's hand.

Rye's arm wrapped around her shoulders, grounding her, shielding her.

But then Peeta's eyes found hers.

A sharp, pained breath left his lips.

And the guilt in his expression was so deep, so raw, that something in Daphne's stomach unclenched just a little.

She barely noticed when Mr. Mellark stepped forward, pulling Peeta into a fierce hug.

She did notice when he leaned in, whispering something into his ear.

Peeta's spine stiffened. His gaze sharply cut to Rye, expression darkening.

Daphne suddenly realized—Mr. Mellark must have told him about the interview ruse. About her and Rye.

Peeta was fuming.

Daphne barely had time to process it before the cameras started pushing in, filming Peeta's reaction as they led him toward the Victor's Village.

But she wasn't paying attention to the reporters.

Her eyes had locked on his leg.

Or rather—

What was missing.

The breath left her body like she'd been punched.

He had a prosthetic.

He lost his leg.

The world blurred.

She felt sick. She wanted to scream. He had never said anything about that in the arena. The cameras hadn't shown it during any of his interviews.

How much had he suffered?

By the time they reached the Victor's Village, her hands were shaking.

The cameras were still rolling, capturing every angle of Peeta's face, of the pristine home that now belonged to him.

Then, suddenly—

They were gone.

The second the last one disappeared, Peeta turned.

And threw himself into her arms.

"Daph—" His voice cracked, and suddenly he was clutching her so tightly she could barely breathe. "I'm so sorry. I—God, I didn't—"

His words tumbled out a mile a minute, frantic, desperate.

"I only did it to survive, I swear—I never wanted to hurt you—every second felt horrible, I was thinking about you the entire time, I—"

"Peeta—" she tried, but he didn't stop.

"I hated it, I hated it, I wanted to tell you—I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't, I—"

Daphne's arms wrapped around him, gripping him so hard her nails dug into his back.

He was here.

He was alive.

And suddenly, she felt awful for ever feeling jealous.

Because the way he was looking at her now—

Pure, unfiltered love.

Before she could even take a breath, Peeta crashed his lips against hers.

Daphne gasped into his mouth, but then her arms were around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, kissing him like she'd die if she didn't.

She vaguely registered Rye and Graham still standing there, Mr. Mellark shifting awkwardly.

But Peeta didn't care.

And neither did she.

Chapter Text

The weeks after Peeta came home blurred into one long, quiet dream.

Daphne barely left his house in the Victor's Village. The Mellarks stayed at the bakery, leaving the massive home empty except for the two of them.

Peeta was never alone.

At night, Daphne held him, her arms wrapped tight around his torso, her fingers tracing soothing circles over his back as he slept against her chest. The first few nights, he woke up gasping, clawing at the sheets, but she was always there, whispering his name, grounding him. Over time, the nightmares faded.

During the day, they were wrapped around each other—on the couch, in the kitchen, outside in the garden. Peeta couldn't stop touching her, like he was terrified she'd vanish. He kissed her constantly, slow and reverent, like he was still apologizing for the Games.

And when he made love to her, it was desperate and deep, like he was trying to erase every second of pain, trying to prove he was here, that he was hers, that no matter what had happened on-screen, it had only ever been Daphne.

She believed him.

One morning, Daphne slipped out of bed before him, letting Peeta sleep in.

He looked so peaceful, curled up on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, blond hair a mess.

Smiling, she pulled on her nightgown and padded to the kitchen, starting breakfast. Peeta was still getting used to having food—real food, as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted. She planned on making him something sweet, knowing how much he needed it.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Daphne frowned, wiping her hands on a cloth before making her way to the front of the house. She pulled the door open.

And nearly groaned.

Katniss Everdeen stood on the porch, brows furrowed, looking confused to see her classmate standing in Peeta's doorway in a nightgown.

"Uh…" Katniss hesitated, eyes flicking down at her, then back up. "Why are you here?"

Daphne blinked, then rolled her eyes.

Seriously? She hadn't figured it out?

"We're dating," Daphne said flatly.

Katniss's lips parted slightly, processing.

"For how long?" she asked, voice careful.

Daphne knew exactly what she was thinking—Are you with him because he's a Victor?

That set Daphne's teeth on edge.

"A year and a half," she bit out, arms crossing over her chest. "Since we were fifteen."

Something flickered in Katniss's eyes. A realization.

Daphne let out a slow, sharp breath, her patience wearing thin.

"Everything he said about you in the arena?" she said, tilting her head. "Walking you home? Seeing you sing at school? It wasn't made up, it just wasn't about you."

Katniss inhaled sharply.

Daphne stepped closer, her voice lowering.

"You would do well to remember, Everdeen—you weren't the only one pretending in that arena."

Katniss opened her mouth, but Daphne was done.

She reached for the door—

And shut it right in Katniss's face.

A rush of satisfaction filled her.

But it didn't last long.

Because now all she wanted—more than anything—was to be back in Peeta's arms.

A few days later, Peeta made his way over to Haymitch's house with a fresh loaf of bread tucked under his arm.

It had become a habit—checking in on his mentor, making sure the old drunk didn't starve himself between bottles.

He wasn't expecting Katniss to already be there.

She was sitting at Haymitch's kitchen table, arms crossed, looking as unimpressed as ever. Peeta hesitated at the door but sighed and stepped inside anyway, setting the bread down on the counter.

Haymitch, still half-asleep on the couch, cracked open one eye and grunted.

"Was wonderin' when you'd show up," he muttered.

Peeta rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Katniss spoke up.

"I saw Daphne at your house the other day."

Haymitch made a noise, finally sitting up properly. His gaze flicked between the two of them, sensing something was off.

Peeta shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "She, uh… she's been staying over a lot."

Katniss scoffed. "She lives there, basically."

Haymitch arched a brow. "And Daphne is… who exactly?"

Peeta exhaled slowly, staring at the floor.

"My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

A groan.

"Shit," Haymitch muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. "Of course you've got a girl back home. Because this wasn't messy enough already."

Peeta frowned. "It's not—"

Haymitch shot him a look. "Oh, it's messy, boy. You spent weeks acting like you were in love with Everdeen for the cameras, and now you're back home all tangled up with someone else? You do realize how this looks, right?"

Peeta clenched his jaw but didn't answer.

Katniss just sighed. "It's not my problem," she muttered, standing up. "I was just curious."

Peeta watched her go, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

Haymitch, meanwhile, just shook his head, reaching for the bottle of liquor on the table.

"Goddamn love triangles," he muttered. "Every damn time."

Peeta sighed as he shut the door to his house, rubbing his temples. Haymitch was right—this was a mess. Not in his heart, though. He knew exactly where he belonged.

As he stepped into the living room, his gaze softened.

Daphne was curled up on the couch, her sketchbook balanced on her lap, a pencil still clutched loosely in her fingers. Her curls spilled over the cushions, her breathing soft and even.

Peeta moved closer, carefully sliding the sketchbook from her lap. His brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages. He had expected little doodles—maybe rough bakery designs or idle scribbles—but instead, the book was filled with detailed clothing sketches. Dresses, coats, intricate stitching patterns.

He hadn't even realized she was this good.

Smiling to himself, he set the book aside and leaned down, sliding his arms beneath her. She stirred as he lifted her, murmuring something incoherent against his chest.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair as he carried her to the bedroom.

By the time he laid her down on the bed, she was waking up just enough to recognize him. She blinked up at him sleepily, then reached out, pulling him down into her warmth.

Peeta went willingly, burying his face against her neck, pressing slow, lazy kisses to her skin.

Daphne sighed, fingers threading into his hair.

"You smell like bread," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Peeta chuckled, his lips trailing down to her collarbone. "I am the baker's son."

She hummed in response, already half-asleep again, but her arms were still locked around him, holding him close like she never wanted to let go.

And Peeta?

He wasn't planning on going anywhere.

The months passed too quickly, slipping through Daphne's fingers like flour through a sieve.

Peeta spent his days baking, his hands covered in dough and flour, while his nights were spent painting—sometimes landscapes, sometimes abstract swirls of color, and sometimes her. He never let her see those, but she caught glimpses of red curls and soft blue strokes more than once.

Daphne was always there. She slept in his bed every night, her arms tight around him, keeping the nightmares at bay. If she woke to him trembling, she would press kisses along his shoulders, whispering reassurances until he melted back into her warmth.

Life in District 12 went on. Rye finally got over himself and asked out the general store girl, earning an exaggerated eye roll from Daphne but a secret smile when he wasn't looking. Graham teased him mercilessly, but it was good to see something normal happening amidst all the chaos.

And then, too soon, the Victory Tour loomed.

Two weeks. Two weeks of Peeta being gone. Two weeks of him standing beside Katniss, kissing her in front of cameras, playing the part of the boy who had risked everything for her love.

The night before he left, Daphne curled up against his bare chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over his skin. They had just finished making love, tangled together in the sheets, the room thick with warmth and the scent of him.

Peeta's fingers ran through her curls absentmindedly. His voice was quiet when he spoke. "Someday… I hope I can end it."

Daphne propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. "End what?"

"The act." He sighed, tilting his head to look at her. "I know it won't be soon, but one day… I hope I can have a public breakup with Katniss. A fake one, but enough that the Capitol stops expecting us to be together."

Daphne swallowed, her throat tight. She nodded. "And then what?"

Peeta smiled, a real, genuine smile, and reached up, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Then I marry you."

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

He kept talking, his voice soft and full of hope. "We live here, in the Victor's Village. We fix up the house. I keep baking, you keep sewing, and maybe…" He hesitated for a second, his fingers ghosting over her arm. "Maybe we have kids. Not now, not for a long time, but someday."

Daphne didn't say anything for a moment. She just curled up closer to him, pressing her face against his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

"I love you," she whispered.

Peeta held her tighter. "I love you more."

She didn't know how she was supposed to survive the next two weeks without him.

Peeta had a bad feeling the moment they stepped into District 8.

The people weren't just looking at them like victors. They were looking at them like symbols. Like something bigger than just two kids who had survived the Games. Their cheers weren't just for a love story; they were for something else entirely.

And then the man in the crowd—the one who called out to Katniss—was shot.

Peeta felt his stomach drop as he watched the chaos unfold, the Peacekeepers storming forward to beat down the crowd, to silence them. He and Katniss were shoved back onto the stage, then into the Justice Building, but the damage was already done.

This wasn't just a celebration. This wasn't just a tour.

Something was happening.

That night, in the safety of the train, Katniss finally told him the truth.

"There are uprisings," she said, her voice quiet but sure.

Peeta stared at her, not quite understanding. "What?"

She swallowed. "I overheard Haymitch talking to Effie. There are riots, Peeta. People are fighting back. Because of us. Because of the berries."

Peeta sat down hard on the couch, his hands gripping his knees.

The berries. That stupid, desperate gamble.

"We didn't mean for this to happen," he muttered, shaking his head.

Katniss huffed a humorless laugh. "Well, it happened." She paused, then looked at him seriously. "And there's more. Before the tour, President Snow came to my house."

Peeta's head snapped up.

"What?"

Katniss hesitated. "He warned me that people see us as a threat. That the rebellion is already starting, and it's because of us. He said we need to convince him—convince everyone—that our love is real."

Peeta swallowed hard. He already knew this wouldn't be good.

But then she said it. The thing that shattered everything.

"He mentioned Gale." She looked down, then back up at him, her voice quieter. "And Daphne."

Peeta felt like the floor had just been ripped out from under him.

Daphne.

His Daphne.

He barely realized he was standing, his chest heaving. "What do you mean he mentioned them?" His voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn't care.

Katniss licked her lips, looking uneasy. "He knows they matter to us."

Peeta's stomach turned over violently. He had been so focused on surviving the Games, on keeping up the act, that he hadn't thought about what would happen if Snow wasn't convinced.

Katniss met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "We have to make him believe, Peeta. More than before."

Peeta turned away, his hands clenched into fists. His mind was racing. Snow didn't make idle threats. If he even suspected that Peeta's heart belonged to someone else, Daphne would be in danger. She'd be dead before Peeta could do anything to stop it.

There was only one solution.

"We have to do more than just convince him," Peeta said, his voice flat. He looked back at Katniss, the weight of the decision settling like a stone in his chest. "We have to make it real."

Katniss frowned. "What do you mean?"

Peeta exhaled shakily. "I have to marry you."

Katniss looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Peeta—"

"It's the only way." His voice wavered, but he pushed forward. "If we get engaged, if I propose on this tour, Snow will believe it. He'll believe I'm yours completely." He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "And he won't have a reason to go after Gale or Daphne."

Katniss looked away, her jaw tight.

Peeta stared at the floor, his heart pounding in his ears.

He would have to break up with Daphne.

The thought physically hurt.

She was everything to him. She had held him together after the Games, had reminded him that he was still human. She had slept beside him every night, keeping the nightmares at bay, holding him when he shook. She was the future he wanted—the life he dreamed of.

And now he had to let her go.

He had to look into those blue eyes, the ones that had always been filled with love for him, and he had to break her heart.

Because if he didn't, Snow would kill her.

Daphne sat curled up on the couch in her family's small, cramped living room, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails dug into the soft fabric of her skirt. Her father was nowhere to be seen—probably passed out somewhere with a bottle in his hand—but her mother hovered nearby, pretending to be busy at the kitchen table while sneaking worried glances at her.

Her brothers sat on the floor, playing with Abel's old wooden blocks, completely oblivious to the way their sister's entire world was about to shatter.

Daphne's stomach had been in knots for days. Ever since the Victory Tour began, she had felt like she was walking through life with a blade pressed to her throat, waiting for the moment it would finally cut too deep. Peeta was gone. For two weeks, he had been traveling across Panem, pretending to love Katniss, playing the part so well that even people in 12 were starting to believe it.

But Daphne knew better.

Or, at least, she thought she did.

Until now.

The television screen flickered in front of her, the picture crystal clear, as if it wanted her to suffer every detail in perfect, vivid quality. There was Peeta, standing in front of a roaring crowd in the Capitol, smiling in that soft, sincere way of his that used to be reserved for her. He reached into his pocket, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

Daphne's blood turned to ice.

No.

Peeta Mellark got down on one knee.

Daphne's stomach twisted so violently she thought she might be sick.

Katniss gasped, one hand flying to her mouth as the other clutched her chest. The Capitol audience went wild, screaming and cheering so loudly it nearly drowned out Peeta's voice as he spoke.

But Daphne heard him.

She couldn't make out every word, not over the ringing in her ears, but she caught enough.

"…since I first saw you…"

"…there was never anyone else…"

"…will you marry me?"

Daphne's entire body locked up.

This couldn't be happening.

This had to be some sort of trick, some kind of terrible joke.

But there was Katniss, tears in her eyes, nodding as she threw herself into Peeta's arms.

And there was Peeta, holding her close, his face carefully composed but warm enough to convince the Capitol that it was real.

And there was the engagement ring, glittering under the stage lights, the final nail in the coffin of everything she had ever believed in.

The entire audience in the capitol—everyone gathered to watch the broadcast—exploded into cheers, claps, and murmurs of excitement.

Daphne's breath hitched painfully. The walls of her home felt like they were closing in on her. She needed to get out.

She bolted to her feet so fast that the chair nearly toppled over behind her. Her mother called her name, confused, but Daphne barely heard her. Her feet were already moving, carrying her to the door. She needed air. She needed—

She didn't know what she needed.

All she knew was that if she stayed in that house one second longer, she was going to shatter.

The cold air bit at her face as she ran through the streets of District 12, but she didn't stop. She didn't care that her boots kicked up dust, that people turned to look at her, their expressions a mixture of confusion and pity.

She ran until she couldn't anymore, until her lungs burned, until her body forced her to slow down.

And when she looked up, she realized where her feet had taken her.

Delly's house.

Her throat tightened painfully as she stepped onto the small porch and threw the door open without bothering to knock.

Delly was in the front room, sitting with her parents, watching the same broadcast on their smaller, more battered television. She turned, startled by the sudden entrance, her face immediately softening when she saw Daphne.

"Daph?"

Daphne opened her mouth, but no words came out. A strangled sob ripped from her throat instead.

Delly didn't hesitate.

She was on her feet in an instant, pulling Daphne into her arms, holding her tightly as the dam finally broke.

Daphne sobbed against her best friend's shoulder, gripping onto her like she was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. She shook so hard that her knees buckled, and Delly had to help her onto the couch, murmuring soothing words the whole time.

But it didn't help.

Nothing could help.

Because Daphne knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that when Peeta came home, he would break up with her.

He had to.

He had just proposed to another girl.

And she had said yes.

Peeta had been home for three days, and Daphne hadn't gone to see him once.

She had barely left Madge's house, or Delly's. Anywhere but the Victor's Village, anywhere but where Peeta was waiting, where she knew he was agonizing over how to do what had to be done.

Because she knew.

She had known the second she saw him go down on one knee.

And still, knowing didn't make it any easier.

She had tried to keep herself busy—sewing with Madge, helping Delly's parents around their shop—but nothing could stop the constant, crushing weight in her chest. Every second felt like a countdown to the inevitable.

So when Peeta finally found her, cornering her inside her parents' shop while she was refolding a pile of fabric, she didn't even flinch.

"Daphne." His voice was soft, desperate.

She didn't look up.

She focused on the fabric in her hands, smoothing it out as though it was the most important task in the world.

He didn't give up.

"Please, just talk to me."

Her hands clenched around the cloth, and for the first time since he entered, she turned to face him.

Peeta looked wrecked.

His face was pale, his hair messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept since coming home. His chest was rising and falling unevenly, like he had just run all the way here.

Like he was just as broken as she was.

But she couldn't afford to think like that.

Not when she knew what was coming next.

"Just do it," she said, voice hollow.

Peeta's brows furrowed. "What?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Just break up with me."

Pain flickered across his face, his whole body tensing like she had physically hit him. "Daph—"

"I don't want to drag it out," she cut in, her voice sharper now, though the weight in her chest only grew heavier. "We both know why you're here. Just do it."

His jaw clenched. "It's not that simple—"

"Yes, it is." She forced herself to meet his eyes, even though every part of her wanted to look away, to run away. "You're engaged, Peeta. We both knew this was going to happen. Just—" Her voice wavered for the first time, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to push through. "Just say it."

His hands were shaking. "I don't want this. You have to know that. I love you, Daph. I never stopped—"

"Then why are we even talking about this?" She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You don't have a choice, Peeta. You made it when you got down on one knee. So just say it."

His face twisted in anguish. "I had to. President Snow—"

"I don't care," she interrupted, and she meant it. Not because she didn't believe him, but because it didn't matter. Because there was nothing either of them could do to change it. "I don't need to hear why, Peeta. I just need it to be over."

His breathing hitched. "Daph—"

"Say it."

Peeta's face crumbled.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, like he was searching for something, some way out of this. But there wasn't one.

Finally, his shoulders sagged, and in the softest, most broken voice she had ever heard from him, he said, "It's over."

Daphne's chest tightened so hard it was painful.

She gave him the smallest nod, swallowing down the lump in her throat, and turned away.

And then she left.

She didn't look back as she walked out of the shop, didn't let herself see the way Peeta was crumbling behind her.

She just walked.

To Delly's.

To anywhere that wasn't here.

To anywhere that wasn't with him.

Chapter Text

Spring passed in a blur.

Daphne turned seventeen, not that it felt like much of a celebration. Abel had ripped up the birthday card Peeta sent before she could read it, muttering something about how Peeta had no right to be writing to her after what he did. She hadn't argued. She didn't have the energy to.

She shared her birthday with Sam, who turned five, and she had done her best to make the day about him. She always joked he was the best birthday present she had ever gotten, and she meant it. If it weren't for Sam's excitement, his pure joy at turning another year older, she probably wouldn't have acknowledged the day at all.

Then April came. And with it, everything got worse.

Her father had always been a drinker. He had lost his little sister to the Games when he was nineteen, and from what Daphne knew, he had never been the same after. Some days were worse than others, but he had never been violent, never dangerous. Just sad.

But sadness could still get you killed in District 12.

It happened in the Hob. A fight with a Peacekeeper over some stolen liquor.

He had been shot.

Daphne hadn't been shocked when someone came running to find her.

She and Abel ran.

By the time they got there, it was already too late.

His body was on the ground, the blood pooling beneath him still warm, but his eyes were empty.

She knew before she even touched him.

Knew before Abel fell to his knees beside her, shaking his father's shoulder like he could somehow wake him up.

Knew before Rye and his girlfriend Alice arrived, before the Peacekeepers started giving orders, before people started whispering in the shadows of the Hob.

She ignored all of it.

Ignored Rye as he hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. Ignored Alice's quiet sniffles, the way she clung to Rye's hand.

Daphne didn't cry.

She just stood, expression blank, and started arranging with the Peacekeepers for where they would hold her father's body while she planned the funeral.

Because someone had to.

And there was no one else left.

The old television in the shop crackled to life, the grainy image of President Snow appearing on the screen. The Capitol seal gleamed behind him, and despite the distortion of the broadcast, his expression was unmistakably cruel.

Daphne barely noticed. She was at the worktable near the back, mindlessly stitching up a torn sleeve while her mother helped a customer up front. Jesse and Sam were playing a quiet game of marbles near the counter, Abel curled up beside them with a book that was worn with bent edges.

The air in the tailors had been warm, comfortable. For the first time in weeks, Daphne had almost felt at peace.

Then Snow started speaking.

Her hands stilled. The needle slipped from her fingers.

He talked about the rebels. About the punishment they all deserved. And then—

"For the seventy-fifth Hunger Games, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors."

The words sank into her skin like ice.

Daphne felt her breath catch in her throat.

The room around her blurred. The sound of the customer thanking her mother, Jesse and Sam's quiet murmuring as they played, Abel whispering along with his book—it all faded into the background.

Her fingers clenched the fabric in her lap so tightly that her knuckles ached.

No.

No. No. No.

The thought hammered against her skull, desperate and useless.

Katniss would have to go. That much was certain. She was the only female victor District 12 had.

And Peeta—

A choked sound escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Abel's head snapped up, eyes sharp as they locked onto her. "Daph?"

She couldn't answer.

She knew Peeta. Knew exactly what he was going to do.

Haymitch's name would be in the reaping bowl. But Peeta wouldn't let him go. Of course, he wouldn't. He was too selfless, too good, too willing to throw himself in harm's way for others.

He was going back.

The truth slammed into her, crushing her lungs, her ribs, her entire world.

The needle and fabric fell from her lap as she shoved back from the table. Her chair scraped against the floor, loud enough that her mother finally turned from the counter.

"Daphne?"

Daphne barely heard her.

The television had gone dark, the broadcast over, but Snow's words still rang in her ears.

She needed air.

She needed to move, needed to do something—anything—because if she sat still for another second, she was going to shatter into pieces.

She stumbled toward the back door, barely registering the way her mother called after her.

"Daphne, wait—"

But she was already pushing through the door, already stepping into the cool spring air.

She braced her hands against the wall of the shop, sucking in deep, gasping breaths.

It wasn't enough.

The walls of the district felt like they were closing in on her, suffocating her.

The Games had already stolen so much from her.

Had taken her father. Had taken Peeta once.

And now it was taking him again.

A soft voice broke through the storm in her head.

"Daph?"

She turned to see Abel standing in the doorway, worry etched across his face.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what was she supposed to say? That she already knew Peeta was going back? That she couldn't stop it? That she wished more than anything she could run to him, tell him not to volunteer, to let Haymitch go instead?

That she knew he wouldn't?

That he was too good of a person to save himself?

Abel stepped forward hesitantly, his face older than his twelve years should allow. "He's gonna do it, isn't he?"

Daphne let out a shaky breath.

There was no point in lying.

She nodded.

Abel clenched his jaw, staring at the ground.

Jesse appeared in the doorway behind him, his brows furrowed. "But they already won," he said, voice quiet, confused. "Why do they have to go back?"

No one answered.

Because there was no answer. No logic to it.

Only cruelty.

The door creaked open again, and their mother stepped out. She looked at Daphne, her expression unreadable, before letting out a slow, tired sigh.

"Come inside," she murmured. "All of you."

But Daphne couldn't move.

Her feet felt rooted to the spot, her body too heavy to carry.

She stared at the dusty ground, her vision blurring.

The Games had already taken Peeta from her once.

And now, it was going to take him again.

The sun bore down on the square, making the air feel thick and suffocating. But Daphne barely noticed.

For the first time in years, she wasn't standing in the crowd worrying about herself or her brothers. Sam sat perched on her hip, his small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. Jesse and Abel stood pressed against her sides, their hands clenched around the fabric of her sleeves.

But Daphne's eyes weren't on the stage.

They were on Peeta.

He stood next to Haymitch in the front row, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists.

Effie Trinket stood at the microphone, her voice bright and hollow as she read from the scroll in her hands.

There was no suspense. No dramatic pause.

"Katniss Everdeen."

Daphne's stomach twisted, even though she already knew it was coming.

Katniss moved before anyone could react, stepping forward with a face made of stone.

She didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate.

And that, more than anything, sent a sick feeling curling in Daphne's gut.

Because Katniss wasn't just going back to the arena. She was walking into a death sentence.

The Peacekeepers escorted her to the stage, but Daphne barely saw it.

She was still watching Peeta.

He was stiff beside Haymitch, his eyes fixed forward, his body coiled tight like a wire about to snap.

Effie reached into the second bowl, pulling out the slip of paper.

Her voice rang through the silent square.

"Haymitch Abernathy."

Daphne's knees almost buckled with relief.

Haymitch. It was Haymitch.

Not Peeta.

Not Peeta.

For a split second, she thought—hoped—prayed that it was over. That he was safe.

Then, Peeta stepped forward.

"I volunteer."

The words rang through the square, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the world.

Daphne's heart plummeted, sinking like a stone into the pit of her stomach.

No.

She had known he would do it. Had known before the reaping even started.

But that didn't make it any easier.

Didn't stop the way her chest ached like someone had taken a hot poker and shoved it straight through her ribs.

Haymitch sighed heavily beside Peeta, rubbing his face like this was the most predictable thing in the world.

Katniss turned, her mouth parting slightly as if she was about to protest—but of course, she didn't.

Because she knew Peeta as well as Daphne did.

And Peeta could never let someone else go in his place.

The silence in the square was deafening.

Then, beside her, Gale lifted his hand.

Three fingers, held high.

Daphne didn't think.

She just did it.

Her arm rose, her fingers extending in the same silent tribute.

Around them, the crowd hesitated—but only for a moment.

Then, one by one, the hands of District 12 rose into the air.

Rye. Graham. Madge. Delly. Everyone.

It was a slow, rolling wave of defiance, washing over the square.

Peeta's eyes widened slightly, his gaze sweeping over the sea of raised hands. Katniss looked equally stunned.

They hadn't expected this.

Hadn't expected anyone to stand for them.

But it didn't matter.

The Peacekeepers moved in, grabbing Katniss and Peeta by the arms, pulling them toward the Justice Building.

Daphne tightened her grip on Sam, feeling his small hands fist in her hair.

She could hear Katniss protesting, her voice sharp and urgent.

"They don't even let us say goodbye?"

But Peeta didn't fight.

Didn't speak.

He just kept staring at Daphne, his expression shattered.

Daphne felt like she was suffocating, like her entire body was being pulled into the ground.

She knew.

She knew.

She had just seen Peeta alive for the last time.

The crowd had thinned out, people slowly retreating to their homes in stunned silence. But Daphne couldn't move. Her feet were rooted to the ground, Sam still held tight against her hip, Jesse and Abel clinging to her.

Peeta was gone.

Again.

Only this time, there was no false hope of a star-crossed lovers act, no sponsors lining up to keep him alive. The Capitol wouldn't let him survive twice.

The thought sent a tremor through her body.

She barely registered Gale giving her shoulder a firm squeeze before walking away, or Madge saying something soft and mournful beside her.

It was only when she saw Graham Mellark pushing through the dispersing crowd that she stirred.

He looked pale, his jaw tight, and there was something in his hand.

Daphne's stomach twisted.

"He asked me to give you this," Graham said hoarsely. His fingers were clenched around a folded piece of paper, like he didn't want to let it go.

Her breath caught as she reached for it, her hands trembling.

A letter.

Peeta's last request.

She held it to her chest, gripping it like a lifeline, like somehow if she held it tight enough, he wouldn't slip away from her completely.

She looked up at Graham, but he only gave her a slight nod before stepping back, his own grief pressing down on him.

Daphne turned, gathering her brothers, Sam's small arms wrapping around her neck as she carried him home.

It was a silent walk.

No one spoke.

Even Jesse and Abel, who were usually too full of energy to stay quiet, kept their heads down, their footsteps heavy on the dusty road.

When they got home, her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall, her hands folded in her lap like she didn't know what to do with them.

Abel and Jesse trudged upstairs without a word, their shoulders hunched, weighed down by something invisible.

Daphne knelt down, adjusting Sam in her arms, brushing his curls away from his face.

"Go lie down, okay, lovebug?" she murmured.

He nodded, his big blue eyes—so much like Peeta's—glassy with exhaustion. He pressed his small face against her neck for a moment, breathing her in, before sliding down and padding toward the stairs, dragging his feet the whole way.

She watched them disappear, waiting until she heard the sound of their bedroom door clicking shut.

Then she turned, still clutching the letter in her shaking hands.

She didn't even say anything to her mother. Just walked up the stairs, into her room, and shut the door.

The second she was alone, she let out a shaky breath and unfolded the paper.

Peeta's handwriting was familiar—strong, steady, even in ink.

Her vision blurred as she read.

My Daphne,

I don't know how to start this, because there are a million things I need to say, and only one letter to say them in.

Breaking up with you was the hardest thing I've ever done. Harder than starving. Harder than facing the Games the first time. Harder than the nightmares I wake up from, reaching for you and finding nothing but cold sheets.

I didn't do it because I wanted to. I did it because I had to. Because Snow knew about you. And if I didn't—if I had tried to keep you—he would have destroyed you just to break me.

But I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.

Not for one second.

Every moment I spent away from you, every time I had to look at Katniss and pretend, every time I had to smile like I wasn't breaking inside, it was you I was thinking about.

You are the air I breathe, the light that keeps me from getting lost in the dark.

And now I'm going back in.

But this time, I know what I'm fighting for.

I'm fighting for you.

I don't care about the Capitol. I don't care about Snow. I don't care about the rebellion. I don't even care about winning for the cameras.

I am going to win because I have to come home to you.

Because you are worth everything they put me through.

If—when—I come home, I don't care what I have to do. I will find my way back to you. I will undo every lie, every mistake, every second I had to spend pretending I was something I wasn't.

I want to spend my life with you, Daphne.

I want to wake up to you every morning, fall asleep to you every night. I want to hold you, laugh with you, bake with you, paint you the way I see you in my head—so full of fire and light and the kind of love I never deserved but always wanted.

I want to marry you.

Not for the cameras. Not for the Capitol. Not because anyone expects it.

Because I love you.

You are my heart, my soul, my home.

Wait for me.

Yours, always,

Peeta

The paper shook in her hands.

She clutched it against her chest, curling in on herself, as the first tear fell.

And then another.

And then it was unstoppable.

Sobs tore through her, raw and painful.

Because she loved him.

She loved him so much it physically hurt.

And she needed him to come home.

The next few days passed in a numb haze.

Daphne tried to keep busy—helping in the shop, watching her brothers, sewing whenever her hands weren't trembling too much. She barely ate, barely slept. Every second was spent dreading the next thing she'd have to see, the next reminder that Peeta was gone.

And then the Tribute Parade happened.

She sat in Delly's living room, surrounded by her and Madge, watching as the chariot procession began. District by district. It was different this time—less of a spectacle, more of a last march. These weren't just tributes. They were victors. The best of the best, being sent to slaughter for the Capitol's amusement.

Then, there he was.

Peeta.

Daphne's breath hitched.

He stood tall, unshaken, beside Katniss in a black suit that smoldered with synthetic flames. He was so beautiful it made her heart ache.

His face was impassive, his jaw tight, but his eyes were soft, steady. And when he raised their joined hands with Katniss, it was as though he was carrying the weight of something heavier than just defiance.

Daphne's fingers curled into her skirt.

She knew why he was doing it. Knew the game they had to play. But it didn't make it any easier to watch.

A few days later, the scores were announced.

She sat at the kitchen table, her mother standing behind her, Abel and Jesse on either side, watching the grainy screen of their small television.

One by one, the tributes' training scores appeared.

And then:

Peeta Mellark - 12

Her stomach twisted.

A perfect score.

She barely heard her mother's sharp inhale, or Abel whispering, "That's good, right?"

No.

It wasn't good.

It meant Peeta had painted a target on his back. He had made himself a threat.

Her heart pounded as she pushed up from the table and left the room, unable to watch anymore.

She knew why he did it. He wasn't planning on hiding. He was going to fight.

But that just meant the Capitol would fight harder to destroy him.

The night of the interviews, she went to Madge's house. She couldn't watch this alone.

They sat in the sitting room, the television flickering in front of them, Delly perched on the arm of the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest.

One by one, the victors took the stage.

She barely heard what most of them said. Her ears were roaring, her heart hammering against her ribs, waiting for Peeta.

And then there he was.

Handsome, poised, his golden curls neatly styled. He smiled that same easy, charming smile that had won over the Capitol last time, but his eyes—they were tired.

Caesar Flickerman greeted him warmly, joking, laughing, making it all seem normal. As if this weren't a death sentence.

Then came the question that changed everything.

"So, Peeta, tell us—what's different this time? What do you think about going into the arena again?"

Peeta sighed, running a hand through his curls. "Well, for one, I don't exactly have to impress anyone this time. I mean, last time I was trying to win over a girl. Now…"

Caesar grinned, ever the showman. "Now?"

Peeta turned toward the camera. His face softened into something almost—longing.

And then he said it.

"Now she's already my wife."

Daphne's breath left her in a violent exhale.

Delly's hands flew to her mouth.

Madge stiffened beside her.

The room spun.

She barely heard the Capitol's gasp of shock, barely registered the thunderous applause.

It was a lie.

She knew it was a lie.

But it still felt like being ripped apart at the seams.

Caesar's eyes were wide with delight. "Peeta, are you telling us you and Katniss actually got married?"

Peeta nodded, that same soft look never leaving his face. "We did. Secretly. Here, in District 12. It wasn't for the cameras. It wasn't a performance. It was real."

Daphne's nails dug into her palms.

She couldn't breathe.

She knew why he was doing this. A last-ditch effort. An appeal to the Capitol's humanity, as if they had any.

But it didn't stop the pain.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, he delivered the final blow.

"And there's more," Peeta said, voice thick with emotion.

Caesar leaned in, enraptured. "More?"

Peeta took a breath. His fingers clenched in his lap.

Then he said, "Katniss is pregnant."

The room erupted.

Screams. Gasps. Sobs from the audience.

The Capitol would eat it up.

Daphne pressed a hand to her stomach, her breath shallow, her throat burning.

It wasn't true.

It wasn't real.

But it didn't stop it from breaking her.

Her chest ached. Her entire body felt cold.

Delly reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"I—I need to go," Daphne whispered.

She barely heard Madge calling after her as she stood and left, moving through the streets in a daze, the echoes of Peeta's words still ringing in her ears.

She made it home just as the screen cut to chaos.

The victors were standing together. Holding hands.

The feed was cut.

Everything went black.

And all Daphne could do was collapse onto her bed, silent tears slipping down her face as she curled in on herself, wishing more than anything that Peeta would come home to her.

The Games began at noon.

Daphne sat frozen in front of the television in Delly's house, surrounded by a group of their friends—Madge, Graham, Abel, and Jesse. She barely registered them. All she could do was watch as the countdown began, the camera panning over each tribute standing on their metal platforms, poised above the shimmering blue water.

And then—

The gong sounded.

Chaos erupted.

The tributes dove, splashed, swam. Some fought immediately. Others, like Katniss, sprinted for supplies.

Daphne's eyes locked onto Peeta.

He was strong in the water, strokes sure and powerful as he swam toward the Cornucopia. But then—another figure lunged at him.

The male tribute from District 10.

Daphne sucked in a sharp breath as the man grabbed Peeta, shoving him under the water. Peeta thrashed, bubbles bursting from his mouth as he fought for air. The other tribute's hands closed around his throat.

No, no, no!

She clutched at her own throat, feeling phantom pressure there, as if she could feel what Peeta felt.

For a moment, it looked like it was over.

But then—Peeta surged up, breaking free, twisting, using his superior weight and strength to shove the other tribute under. Daphne watched with wide eyes as Peeta didn't hesitate—he grabbed the man's head and held him down, using sheer force to drown him.

Her stomach twisted.

This wasn't the Peeta she knew.

This was Peeta, the survivor.

The boy who had sworn he would come home to her.

The fight lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before Peeta finally let go. The District 10 tribute's body floated limply in the water.

Daphne felt sick.

But Peeta didn't stop. He swam for the Cornucopia, hauling himself onto the golden metal. Finnick was there. Katniss, too. They were allies, at least for now.

Daphne barely heard Delly whisper, "He's okay."

Was he?

She wasn't sure any of them would be after this.

Hours passed.

Daphne didn't move from the television.

They watched as the alliance of Peeta, Katniss, Finnick, and Mags moved through the jungle.

It was unbearable. She felt every step with them, every breath, every glance over their shoulders. She had barely let out the breath she'd been holding when they reached a small clearing—only for Peeta to suddenly stop, his face twisting in confusion.

"What is he—"

Then Peeta took a single step forward.

And dropped.

Daphne's heart stopped.

It happened so fast she barely registered what was going on. One second he was standing there, the next he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Katniss's scream tore through the screen.

Daphne's own scream never made it out. She was frozen, horror clawing up her throat, watching Peeta lie motionless on the ground.

No. No. No.

Katniss reached him first, sobbing. Finnick shoved her aside, falling to his knees.

Daphne felt like she was choking.

This couldn't be happening.

She stared, wide-eyed, unable to process it.

Then Finnick pressed his lips to Peeta's.

CPR.

It was a forcefield. He had hit a forcefield. He wasn't dead—not yet.

Finnick pounded on his chest.

Katniss was sobbing.

Daphne's hands were shaking violently.

Come on, come on, come on.

And then—

Peeta coughed.

Air. Life.

Daphne collapsed forward, bracing herself against the floor as her vision blurred with tears.

She could hear Abel and Jesse asking frantically if he was okay, but she couldn't answer. Her body was shaking too hard.

She barely processed Katniss's sobs as she kissed Peeta.

Again.

And again.

She was frantic, desperate, holding his face as she pressed her lips to his.

Daphne's nails dug into the floorboards.

It didn't matter that she knew it was fake.

It didn't matter that she knew why they had to do this.

Watching it still felt like dying.

She needed to get out of here.

She didn't know how she ended up at the Hob, but she did.

She didn't know how she ended up next to Gale Hawthorne of all people, but she did.

Maybe it was because she knew he understood.

Maybe it was because he had booze.

That was all she cared about.

She sat at one of the old, splintered tables in the dimly lit backroom, a cup of something dark and bitter in her hand.

Thom, one of Gale's hunting friends, sat across from her, nursing his own drink.

Gale sat beside her, silent as he took a swig from his bottle.

No one spoke.

The only sound was the distant murmur of the Games playing on the radio, the grainy voice of the announcer narrating the aftermath of Peeta's near-death.

Daphne didn't want to hear it.

She didn't want to hear Katniss's sobs.

Didn't want to hear about Peeta gasping for air, weak but alive.

Didn't want to hear anything.

So she drank.

The burn slid down her throat, warm and numbing.

"Didn't think you were the drinking type," Gale muttered.

Daphne scoffed, swirling the liquid in her cup. "Didn't think you were the sharing type."

He huffed a dry laugh. "Guess we both learned something today."

Thom snorted. "Yeah. We learned that if you run into a forcefield, you die."

Daphne flinched.

Gale shot Thom a look, but Daphne just exhaled sharply, knocking back the rest of her drink.

She had spent all day watching Peeta nearly die—twice.

She had spent months trying to let him go, only to realize she never could.

She had spent years loving him.

And now, she was drinking in the dark with a boy she could barely stand, trying to forget the way Katniss kissed Peeta like he was her whole world.

Like he was hers.

She shoved her cup forward.

Gale raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Daphne met his gaze, her own eyes hollow.

"Just pour, Hawthorne."

Chapter Text

The next few days turned into an uneasy truce between Gale and Daphne.

It wasn't like they became friends—not really. But they had an understanding.

Every day, they met in the square when the Games came on, sitting on the cold stone steps with a bottle between them. Most of the town watched from their homes, but there were always a few stragglers in the square, huddled in small groups near the large screen.

Daphne and Gale sat apart from the others, just close enough to hear the broadcast, just far enough not to feel like they were part of the crowd. They watched Peeta and Katniss navigate the jungle, dodging poisonous fog, mutts, and the horrors of the arena. They drank every time something terrible happened.

They drank a lot.

Neither of them spoke much at first. Just sat there in silence, sharing the bottle. But eventually, the alcohol loosened something between them.

One night, after Peeta and Katniss barely made it away from a flock of shrieking, jabbering birds that mimicked their loved ones' screams, Gale finally broke the silence.

"I kissed her first, you know."

Daphne blinked, tearing her eyes from the screen to look at him. "What?"

"Katniss," Gale said, staring at the bottle in his hands. "I kissed her before the Quarter Quell. Before the reaping."

Daphne didn't know what to say to that.

Gale let out a rough laugh. "Not that it mattered. She still picked him."

Daphne hesitated before responding. "You don't know that."

Gale scoffed, taking a swig from the bottle before handing it to her. "Come on, Miller. You and I both know we're not in the same situation, you told me that last year."

She frowned, fingers tightening around the bottle. "I thought we were."

"No," Gale said simply. "Because Peeta loves you back."

Daphne's breath caught.

Gale gave her a sideways glance, his expression unreadable. "I don't know if Katniss loves me. I don't know if she loves him. But I know Peeta loves you."

Daphne swallowed hard, staring at the bottle in her hands. She wanted to believe that. No, she did believe that; she needed to.  Peeta's letter had told her everything. He loved her. He was fighting for her.

And yet, she still had to watch him kiss Katniss every night on the screen, had to watch as he held her, whispered to her, protected her.

She didn't know what to say.

So, she just looked back at Gale, and he seemed to understand.

He smirked humorlessly, reaching for the bottle again.

"Come on," he said. "Let's drink to being idiots in love."

Daphne and Gale sat in the square, surrounded by the dim glow of the flickering screens broadcasting the Games. The whole district was still, tense, as the camera panned over the jungle, showing Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, and Beetee preparing their plan. The wire, the tree, the lightning strike—it was all set in motion. Daphne's fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt as she leaned forward, her eyes never leaving Peeta's form. He was still alive. Still moving. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Then Johanna attacked Katniss.

Daphne shot upright as Johanna tackled her to the ground, the axe in her hand flashing under the moonlight. Her breath caught in her throat. But then Johanna was speaking—telling Katniss to stay down, slashing at her arm before cutting something from beneath her skin. The tracker. It was just an act. Just an act.

Still, Daphne couldn't breathe.

Peeta was missing from the cameras. The storm was raging. Finnick had disappeared too. The only one they could see now was Katniss, dragging herself to the tree, fumbling with Beetee's wire.

Daphne's whole body trembled. She couldn't shake the sense of dread creeping up her spine.

Then Katniss notched an arrow, aimed at the forcefield, and let go.

Everything erupted in light. The screen blared with static, the arena vanishing before their eyes. The cameras cut out completely, leaving nothing but a black screen.

The Capitol feed was gone. The Games were gone.

Silence fell over District 12.

For a second, nobody moved. The entire crowd stood in stunned silence, waiting for the feed to return, waiting for the Games to resume. The Games always resumed. There had never been a time where they simply stopped.

But the seconds dragged on. The screen remained black.

Daphne slowly got to her feet, barely aware that she had knocked over the bottle of moonshine resting between her and Gale. The glass clinked against the cobblestone, the liquid spilling, but she didn't care. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would break through her ribs.

No, no, no…

She took an unsteady step forward, staring at the blank screen as if she could will it to turn back on. As if she could will Peeta's face back onto it, see him alive, see him safe.

But nothing happened.

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, people shifting uneasily, glancing around as if someone—anyone—had an answer. But there were no Peacekeepers stepping forward with explanations. No Capitol representatives appearing to smooth things over.

Daphne's fingers curled into fists at her sides.

This isn't right.

Her stomach twisted violently, panic rising in her chest. She couldn't just stand here. She needed to go. She needed to get home, to—she didn't know what. She just needed to move.

She turned sharply, ready to bolt, but before she could take more than a step, a strong hand grabbed her wrist.

"Wait," Gale muttered, his grip firm.

Daphne whipped around to face him, her eyes flashing with frustration. She didn't have time for this. "Let go of me."

But Gale didn't let go. His expression was sharp, his gray eyes narrowed at the blacked-out screen. "Something's wrong."

"No shit, something's wrong," she snapped, trying to yank her wrist free. "The feed is gone. I have to—"

"Wait."

The sharp edge in his voice stopped her.

She stared at him, her breath coming too fast, her pulse racing under his grip. His fingers dug slightly into her skin, not painfully, but grounding. Keeping her from spiraling.

"I don't think it's just a technical issue," Gale said, his voice quieter now, but tense. "Something else is going on."

Daphne swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn't want to admit it, but she felt it too.

The Games didn't just stop.

The Capitol didn't just lose control of their broadcast.

Whatever had happened—it was big.

She turned her eyes back to the blank screen, her hands trembling.

Peeta was in there.

And she had no idea if he was still alive.

Daphne sat in the square, the stone beneath her cooling as the night dragged on. Hours had passed. The screen never turned back on. The Games were over, she could feel it in her bones, but the Capitol wasn't telling them who had won.

The square had emptied out slowly. People lingered at first, waiting for the broadcast to return, but as the hours stretched on, they had drifted away. At some point, even Delly had given her a worried glance and whispered, Come home with me. But Daphne had just shaken her head.

She couldn't leave.

Gale sat beside her, silent. He hadn't left either.

Neither of them spoke. They just sat in the eerie quiet, the only sounds the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant barking of a dog.

Then it started.

A deep, vibrating hum in the distance.

Daphne's head snapped up. At first, she thought she was imagining it, but then she saw Gale's entire body go rigid. His breath hitched, his fists clenching.

Hovercrafts.

Not just one.

Dozens.

The sound grew louder, engines cutting through the night. The hair on Daphne's arms stood on end. Something was wrong.

Gale was already on his feet, his face pale under the dim glow of the streetlamps.

"Get up." His voice was low and tense, almost a growl.

Daphne stood, her legs stiff from sitting so long. Her heart pounded as she looked at Gale, at the sheer panic on his face.

"I think they're coming for us," he whispered. His voice was urgent, shaking. "You need to get your brothers. Now."

Daphne barely had time to register his words before he turned on his heel and ran, sprinting toward the Seam.

"Get out!" His voice carried through the empty streets, growing louder with every step. "Everyone, get out! Get up! They're coming!"

Daphne didn't waste a second.

She ran.

Her boots slammed against the cobblestone as she tore through the streets, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't stop. She didn't think.

She reached her house in record time, throwing open the door so hard it nearly came off the hinges.

"Jesse! Abel! Sam!" she screamed, bolting up the stairs two at a time.

Jesse and Abel stirred, groggy and confused, but Sam was still fast asleep. Daphne didn't hesitate—she scooped him up into her arms, his small body limp against her chest.

"Get up!" she barked at Jesse and Abel, her voice shaking. "Now!"

Jesse reacted first, scrambling out of bed, but Abel sat up slower, rubbing his eyes.

"Daph? Wha—?"

"No time!" she snapped. "Put your shoes on, now!"

That got them moving. Abel grabbed Jesse's wrist, dragging him toward the door as Daphne tightened her grip on Sam, trying not to shake as she carried him downstairs.

Their mother wasn't home.

Of course she wasn't.

Drunk somewhere. Passed out in some corner of town, thinking about her dead husband.

Daphne hesitated only a second before shoving that thought aside and ushering her brothers out the door.

That's when she saw Delly and her little brother Jay running toward her, eyes wide.

"Daphne!" Delly's voice was high with panic, her breath coming fast. "What's happening? Why is Gale—?"

"No time! Come with me!"

Delly didn't argue. She just grabbed Jay's hand tighter and followed.

The sound of the hovercrafts was deafening now.

Then—

The first explosion hit.

The force of it sent a tremor through the ground, making Daphne stumble. Sam whimpered in her arms, his fingers clutching her shirt.

Run. Run. Run.

She didn't stop. She didn't look back.

The woods. They had to get to the woods.

They reached the fence. Gale was already there, his mother and siblings gathered, along with the Everdeens and a few others from the Seam.

Daphne's stomach twisted violently as she scanned the group.

No Mellarks. No Madge. No mother.

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to stay focused. They didn't have time.

Gale turned to Thom, his face grim. "We have to go back."

Thom nodded, and without another word, the two of them sprinted toward town.

Then the real bombing started.

The sky turned orange with fire as more explosions erupted, shaking the ground beneath them. Buildings crumbled. Smoke filled the air. Sam was sobbing now, his little body trembling in her arms. She squeezed him tighter, pressing his face against her shoulder so he wouldn't see. She couldn't cry. She wouldn't cry.

But her hands were shaking.

The merchant sector was burning. Her home was burning.

Gale and Thom reappeared minutes later, breathless, dragging more people behind them. Daphne's stomach twisted into knots as she scanned the new arrivals.

Still no Mellarks. Still no Madge.

Gale and Thom had done everything they could, they had gotten as many people as they could, but it wasn't enough. Twelve was still full of people. People who were about to die.

Daphne clenched her teeth, swallowing down the scream clawing at her throat.

This wasn't happening. But it was. And there was nothing she could do. They had to move.

Gale took charge, leading them deep into the woods, keeping them low and quiet. No one spoke. The only sounds were the muffled sobs of children, the distant echo of explosions.

Daphne kept walking, holding Sam so tightly he was shaking. Jesse and Abel stuck close to her sides, their eyes hollow, their faces blank.

They had lost their father months ago.

Now they had lost their home.

Their friends.

Their town.

Everything.

Daphne couldn't stop the bitter thought that forced its way into her mind.

She had worried about Peeta dying in the Games.

And yet, it was her district that had been killed.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest. She closed her eyes, trying to push down the grief, the anger, the crushing despair that threatened to swallow her whole.

But the truth was suffocating.

District 12 was gone.

Daphne didn't know how Gale kept them alive.

For three days, they wandered through the woods, deeper than she had ever gone before. Gale and Thom hunted, fished, gathered whatever edible plants they could find. They built fires only when absolutely necessary, kept the group moving, kept them from freezing. They did everything.

Daphne did nothing.

She moved on autopilot, keeping her brothers close, distracting them as best she could. She told Sam stories at night, kept Jesse and Abel busy helping the younger children. She pretended not to see the hollowness in their eyes, the way Abel flinched at every loud noise, the way Jesse clenched his fists like he was trying to hold himself together.

She was doing the same.

Peeta.

The Mellarks.

Her mother.

Delly sat beside her one night, watching the stars through the thick canopy of trees.

"They could still be alive," Delly whispered.

Daphne didn't answer.

She wanted to believe it.

But she couldn't.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flames.

Every time she let herself hope, she heard the explosions again, felt the heat of the fires as they devoured her home.

She had no clue if Peeta was alive or not.

But she knew her mother was dead.

She knew the Mellarks were gone.

She knew that when the Capitol destroyed District 12, they had taken nearly everyone she had ever known with them.

She clenched her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms.

She had thought she had lost everything when Peeta was reaped.

She had been wrong.

She didn't think she had anything left to lose.

And then the hovercrafts appeared.

At first, everyone panicked. People ducked into the brush, pressing against trees, gripping their children tightly. A few tried to run.

Daphne felt Sam's little arms tighten around her neck as he buried his face in her shoulder.

She didn't breathe.

Four massive hovercrafts hovered over them, the engines loud and heavy in the air. Daphne braced herself, waiting for the worst.

But then—

"They're not Capitol."

Gale's voice cut through the panic.

She turned to him, her pulse hammering.

"What?" she breathed.

"They're not Capitol." He stared up at the crafts, at the crest on the side, his face unreadable. "They're from District 13."

The words didn't make sense at first.

Thirteen was a myth. A dead district.

Everyone knew that.

But then the hovercrafts began to descend.

A door opened, and people stepped out.

Not Peacekeepers.

Not Capitol soldiers.

Survivors.

District 13 was real.

And they had come to rescue them.

The journey to District 13 was a blur.

Daphne barely remembered getting onto the hovercraft. She barely remembered the sterile white interior, the way the District 13 officials barked orders, the cold, clinical efficiency of it all. Her arms ached from holding Sam so tightly, but she couldn't bring herself to let go. Jesse and Abel sat stiffly beside her, wide-eyed and silent, clutching onto her like she was the only thing keeping them grounded.

She had never felt more lost.

When they arrived, it didn't feel like a rescue.

It felt like an interrogation.

Daphne barely had time to breathe before the officials started questioning her.

"Mother's name?"

"Father's name?"

"Legal guardian?"

She clenched her jaw.

"I'm their guardian," she said firmly.

The official, a stone-faced woman in a grey uniform, barely looked up from her clipboard.

"You're seventeen."

"I'm their sister."

The woman glanced at her, unimpressed. "They need a proper guardian."

"They have a proper guardian," Daphne snapped. "Our parents are dead. I've been taking care of them for years. I don't care what your rules say. They stay with me."

The woman didn't argue. Just scribbled something down.

Daphne exhaled, steadying herself.

That was only the beginning.

They were herded into medical evaluations, stripped down, poked and prodded by strangers in white coats. They took blood, checked their vitals, scanned them for any signs of disease. It felt invasive, violating. Sam cried the entire time.

Then there were more questions. More tests. More rules.

Everything was suffocating.

When it was finally over, they were given uniforms—grey, stiff, uncomfortable. The color of this entire place.

Lifeless.

And then they were assigned their new home.

A cramped room, four bunks, white walls, nothing personal.

Jesse, Abel, and Sam collapsed almost immediately, exhaustion pulling them under.

But Daphne couldn't sleep.

Her skin felt too tight, her mind too restless.

She needed out.

She left the room, navigating the cold, underground corridors until she found her way to the hospital. Or at least, what passed for a hospital in this place.

And that's where she saw him.

Gale.

Sitting outside the hospital doors, talking in hushed voices with Haymitch and another man she didn't recognize.

Her stomach twisted the second she saw Haymitch.

He was supposed to be in the Capitol.

She ran up to them, her pulse hammering.

"Gale."

He looked up, his expression unreadable.

Haymitch turned to her, brow furrowed. "Who the hell are you?"

Daphne blinked. Right, they had never actually met.

Gale gave Haymitch a sharp look before simply saying,  "This is Daphne."

The effect was immediate. Haymitch's entire expression changed. Recognition, then something else. Something grim. The other man, middle-aged, round, with sharp eyes, looked between them in confusion.

Gale didn't bother introducing her properly. Instead, he turned to Daphne and said, "This is Plutarch Heavensbee. Head Gamemaker. Turned rebel."

Daphne barely acknowledged him. Her heart was racing, her stomach twisting.

Haymitch murmured something to Plutarch, muttering, "This is the girlfriend."

Daphne flinched at the words.

She didn't know if Haymitch knew about the breakup.

Plutarch's face fell.

Her entire body tensed.

She took a breath, steadying herself, then asked, "What happened?"

Gale hesitated.

Haymitch didn't.

"Katniss blew up the arena. District 13 got us out."

Daphne exhaled, relief crashing over her.

They were alive.

But then she noticed the way Gale wouldn't meet her eyes.

The way Haymitch's mouth was set in a grim line.

The way Plutarch shifted uncomfortably.

Something was wrong.

Her heart pounded.

"What?" she whispered.

Gale opened his mouth—then closed it.

It was Haymitch who finally said it.

"We didn't get Peeta."

Daphne's entire body locked up.

"The Capitol got him."

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

The world spun. She barely felt her knees hit the floor. The sobs tore out of her, raw and broken and uncontrollable.

Peeta was gone.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks in District 13 were nothing short of torture.

Every morning, Daphne woke up to the blaring alarms that dictated their schedules. There was no sunlight to mark the time, just cold artificial lights flicking on at exactly 0600. She barely had time to rub the exhaustion from her eyes before she had to get herself and her brothers dressed and ready. The first few mornings were the hardest—Sam cried every time she had to take him to school, clinging to her like he was afraid she'd disappear too. Jesse and Abel weren't much better. Abel, always the stubborn one, tried to act tough, but she caught the way his jaw clenched, the way his fists curled at his sides every time he had to leave her. Jesse was quieter, more resigned, but she saw the sadness in his eyes when he walked away.

Daphne hated it.

But what choice did they have?

District 13 had rules. And if you wanted to survive here, you followed them.

Once the boys were in school, Daphne had to report to her assigned job. She had fought against it at first, arguing that she should be put with the soldiers. But apparently, her skill with a needle and thread—something that had once been nothing more than a way to help out at her family's shop—was useful here. So instead of learning how to fight, how to take up arms against the Capitol, she spent her days hunched over sewing machines, stitching together uniforms for the rebellion.

It was mind-numbing.

The grey fabric, the endless repetition, the strict regulations—none of it was her. She wasn't meant to sit quietly and sew while the war raged on. She wasn't meant to just exist while Peeta was out there, suffering.

Because he was suffering.

She knew it. She felt it.

But District 13 gave her no information.

Not even a whisper.

Every time she asked, she got the same response: "That information is classified."

As if Peeta's life, Peeta himself, was just another piece of strategy.

The only way she got anything was through Gale. He and Katniss were being groomed as faces of the rebellion, given access to information she had no way of getting on her own. But even that was unreliable. Because Katniss was the one who got the updates first, and she had to tell Gale, who would then tell her.

Which meant she was at Katniss's mercy.

And Katniss didn't seem to care.

"She doesn't think you need to know," Gale had told her, frustrated. "She thinks since you and Peeta broke up, it doesn't matter."

Daphne had never wanted to punch someone so badly in her life.

But she forced herself to swallow the rage.

Because at the end of the day, it didn't matter what Katniss thought.

What mattered was that Peeta was still in the Capitol.

And she was trapped in District 13, powerless to do a damn thing about it.

So she kept to her schedule.

Every day, the same. Wake up. Get the boys ready. Drop them off. Work. Pick them up. Eat. Sleep.

Repeat.

It was the only way to survive.

Dinner had been a mess.

Sam was clinging to her like a baby koala, burying his face in her shoulder and refusing to eat. Jesse and Abel were bickering over something dumb—who got the last piece of bread, probably—but Daphne could barely muster the energy to intervene. She just wanted to eat her food, get through the meal, and make it to the end of the day without completely losing her mind.

And then the TVs in the canteen buzzed on.

She didn't look up at first. It was always something, updates about rations, about the rebellion, about things she had no control over. But then Abel nudged her, his voice urgent.

"It's Peeta."

Her head snapped up so fast it almost hurt.

And there he was.

Peeta.

Alive.

Breathing.

Daphne's chest constricted as she stared at the screen, unable to tear her eyes away. He was in a suit, seated across from Caesar Flickerman, the bright Capitol lights illuminating his face. But something was wrong. He looked thinner, paler. His hair was neatly styled, but there were dark circles under his eyes. His shoulders were tense, his expression unreadable.

She stood abruptly, still holding Sam in her arms, and walked right up to the TV, as if getting closer would somehow make it more real.

And then he spoke.

A ceasefire.

An end to the war.

Daphne's nails dug into her palm.

No.

No, this wasn't him.

He didn't believe this.

He was being forced. She knew Peeta better than anyone, and this wasn't his voice. It was his mouth forming the words, but they weren't his.

She breathed out something—she wasn't even sure what—but it was enough for someone next to her to hear.

"He's being forced. He would never believe that."

A voice she didn't recognize answered. "You know Peeta?"

Daphne turned, finally noticing the man standing beside her. He was tall, with bronze-colored hair and sea-green eyes. Finnick Odair. She had seen him before, on the screens, in the Games, but they had never spoken.

She hesitated, glancing at him, then at Katniss, who was standing nearby, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched.

Katniss didn't say anything, didn't even look at her, but Daphne could feel the tension radiating off of her. And when the interview ended, Katniss turned and walked away without a word.

But Finnick didn't leave. He was still looking at her, curious.

"Well?" he pressed.

Daphne let out a breath, turning her gaze back to the screen, where the Capitol's logo had replaced Peeta's face.

"I was his girlfriend," she admitted quietly. "Before the Games. And during."

Finnick's eyebrows shot up.

"Wait, during?" His expression was a mixture of shock and confusion. "You mean..." He trailed off

"The star-crossed lovers thing? That wasn't real," she said flatly. "Not for Peeta, anyway."

Finnick exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Damn," he muttered. "I thought I knew how to read people, but I never would have guessed. We all knew Katniss was faking it, but Peeta..."

Daphne didn't respond. She was too busy staring at the screen, at the empty space where Peeta had just been.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to scream.

But all she could do was stand there, gripping Sam tightly, and pray that somehow, somehow, Peeta would survive this.

After that night, something changed.

Finnick started talking to her.

It started subtly, passing comments, murmured updates, things he probably wasn't supposed to be telling her. But he did anyway.

"He's alive," he would say when she sat next to him at mealtime, voice low enough that only she could hear.

Or, "They haven't killed him yet. That's something."

At first, Daphne was suspicious. Why was he doing this? No one else in 13 seemed to care that she was breaking apart inside. But Finnick didn't treat her like she was just some girl Peeta had dated before the Games. He didn't dismiss her pain the way Katniss did.

Eventually, she asked him why.

Finnick had only given her a sad, knowing smile.

"You remind me of Annie," he had said simply.

Daphne frowned. "Annie?"

Finnick's expression softened. "Annie Cresta. She's from District 4. We've been together for years, but most people don't know about us. So when she was taken, no one acted like it mattered. No one acted like I should care." His jaw clenched slightly. "I know what it's like to love someone and have everyone else act like it's not important."

Daphne almost cried right then and there.

For him.

For herself.

For the sheer unfairness of it all.

She nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry."

Finnick just shook his head. "Me too."

After that, she started spending more time with him. And when she wasn't with Finnick, she was with Delly or Gale, trying to get through each day, one hour at a time.

Sam had become glued to her, barely able to go to school without having a complete meltdown. Daphne knew it was a trauma response; his whole world had shattered, and she was the only thing keeping it from falling apart completely. She did her best to be there for him, but it was hard.

Some days, she could barely get out of bed herself.

Then, about a week after Peeta's first interview, another one aired.

Daphne had been in the middle of sewing—mindlessly stitching fabric together in the uniform assembly line—when the announcement crackled through the speakers. Everyone was called to the canteen.

She already knew what it was.

She ran.

By the time she got there, the screen was already flickering to life.

And there he was.

Peeta.

But worse than before.

Thinner.

Paler.

Cuts and scrapes littered his face, and his suit hung looser on his frame.

Daphne clutched the table in front of her, barely breathing.

He was being forced to speak again—she knew that much. His words were empty, scripted, but she hung onto them like a lifeline. Because even if she didn't believe what he was saying, even if it wasn't really him talking…

It meant he was still alive.

He was still fighting.

And if he could hold on a little longer, just a little longer…

Maybe, somehow, she would get him back.

Here.

In 13.

Where they could finally be together.

The third interview started like the others.

Daphne had been eating dinner in the canteen with Abel and Jesse while Sam sat in her lap, half-asleep, when the screens flickered to life. She had expected another forced plea for peace, more empty words spilling from Peeta's mouth in that carefully controlled voice.

But this time was different.

Peeta looked worse. His face was paler than before, cheekbones sharper, eyes hollow. There was a bruise blooming along his jaw, a cut on his temple. His hands trembled slightly in his lap.

Daphne's stomach twisted violently.

And then, mid-sentence, Peeta stopped. He went rigid, his expression shifting from blank composure to something else—something urgent.

He wasn't just speaking to anyone anymore.

He was speaking to them.

"Katniss," he said, voice strained, as if the words were being dragged out of him. "They're coming. You have to get out."

The screen went black.

For a second, there was stunned silence.

Then chaos.

A loud alarm blared through the room, echoing off the concrete walls. Daphne's heart pounded. The boys flinched, Abel covering his ears, Sam bursting into terrified sobs.

Then came the orders.

"This is an air raid drill!" The intercom crackled to life. "Everyone report to the shelters immediately!"

Daphne didn't hesitate.

She grabbed Jesse's arm, hoisted Sam onto her hip, and yanked Abel along as she bolted for the nearest shelter entrance. The halls were a mass of moving bodies, people pushing and shouting, but she kept her grip on her brothers, shoving her way through.

By the time they reached the shelter, people were already filing inside. The guards were strict, ushering them in with sharp orders. Daphne pushed Jesse and Abel forward. "Go. Get in."

Jesse stumbled in first, Abel following.

But Sam clung to her, wailing. "Daph, no! Stay with me!"

"I'll be right behind you, Sammy, I swear—"

She didn't get to finish.

Through the crowd, she caught sight of Katniss.

She was outside the shelter entrance, pushing against the guards, wild-eyed. "Prim's not back yet!" she shouted, trying to get past them. "You have to keep it open!"

Daphne's stomach clenched.

She didn't even think.

She turned back to Abel. "Take Sam," she ordered, handing him over. Abel's face paled, but he nodded, pulling the still-sobbing Sam into the shelter.

Then she turned and ran toward Katniss.

The guards were trying to force the doors closed.

"No, wait!" Daphne snapped. "You can't shut it yet—"

"Miss Everdeen, you need to get inside now," one of the guards ordered, ignoring Daphne entirely.

Katniss shoved against them harder. "I'm not leaving without Prim!"

Daphne stepped in, grabbing the edge of the door with both hands, using her body weight to hold it open. "She's right, you can't—"

"Close the door!"

"Please!" Katniss begged, voice cracking.

Then—

A shadow in the hall.

Gale.

With Prim in his arms, running full-speed, her cat clutched tightly to her chest.

Daphne's grip tightened.

The guards saw them too.

"Wait!" one barked into a radio. "We have two incoming—"

Then Gale launched himself forward, barely making it past the threshold. Daphne grabbed his arm, yanking him in fully, and the second Prim stumbled through, the guards slammed the doors shut.

There was a loud clank as they locked.

Everyone was breathing hard.

Katniss made a choked sound and grabbed Prim, hugging her tightly, relief flooding her face.

She didn't thank Daphne.

But Daphne didn't care.

If it had been one of her brothers, she would've been losing her mind, too.

The days in the shelter felt endless.

The air was heavy, thick with the unspoken fears of over a thousand people crammed into the underground space. The lights hummed dully above them, casting a sickly glow over the room. Time blurred together—there were no windows, no way to tell when one hour ended and another began.

Abel spent most of his time with Rory and Prim, the three of them huddled in a corner of the shelter, whispering to each other to pass the time. Jesse stuck close to Vick, their friendship solidifying quickly in the tight space.

But Sam never left Daphne's lap.

She held him close, running her fingers through his curls, humming softly to soothe him. It was an old habit—one their mother used to do when they were younger, before the drinking took over, before she forgot how to be a mother at all.

One night, after lights-out, she started to sing.

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the shelter, it carried. Sam curled against her, his tiny fingers clutching her sleeve as she sang the lullaby their mother used to sing when she was sober.

Somewhere across the room, someone stirred.

She didn't notice Finnick until he was sitting a few feet away, listening intently. His sharp sea-green eyes studied her as she finished the song.

When she fell silent, he spoke.

"When Peeta talked about hearing Katniss sing as a kid," he said slowly, "he wasn't talking about her, was he?"

Daphne's throat tightened.

She couldn't bring herself to answer out loud.

She just nodded stiffly.

Finnick let out a soft breath, like something had finally clicked into place. He looked at her differently now—not with pity, but with understanding.

Daphne lowered her gaze to Sam, gently stroking his back, trying to steady herself.

Then Sam looked up at her, his wide blue eyes full of innocent hope.

"Is Peeta going to come visit soon?"

Daphne's breath caught in her throat.

Tears burned in her eyes before she could stop them, slipping silently down her cheeks. She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a small smile.

"I hope so, buddy," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before she could break down completely, Delly appeared at her side, settling onto the mattress next to her. She nudged Sam gently.

"Hey, you wanna go find a snack with me?" she asked, her voice light and full of warmth.

Sam hesitated, glancing at Daphne, but Delly grinned. "Come on, I bet we can find some cookies."

That was all it took.

Sam slid off Daphne's lap, taking Delly's outstretched hand. As they walked away, Daphne pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, trying to pull herself together.

Finnick didn't say anything.

He just watched her, something unreadable in his expression.

After a moment, he shook his head slightly, exhaling through his nose like he'd figured out some great mystery.

"You love him," he murmured. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Daphne let out a watery laugh, wiping at her face.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I really do."

Life in District 13 trudged forward, as if nothing had happened, as if the world hadn't nearly ended above their heads.

Daphne couldn't understand it. How could everyone just keep moving forward, returning to their schedules, filing into the dining hall like their lives hadn't been shaken to the core?

She could still hear the bombs, still feel the tight grip of Sam's little fingers digging into her shirt as he buried his face against her. Even now, days later, he wouldn't let go of her hand.

But then Gale told her.

She almost didn't believe him at first.

They were going back for the victors. There was a plan.

Her breath hitched, her stomach twisted, and she nearly collapsed right there in the hallway. She hadn't let herself hope—not really, not after seeing Peeta on the screen, thinner, weaker, pleading for a ceasefire. She hadn't let herself think about him being saved. Because if she had, and it hadn't happened… she wasn't sure she would have survived the heartbreak.

But Gale told her it was happening. They were going.

And then nothing.

For days, she heard nothing.

Gale wasn't there to update her. Finnick was a wreck, unraveling more by the hour with worry over Annie, and she had no place in the war council that dictated everything behind closed doors. She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't a symbol.

She was just… here.

It made her stomach twist with frustration at first, but eventually, she gave up. There was nothing she could do, and clawing for information she would never get was exhausting.

So she focused on what she could do.

Taking care of her brothers.

Jesse and Vick had taken to playing cards with Thom and a few other boys in the evenings, but Abel… Abel had started trailing after Prim Everdeen. Daphne had noticed it immediately, the way he always sat near her, always volunteered to help with whatever she was doing. She'd teasingly called him out on it one evening, and his ears had burned red.

"You like her," she had whispered, grinning.

Abel had denied it, but Daphne just laughed.

It was a small thing, but it was a distraction.

Until they showed up.

She was sitting in the cafeteria, picking at the tasteless grey mush on her plate, when she saw them—Haymitch and Plutarch, walking toward her, deep in argument.

She only caught the end of it as they got close.

"I'm telling you, she'll work," Haymitch muttered, his voice low but firm.

Daphne frowned, her stomach twisting. What?

Then, Haymitch looked at her.

"Peeta's back."

The words barely registered.

It took her a moment, her heart stuttering in her chest.

"What?" she breathed.

"He's back, got him about two days ago," Haymitch repeated.

Two days. For two days, they had kept this from her.

Her hands trembled, and she barely stopped herself from crying in relief. Peeta was alive. Alive.

But Haymitch wasn't finished.

"He attacked Katniss," he said bluntly. "Tried to kill her."

Daphne froze.

Everything around her blurred, the sounds of the cafeteria fading into the background.

"W-what?"

"He's been hijacked," Plutarch said, almost clinically, as if it were a simple fact. "The Capitol used tracker jacker venom to distort his memories, make him associate Katniss with danger, with pain. Right now, he thinks she's the enemy."

Daphne felt sick.

Peeta, her Peeta, who was kind and gentle and good… attacked Katniss?

It wasn't him.

It couldn't be.

That was why they were here, though.

They needed someone who had no connection to Katniss to go to him, to test how deep the hijacking ran.

Her first instinct was to say yes immediately. She would see him. She could help him.

But then she hesitated.

She bit her lip, looking down at the table, hands clenching into fists.

"I'm not the right person," she murmured.

Haymitch frowned. "What do you mean?"

Daphne exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the lump in her throat.

"We broke up because of Katniss," she admitted, voice thick with emotion. "He ended things with me because he thought I'd be safer that way, because he thought keeping up the act with her would protect me." Her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard. "I can't be the first person he sees. Not if you're trying to keep Katniss separate from the hijacking. He'll associate me with her, with all of it."

Haymitch and Plutarch exchanged a look.

Daphne knew she was right.

But then she straightened, forcing herself to breathe. "Send Delly," she said firmly. "They grew up together. She's not connected to Katniss or any of this."

Plutarch nodded slowly. Haymitch hesitated but didn't argue.

Daphne clenched her fists in her lap.

"Can I at least… watch?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. She turned her gaze to Haymitch, her eyes pleading. "Please. I need to see him. Just—just to know."

She expected them to say no.

Expected them to tell her it was too risky.

But after a moment, Haymitch sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"…Fine," he muttered.

Daphne released a shaky breath, nodding.

Peeta was here.

He was alive.

And she would see him.

Chapter Text

The room was suffocatingly silent as they watched the screen.

Daphne sat on the edge of her seat, barely breathing, her nails digging into her palms. Next to her, Haymitch and Plutarch sat still, watching the grainy footage intently. Katniss, however, sat with her arms crossed, stiff and unreadable, her jaw tight.

The camera flickered slightly before it focused.

And there he was.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat.

Peeta looked awful.

Bruised, pale, thinner than she'd ever seen him. His curls were limp against his forehead, matted with sweat, and there were deep, violent bruises around his wrists, from where he had fought against his restraints.

Daphne felt physically ill.

But then Delly appeared on the screen, stepping hesitantly into the room.

Peeta turned his head, confusion flashing across his face. His brows furrowed, like he wasn't sure if he was dreaming or not.

"…Delly?" His voice was hoarse, rough, and barely above a whisper.

Delly gave a small, reassuring smile as she sat in the chair beside him. "Hi, Peeta," she said softly.

Peeta just stared at her for a long moment before swallowing hard. His voice cracked when he asked, "Are you real?"

Delly's smile faltered.

"Yes," she said. "I'm real."

Peeta's gaze flickered down, staring at her hand as it rested on the bed near his. "…I didn't think there was anyone left," he admitted, his voice hollow.

Daphne's heart twisted painfully.

Delly exhaled, her expression pained. "Some of us made it out," she said gently. "We got to 13 before the bombing."

Peeta's body went rigid.

"…The bombing?"

Delly hesitated before nodding.

Peeta's face was unreadable.

"My family?" he asked.

Daphne squeezed her eyes shut. She already knew the answer, but she didn't want to hear it.

Delly swallowed hard. "They… they didn't make it."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Everyone watching held their breath, expecting Peeta to lash out, to scream or cry or fight against his restraints.

But he didn't.

He just exhaled sharply, his eyes going blank, like he had already known, like he had expected it.

Then—

"Daphne."

Daphne inhaled sharply, her whole body going rigid.

It was barely a whisper, barely a sound at all, but it echoed in the silent room, and she felt like the floor had just dropped out from under her.

Katniss stiffened next to her, and Haymitch turned his head slightly to gauge her reaction.

Delly reached for Peeta's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"She's okay," Delly promised.

Peeta's whole body sagged with relief.

"…She's alive?"

"She's alive," Delly assured him. "She's here, with her brothers. They all made it."

Peeta let out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching.

Daphne had to press a hand over her mouth, trying to suppress the sob rising in her throat.

His first thought had been her.

Even after everything, even after the Capitol had stolen his mind, broken his body, tortured him to the point of being unrecognizable—his first instinct was to ask about her.

She could barely see through her tears.

Peeta's shoulders trembled slightly, and he turned his face toward Delly, his voice cracking as he asked, "Can I see her?"

Daphne's heart stopped.

Delly hesitated.

She glanced toward the door, as if waiting for confirmation, as if listening for a cue.

That was all it took.

Peeta's face twisted, his expression shifting into something dark and angry.

"She's not letting me see her, is she?" he whispered.

Delly's eyes widened. "Peeta—"

"Katniss," he spat, his voice growing sharper. "Katniss is keeping her from me."

Katniss stiffened beside Daphne, her arms tightening around herself.

"No, Peeta, it's not like that—" Delly tried, but Peeta was already struggling against his restraints, his whole body shaking.

"She doesn't own her," he hissed, his voice growing frantic. "She doesn't—she's not yours!"

Daphne flinched, and Haymitch rubbed a hand down his face.

The screen cut to static for a moment before the camera refocused, showing the Peacekeepers and medical personnel rushing in to sedate him.

Daphne wanted to scream.

She wanted to run to him, to tell him she was there, that she had never not wanted to see him.

Instead, she clenched her hands into fists, trying to steady her breathing as the room sat in heavy silence.

Haymitch exhaled sharply before turning toward her.

"Still think you're not the right person?" he asked dryly.

Daphne ignored him, blinking furiously to fight back her tears.

Katniss sat stiffly in her chair, her lips pressed into a thin line, staring at the blank screen as if it had personally offended her.

Daphne didn't care.

Peeta loved her.

Even now. Even after everything.

And no one, not Snow, not the Capitol, and certainly not Katniss Everdeen, could take that away from her.

Daphne sat stiffly in the chair outside Peeta's hospital room, her hands gripping her knees to stop their shaking. The walls of District 13 were cold, sterile, nothing like home. But she didn't care.

Peeta was here.

Alive. Breathing.

And today, she was finally going to see him.

Across from her, Katniss was pacing, her arms folded tightly over her chest, her expression twisted into something between frustration and unease. She had protested this decision the moment Haymitch had suggested it, but he had pulled her aside, murmuring something too low for Daphne to hear. Whatever it was had shut Katniss up instantly. She was still angry about it, but she wasn't fighting anymore.

Haymitch exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as he turned to Daphne.

"You ready for this, kid?"

Daphne's heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest, but she nodded anyway.

He gave her a once-over, then jerked his chin toward the door.

"Then go."

Daphne's legs felt unsteady as she stood, her hands twitching by her sides as she approached the door.

She swallowed hard, then pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit, sterile and bare.

And there he was.

Daphne inhaled sharply, her heart stuttering in her chest.

Peeta was still restrained, his wrists strapped to the bed, but his body was tense, like he was expecting another stranger to walk in. His face was pale, thinner than before, the bruises still dark around his eyes, but the second he saw her—

His whole body froze.

His blue eyes widened, and his breath caught audibly.

"…Daphne?" he whispered, his voice raw and disbelieving, like he thought she was a ghost.

Daphne choked on a sob.

She rushed forward, reaching his side in an instant, her hands cupping his face as her tears spilled over.

Peeta's eyes fluttered shut, like he was grounding himself in her touch.

"You're real," he whispered.

"I'm real," she choked out.

Peeta flexed his hands under the restraints, his whole body straining against them as he tried to reach for her.

Daphne shook her head, swallowing thickly as she brushed his curls back from his face. "They won't let me undo them," she admitted hoarsely. "They don't know if it's safe yet."

Peeta let out a shaky breath, his eyes glassy with emotion.

"I don't care," he whispered. "You're here."

Daphne's heart clenched painfully.

She had spent nearly ten months without him in her life. Three months thinking he was dead, thinking she would never see him again.

And now—

Now, nothing else mattered.

Without thinking, she leaned down and kissed him.

Peeta melted under her touch, his body relaxing instantly, a broken sound escaping him as he tilted his face into hers.

His lips moved desperately against hers, like he was afraid she would disappear again, like he was trying to remind himself that she was real.

Her hands trembled as she threaded them through his hair, salty tears mixing between their mouths as he whispered against her lips— "You're alive."

She nodded against him, her breath shuddering.

"I'm alive."

Peeta let out a soft, broken laugh.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, to search his face, to memorize every new bruise and every faded scar.

He was different.

They had changed him.

But even now, with his mind fractured and his body broken—

He still looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world.

And that was enough.

Daphne barely left Peeta's side after that first visit. If she wasn't with her brothers, she was in the hospital wing with him. The first few days were the worst—he still wasn't allowed to move freely, still restrained at night to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else. But the moment they took the restraints off, he broke.

The second his hands were free, he reached for her, pulling her into a desperate embrace.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, like he was afraid she'd vanish if he let go. His entire body trembled against hers as he buried his face in her shoulder, sobs shaking his frame.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, over and over. "I'm so sorry, Daphne."

She held him just as tightly, her own tears falling into his hair. "There's nothing to be sorry for," she whispered, running her fingers through his curls.

But Peeta just clung to her, his fingers digging into the back of her shirt. "I don't understand," he murmured hoarsely. "I don't understand why we broke up. It's gone—it's just gone."

Daphne squeezed her eyes shut.

It was the only thing the hijacking hadn't touched. The trauma, the venom, the manipulation—it had twisted his memories of Katniss, had poisoned the way he saw her. But his love for Daphne had remained untouched.

She couldn't even put into words what that meant.

As the days went on, he slowly improved. The doctors let him have more freedom, and the moment he was able to move around, Daphne brought her brothers to see him.

Peeta hugged Abel and Jesse tightly, pressing his forehead against theirs like he always used to.

When he turned to Sam, the youngest Miller boy hesitated. His blue eyes flickered over Peeta's face, lingering on the fading bruises and the still-healing cuts.

Peeta immediately took a step back, his face softening.

"It's okay, buddy," he said quietly.

But Sam surprised everyone by launching himself at Peeta, wrapping his little arms around his waist.

Peeta sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide as he looked down at the child clinging to him.

Daphne could see the emotion flooding his face as he knelt down, gathering Sam up and holding him close.

Sam buried his face in Peeta's shoulder, his voice muffled as he whispered, "You got hurt."

Peeta swallowed hard, his hand coming up to rub Sam's back gently.

"I'm okay now," he murmured.

Sam just nodded against him, holding on tighter.

Daphne felt something in her chest ache.

She split her time between Peeta and her brothers, balancing between the two pieces of her life that mattered most. She knew Peeta still had a long way to go, but she was determined to help him through it.

But two weeks after his return, Katniss decided to confront her.

Daphne had just sat down in the canteen with Gale when she saw Katniss approaching.

Gale groaned under his breath, immediately tensing. "Don't," he muttered to Katniss, already predicting whatever she was about to say.

But Katniss ignored him, folding her arms as she stopped in front of Daphne's seat.

"You need to stop acting like you have some kind of claim on Peeta just because of the hijacking," she said bluntly.

Daphne's jaw clenched.

A rush of white-hot anger shot through her.

She had put up with Katniss ignoring her, keeping information from her, pretending she didn't exist in Peeta's life.

But this?

She had no right.

Daphne stood slowly, leveling Katniss with a cold stare.

"Fuck off," she said flatly.

Katniss blinked, like she hadn't expected that response.

Daphne could hear Gale muttering something under his breath, something about how she was only making it worse, but she didn't care.

Katniss had no idea what she was talking about.

Daphne exhaled sharply, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a worn, crumpled piece of paper.

"You want to see the letter Peeta wrote me before the Quell?" she asked, her voice cutting.

Katniss frowned, thrown off. "What?"

Daphne stepped closer, unfolding the letter carefully.

"The one where he told me that if he made it back, he planned on marrying me."

Katniss's face paled.

Daphne didn't need to say anything else.

Katniss turned on her heel and stormed off.

Daphne watched her go, her fingers tightening around the letter in her hands.

A small part of her knew she had been cruel.

But another part of her didn't care.

Because Katniss was the one acting like she had some claim over Peeta—like her trauma was the only thing that mattered.

Peeta wasn't hers.

And Daphne was done letting her act like he was.

Peeta was getting better. A little.

He still had bad days, still had moments where his mind was a battlefield of confusion and anger, but he was grounding himself more. He was starting to feel real again.

He had seen Katniss once. It hadn't gone well.

Daphne hadn't been there, but she heard about it afterward. He hadn't attacked her, hadn't lunged or shouted or lost control—but he had gritted his teeth, his fists clenching, and asked for Daphne.

That alone had made her just a little smug.

But mostly, she was relieved.

The fact that he had been able to see Katniss without a violent outburst meant he was improving. And if asking for her had helped ground him, she'd take it.

In the meantime, Daphne had found an unexpected friend in Annie Cresta.

She hadn't spoken to the woman much before, mostly because Annie was always with Finnick, and Finnick had always been around Katniss. But when Finnick pulled Daphne aside one evening, asking for a favor, she hadn't hesitated.

"Annie and I are getting married," he told her, an almost sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "And she deserves something nice to wear."

Daphne had blinked at him in surprise before realization dawned.

He was asking her to make the dress.

And she had agreed without a second thought.

The fabric was terrible—old, rough bedsheets salvaged from the supply closets—but Daphne was a pro. She had spent her entire life in her parents' tailor shop before the war, had learned how to take something simple and turn it into something beautiful.

By the time she was finished, it looked like a real dress from District 4. Flowing and elegant, as if it had been made from fine ocean silks instead of patched-together scraps.

When she presented it to Annie, the woman's eyes filled with tears.

Daphne had felt warmth bloom in her chest at the reaction, but it was Sam who truly won Annie over.

He had still been glued to Daphne's side, following her like a shadow, and Annie had taken a quick liking to the little boy. She would smile softly whenever he shyly clung to Daphne's hand, offering him quiet reassurances in the same way Daphne did.

It wasn't long before Sam started clinging to her too, sitting with her and Finnick when Daphne had to go check on Peeta.

Peeta, who had been watching all of this with quiet amusement, eventually decided he wanted to contribute something to the wedding too.

"I could make the cake," he offered one evening, his voice tentative, almost uncertain.

Daphne had blinked at him in surprise before her lips curled into a grin. "You want to bake something?"

The look he gave her was fond and exasperated all at once. "I think I remember how."

And so he did.

With limited supplies, he managed to put together a simple but elegant cake. It wasn't like the elaborate confections he used to make back in 12, but it was his. Something he had created, something that reminded him of who he was.

Something that reminded everyone of who he was.

The wedding itself was beautiful in its simplicity.

It was the first real event Peeta was allowed to attend outside of his medical sessions.

Daphne could feel everyone's eyes on them as they entered, Peeta keeping a firm but steady grip on her hand. They sat on the opposite side of the room from Katniss—something neither of them commented on—but Daphne could feel her gaze every once in a while.

Sam settled comfortably in Peeta's lap, and Daphne let herself lean into his side, watching as Finnick and Annie exchanged their vows.

There was something surreal about witnessing something pure in the middle of all the chaos.

During the reception, Peeta pulled Daphne onto the dance floor, spinning her carefully, almost hesitantly.

She could feel the cameras on them, knew that every second was being captured for the propo.

A piece of her knew this would stir up a storm in the Capitol.

But she ignored it.

She let Peeta twirl her, let herself melt into his arms as they moved together.

For the first time in so long, he looked happy.

But when he started tiring, Daphne took a break, dragging Abel and Jesse onto the dance floor instead. She let them clumsily spin her around, laughing when Jesse nearly tripped over his own feet.

And then Finnick appeared, his grin teasing as he grabbed her hand.

"I get a dance too," he announced.

She rolled her eyes but let him pull her in, letting out a surprised laugh when he spun her dramatically, dipping her low.

She was too caught up in the moment to notice Katniss approaching Peeta.

But Peeta noticed.

His body tensed slightly, but he didn't look at her.

His eyes remained firmly on Daphne as Finnick twirled her, a soft, almost wistful expression crossing his face.

Katniss stood beside him, hesitating before murmuring, "You really love her."

It wasn't a question.

Peeta swallowed, finally shifting his gaze to Katniss.

"I love her more than anything," he said simply.

And for the first time, Katniss didn't argue.

A few days later, Peeta got called in for military training.

Daphne thought it was insane.

She wasn't allowed to do it, despite being perfectly healthy. But Peeta? After everything he had been through—after being tortured and hijacked—he was being forced into it? It didn't make any sense.

She wanted to fight it, wanted to march into Coin's office and demand an explanation, but Peeta had already made up his mind.

"It's better this way," he had told her, his fingers brushing softly against hers. "I need to do something. I need to prove I'm not useless."

That had hurt to hear.

"Peeta, you're not useless."

He had only given her a tired smile in response.

With his schedule packed with training and hers still revolving around the three little boys in her care, she barely saw him.

She tried to keep herself busy, chasing after Jesse and Sam, making sure Abel didn't do anything stupid with his growing independence. It was getting harder to not see him as a little kid, especially with his fourteenth birthday coming up.

She barely had a second to breathe most days, but Peeta always sought her out.

No matter how exhausted he was, no matter how much he had been pushed that day, he would always find his way back to her.

Some nights, he would just sit beside her, not saying a word, his fingers tangled with hers.

Other nights, he would quietly ask her to hum something, like she used to back in 12 when things were simpler.

And then, finally, news came in about the mission to the Capitol.

Star Squad 451.

Katniss, Finnick, Gale—all of them were being sent.

Daphne had been too busy making sure Jesse and Vick didn't kill each other over a game of cards when she overheard.

Her heart stopped in her chest as she turned sharply toward the soldiers.

Was Peeta going too?

The moment she found out that he wasn't, that he wasn't part of the squad heading to the front lines, she nearly cried in relief.

Her legs felt weak, her breath shaky.

She knew the Capitol was still dangerous, still a death trap for anyone who went.

And for once, Peeta wouldn't be in the middle of it.

For once, she wasn't at risk of losing him again.

It was late. Past curfew, definitely. The halls of 13 were dark and silent, the hum of overhead lights dimmed to conserve energy. Daphne had just settled into bed, Sam curled up against her side like he always was these days, when a knock sounded at the door. Soft, barely audible.

She slipped out of the bunk without waking the boys, pulled a sweater over her sleep shirt, and crept to the door.

Peeta.

He stood there in the dim light of the hallway, eyes wide and wet and tired.

"Hey," he whispered.

Without a word, Daphne stepped out and shut the door softly behind her, making sure it latched. She turned to face him, her arms immediately crossing over her chest—not in anger, but in instinct, like she was trying to brace herself.

His face said everything.

She didn't want to hear it.

"They're sending me to the Capitol," he said, voice trembling.

Her stomach dropped like someone had punched her.

"What?"

Peeta looked down, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Tomorrow. I'm not officially part of Star Squad, but… they're integrating me in. Coin's behind it. Haymitch tried to stop it, but—" He choked on the rest of the words.

He didn't need to say it.

Daphne understood. Coin didn't want Peeta on that squad for support. She wanted him there to be a weapon.

To snap.

To kill.

To kill Katniss.

"She wants me to break," he whispered, and Daphne realized he was crying. "I can feel it. Every time I think I'm getting better, there's this… this wall I hit. And I don't want to hurt her, I don't, but I can't control it when it happens. And I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you."

His voice cracked on the last word, and Daphne's chest constricted.

"Peeta," she breathed.

But she didn't know what else to say. There wasn't some magic string of words she could say to make this better, to make it go away.

So she did the only thing she could do.

She reached down and tugged her bracelet off, a worn piece of braided leather, simple and frayed at the edges. He had given it to her the first winter they were together, not long before the Reaping that changed everything. He'd made it himself, with hands that knew the feel of bread dough and icing bags better than string and knots.

She never took it off.

Not until now.

"Here," she said, voice barely above a whisper as she slid it over his wrist. "Keep it on. If you feel it getting bad, if you start losing yourself… look at it. Feel it. Remember me. Remember us."

His breath hitched.

Then, without waiting for him to speak, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could. She could feel the tremble in his shoulders, the way he was fighting to keep himself together.

He buried his face in her neck. "I'm scared."

"I know," she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple. "Me too."

She could feel his lips brushing her skin, words unsaid, trembling breath against her collarbone.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't tentative or unsure.

It was full of desperation and fear and a longing that had simmered inside them both for months.

He backed her up against the wall of the hallway, cupping her face with trembling hands as he kissed her like it might be the last time. She responded in kind, gripping the front of his shirt, anchoring herself to him.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless and raw, she kept her forehead against his.

"You come back to me," she whispered. "You fight it. Every second, every day. You don't let her win. You come back to me, Peeta Mellark."

"I will," he promised. "I swear it."

She closed her eyes, sealing that promise into her heart like a prayer.

The next morning came too fast.

District 13's hovercraft station was stark and gray, cold even with the recycled heat humming through the vents. Daphne stood off to the side, her arms wrapped tightly around Sam, who clung to her like a baby koala despite being five years old. He buried his face into her neck, clearly sensing this was not one of the usual goodbyes.

Peeta was already in uniform. The drab black fabric looked wrong on him—too stiff, too grim—but he still smiled when he saw her.

God, he looked tired. His hair had grown back just enough to curl at the edges again. His eyes were clearer now, though shadows lingered in them.

Daphne stepped forward as he approached. Peeta crouched down immediately and held out his arms.

"Hey, buddy," he murmured. "Can I get a hug before I go?"

Sam hesitated only a second before releasing Daphne and flinging himself into Peeta's arms. Peeta lifted him off the ground, squeezing tight.

"You're gonna help take care of your brothers, right?" he whispered, brushing Sam's curls back.

"I don't want you to go," Sam whispered, lip trembling.

"I know, Sammy," Peeta said, voice thick. "But I'm coming back, okay? I swear it."

He kissed Sam's cheek, then gently passed him back to Daphne.

Then it was just them.

Daphne didn't speak. She was too busy memorizing every inch of his face, burning it into her brain like a photograph. She hated this. Hated the idea of him going back to the Capitol, the very place that had broken him.

Peeta took her face in both hands.

"Daph."

"Please don't die," she said hoarsely, voice cracking.

"I'm not going to die," he said firmly. "I have to come back. You still owe me a wedding."

She let out a watery laugh and kissed him, slow and soft, but still filled with all the love and fear she didn't have time to say.

He pressed their foreheads together. "I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered. "More than anything."

Peeta leaned down, kissed Sam's head one last time, and then turned away, walking toward the hovercraft.

Daphne didn't look away until he was inside. The ramp lifted. The doors sealed.

He was gone.

She was still standing there, eyes locked on the empty air, when Haymitch stepped up beside her. He'd been watching the whole time, leaning against the wall with a cigarette he wasn't allowed to light.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he clapped a hand on her back, gentler than she expected, and grunted, "He'll come back to you, girl. That boy's too in love with you to do anything else."

Daphne just nodded, her eyes burning, her hand clutched tightly over her now-bare wrist.

For the first few days after Peeta left, Daphne clung to every scrap of information Haymitch passed along.

A quick whisper in the corridor. A muttered update outside the canteen. "They've reached the outskirts." "No injuries yet." "He's okay." It wasn't much, but it was all she had. It kept her upright. Kept her functioning.

She buried herself in routine, waking Sam up, combing his curls, packing lunches, helping Jesse with homework, fussing over Abel and teasing him about his upcoming fourteenth birthday. She helped in the clothing unit, hemmed uniforms, and pretended the ache in her chest wasn't making her feel like she couldn't breathe.

She barely let herself sit down for more than a few minutes, afraid that if she stopped, the weight of her worry would crush her.

And then, the worst happened.

It was during lunch, the canteen packed as usual with workers and soldiers in their drab grey uniforms. Daphne was sitting at a table with Delly and Prim, Sam tucked against her side as always. Abel and Jesse were in line, bickering over whose turn it was to pick the day's juice flavor.

The television screens flickered.

That was normal, updates were often played during meals.

But this time, a seal of Panem flashed across the screens.

Then a Capitol news anchor appeared, face far too composed, too satisfied.

"We bring breaking news from the Capitol," he said, his voice slick with manufactured solemnity. "Earlier today, the rebel Star Squad launched an assault on the Capitol's center. In a fierce battle, the Capitol game out victorious; and the unit did not survive. Among the dead are noted rebels Finnick Odair, Katniss Everdeen, and Peeta Mellark."

The rest of the room blurred into silence.

Daphne froze.

No.

No.

Her tray clattered to the floor.

"No."

Sam startled beside her, looking up in confusion, but she didn't even notice. Her chest seized. Her lungs felt like they collapsed in on themselves. The sound that tore out of her throat was guttural, broken, and raw.

"No!" she screamed again, louder this time, startling half the canteen.

She stumbled up from the bench, her knees giving out halfway. Her hands clawed at her chest, at her hair, at anything she could grasp. She couldn't breathe.

"NO! NO, HE—NO, NO!"

Delly caught her just before she hit the ground. Prim yelled for help.

But Daphne couldn't hear them.

She was sobbing now—huge, racking sobs that twisted her body. Her vision was blurry, her throat raw. Her voice broke into hoarse gasps, the word no tumbling over and over again out of her mouth like a prayer.

"No, he promised me. He promised—he promised—he can't—he said he was coming back—!"

Someone pulled Sam back as Daphne fully collapsed, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. People were surrounding her, voices muffled like she was underwater. Delly was crying, trying to hold her. Thom, big and strong and grim, stepped through the crowd and scooped Daphne off the ground like she weighed nothing.

She didn't even register the motion. She was still crying, sobbing so hard her whole body shook violently.

She was vaguely aware of movement, of the sterile white lights of the hospital wing coming into view, of someone sticking something sharp into her arm, and a voice—Haymitch's, maybe—murmuring something as everything started to go dark.

The last thing she remembered before unconsciousness took her was a whisper in her own voice:

He promised.

He promised he'd come back.