It must be very early. No little hands pat my cheeks, no little voices burble in my ear. Maybe, for once, I can laze around in bed for a while before they come find me, all bright cheeks and curled fingers. The bed is warm, unusually so, but a crisp breeze prevents the heat from becoming uncomfortable. The sheets have twisted around my bare legs during the night, but I feel too heavy to bother kicking them away. I might as well try to get some more sleep before hungry little mouths wake up and demand breakfast. But then I roll onto my side, nudging my face further into the pillow, and something sets off a little alarm in the fuzzy depths of my mind. Bright. It can't be early, or it wouldn't be this bright. The kids are undoubtedly awake – they rarely get up much later than me, and I'm a notorious early riser – but the house is silent.

And when you're the mother of four-year-old twins, silence is very suspicious.

I hoist myself upright without opening my eyes, groping automatically for my phone, but the bedside table I end up smacking is definitely not my own. Confusion teeters through me, wobbly and light as a butterfly, until I remember.

I turn around, and there, blinking at me blearily, is Peeta Mellark.

"Annie!" Johanna hollers, flailing her arms like the windsock man that dances at the entrance of the fair. "An-nie!"

A delicate-looking woman with waves of dark, tangled hair turns and waves back, nudging the bronze-haired man beside her. Then they're zigzagging their way through the crowd and Johanna pulls me along by the arm to greet them. I sigh and stuff the last bite of funnel cake past my lips before shoving the paper plate into an overflowing trashcan. It's not that I don't enjoy hanging out with Jo. I do. It's just that she does this every time. She sees someone she knows and inevitably drags me over to meet them, and within ten minutes she's telling me that so-and-so is having a party at their house, and I'm welcome to come along but, well, she knows how I feel about parties, and then she ends up going off with her friends and I'm left wandering around, alone, like the protagonist of some angsty pulp drama. At least if Prim had let me take the kids I'd have some company, and maybe even some fun, but she was adamant. "You need a break," she insisted. "A girls' night out with a friend, without the kiddos hanging off your arms. And anyway, I'm the auntie. It's my job to take them on rides and win gigantic stuffed animals for them and buy them too much cotton candy." So, we parted ways just past the ticket booth, Prim shepherding Faun and Sorin off towards the kiddie rides and Johanna leading me to the nearest corn dog stand. Now I wish I had dug in my heels a bit more.

"Hey you," the woman named Annie coos, giving Johanna a one-armed hug. The other arm is firmly attached to the hip of the deeply tanned man.

"This idiot is my best friend," Johanna proclaims, poking me. "Katniss, this is Annie. She was my roommate for a while."

That's right. I vaguely remember a wild story or two about her and her boyfriend – Flynn? Fletcher? Finnegan? – before they got married and he settled down. I guess this is him.

"Finnick Odair," the man introduces himself when he catches my inquiring glance.

"Katniss Everdeen," I mumble, extending a hand. Instead of shaking it he catches it up and kisses my knuckles, earning a scowl from me and a snort of laughter from Johanna. Then Annie hugs me, tells me to ignore him, and points us all in the direction of the Ferris wheel.

If there's one thing I don't want to do, it's sit in a rickety Ferris wheel basket, squished up next to Johanna's old friends while they gaze lovingly into each other's eyes. But Jo would never let me hear the end of it if I bailed, so I put on a smile and agree as pleasantly as I can.

"Hi," Peeta says, the word opening into a yawn.

"Uh, hi," I respond. The skin of my torso prickles with goose bumps and I realize, belatedly, that I'm not exactly wearing pajamas. I dig my fingers into the orange duvet and pull it around myself, heat rising in my cheeks. This is awkward. I'm not exactly familiar with one-night-stand procedure. In movies people always manage to get dressed and find their way out before the other person wakes up. What do I do now that he's awake? Fish around for my clothes and get dressed in front of him? Am I supposed to say something? What am I supposed to say? Thank you? See you around, since it's a small town and running into one another again is unavoidable? Or do I leave without saying anything at all? Would that be better, or worse?

"Do you like waffles?" he says, making the decision for me, and I nod.

Before I've even located my pants, he's already thumping down the stairs with a shout of, "Come on down when you're ready!"

Annie bats at Finnick's phone as it begins to buzz – again.

"Finn, put it away," she wheedles. "Work can wait until tomorrow."

"It's not work," Finnick says, but he humors her and slides it into a pocket. Then he turns to Johanna. "Annie and I invited a friend to join us – do you mind? I was just telling him where to find us."

"The more the merrier," Jo declares with a shrug, and I silently wither inside of myself. "Who is it?"

"Buddy from college. He's actually half the reason we moved out here. He grew up here and just decided to move back, and he practically forced us to come along."

Annie gives her husband an exasperated glance and corrects, "No, he didn't. We were coming here anyway for that lakeside cabin. Peeta had nothing to do with it."

"I mean, he had a little to do with it. I'd follow his chocolate éclairs anywhere," Finnick says, but I'm only half-listening. That name sounds familiar. Peeta Mellark. Yes, very familiar. If he grew up in this town like Finnick said, there's a good chance I've seen him before. Hell, I may have even gone to high school with him. We probably sat in the same mandatory English class at some point. I kick at the battered tufts of grass below my feet. The last thing I want is to go through that conversation again. All anyone ever remembers about high-school me is that I was quiet and sullen and Gale Hawthorne's girlfriend, so whenever someone from school recognizes me the first thing out of their mouth is, "Where's Gale?"

It's not that I miss him, because I don't. Not anymore. I never even loved him like that. But when you're grocery shopping with a screaming four-year-old on each hip and some ex-cheerleader is looking around for your husband, it's hard to tell her you never even had one. It's even worse when Johanna is there to tell you that this is why you need to go on more dates.

So, when Finnick begins to wave his arms and yell over the plinking tune of the nearby carousel, I take a deep preparatory breath. Maybe I can fake a headache and bow out early. Maybe I can find Prim and the kids and… What, go home? Faun would throw a fit if I so much as suggested going home this early, and Sorin would get tearful and sniffly and… No, there's no escape for me unless I leave the car for Prim and walk home by myself. I'm weighing the pros and cons of walking those four miles in the dark when a broad-shouldered blonde emerges from the crowd and bounds over to join us.

And immediately, I recognize him. I don't know how I didn't connect the name with the face before. Peeta, as in Peeta Mellark, the boy whose tenth grade landscape painting won a page in some big-city magazine, who never failed to bring cupcakes to school on his friends' birthdays, whose winning streak in wrestling was marred only by a loss to his older brother. Peeta Mellark, Gale's friend from biology. The one who always used to stare at me across the lunch table. The one who I haven't seen, or, indeed, thought about, in years.

He very obviously recognizes me too. His eyes widen as soon as they fall on me, and they're just as big and blue and honest as they were when he was a teenager. In fact, his looks have hardly changed, except for a multitude of new freckles and a more defined jaw, and… Damn it, it shouldn't be allowed to get more attractive after high school.

"Katniss," he says, offering a hand. I don't miss the way he glances at my finger, searching for a ring that isn't there.

This is going to be a nightmare.

"You really weren't kidding," I say, finishing off the plate in an amount of time that would probably be considered rude if we were anywhere other than a tiny, dirty mining town smack dab in the middle of the Appalachian mountains. Here, how fast you scarf down your food is considered to be directly proportionate to how much you enjoyed it.

"I told you," Peeta says. He's staring at me across the table again, just like he did nearly every day senior year. It's almost laughable how different the circumstances are now. "The Mellark pancake recipe is the best thing to grace this earth."

My phone chimes with a morning update from Prim – Kiddos just woke up, eating Lucky Charms, asking where you are, which I would like to know too, by the way – giving me an excuse to look away. Now that neither of us are eating anymore, the awkwardness is returning. I don't know how it's possible to be fully dressed and still feel bare in front of someone who saw you naked in the back of their car… And against their living room wall… And in their bed…

I shoot Prim a quick explanation, omitting a few key details, as Peeta gets up and sweeps our plates away to the sink. When he returns, he perches on the chair beside me.

"So," he says, grinning in that infuriating way of his. "What are you doing today?"

"Work," I say simply. My eyes find the acid-green numbers on his microwave. "Not for a couple hours, though."

He pouts. "So, no chance of you sticking around awhile?"

I watch my fingers tangle together. Sticking around? He wants me to stay? Warmth rises in my face at this unexpected idea. Here I was thinking I'd have to slink away, walk-o'-shame style, and spend the rest of however long he's staying here avoiding him. "No," I say finally, cushioning the word with an apologetic shrug. "But… later?"

He's nodding before I'm even done speaking. "Yeah. Definitely." A devious smile pushes a dimple into his cheek. "I mean, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a repeat of last night…"

I shove him, swallowing a laugh, and he feigns injury with dramatic flair. Then he sobers. "Or just hanging out. I'd like that too. I had a lot of fun with you at the fair."

"Yeah," I agree.

"Four per basket," the ride operator insists. "Sorry. I didn't make the rules."

Johanna scowls and takes a breath like she's getting ready to curse out the nineteen-year-old who's just doing his job. Thankfully, Peeta cuts in before she can.

"I'll just wait out here. I've been meaning to get a corn dog anyway." He smiles. "You guys go ahead."

"No," Annie says firmly. "You waited in line too. It's not fair to make you stay alone down here while we ride."

"We'll split up," Finnick decides. "Get two baskets."

Of course, Peeta volunteers to be the one to ride alone in the second basket. I grit my teeth, irked by the ridiculous goodness he's apparently managed to hold on to since his days of being a teachers' pet. Why does he have to be so damn noble? No one is that… that… stupidly flawless. There's got to be some hidden catch, some major but thus far invisible pitfall in his personality, but for the life of me I can't find it.

"Can't ride alone," the operator says stiffly, glancing at the increasingly impatient mob behind us. "Gotta be at least two people in the basket."

Annie, Finnick and Johanna shrug at each other, shuffling their feet.

"Oh, for god's sake," I grumble. My hand closes around Peeta's wrist and I pull him forward. We stumble ungracefully into the basket and I gesture imperiously to our three companions. "You guys take the next one."

They shrug again, this time in acquiescence, and Peeta and I sink into opposite seats. The plastic beneath my thighs is sticky and warm, and I wrinkle my nose, lifting one leg and then the other, listening to the slight squelch. I really regret wearing shorts now. Who knows what that stuff is – or, used to be.

I think I catch Peeta watching my legs shift, but he looks away too quickly to be sure.

My phone chimes again, interrupting the lazy make-out session we somehow ended up in and nearly vibrating off the edge of the table before I catch it. It's Prim. I can almost hear the impatience in her tone just by scanning her name. Peeta is already easing to his feet when I look up from the screen, attempting the tame the staticy mane of hair I created with my sweeping fingers. I probably shouldn't have kissed him again, let alone for so long, but it's been five years and I might have missed this a bit more than I'd ever admit, and I figured, why the hell not? Plus, he can't just sit two centimeters from me in nothing but loose-fitting pajama pants and expect me not to eliminate that distance entirely.

And how did I end up on the table, anyway?

"Have to go?" Peeta asks, and I nod.

"The kids are gonna miss me. Prim's with them now – my sister – but… Well, you know."

"Yeah, I do. Gotta be there for the little ones."

He says this with the knowing air of one with experience, and I'm about to ask if he has any little ones of his own, after all, when Prim texts yet again. I hunt through the front hall for my things, gathering them up from where they fell last night, and text her back as I go. Then Peeta and I are exchanging numbers and making hasty plans and attempting halfheartedly to get me through the door, but every time I get close one or the other of us finds some reason for me to linger a few minutes longer. Eventually he steals one more kiss, pressing me gently against the cool surface of the hall mirror, and steps away.

"I should probably go to work, too," he says, opening the door and admitting a billow of crisp late-summer mountain air. "Lots of prep work."

I refuse yet another offer of a drive home – heaven knows we'd never get anywhere if we ended up in the car together again – and start my walk.

"You didn't have to do that," Peeta says as the wheel lurches, lifting us forward so the next basket can be unloaded and filled again by Johanna, Annie and Finnick. "I could have stayed behind."

"The family of three dozen behind us was getting antsy. At least ten of their kids would have thrown a fit by the time you guys decided anything. I was just trying to avoid that."

"You don't like kids?"

"Oh, no, I love kids, provided they're either mine or properly supervised. I can't stand it when parents let their children run amok in public."

The mischievous sparkle in his eyes visibly dims. "Oh, I didn't know you were married."

His gaze flickers back to my ringless hand and I sigh. There it is. I knew it would happen sooner or later.

"I'm not. And before you ask about a divorce, I never was."

He holds his palms up in surrender. "Okay. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy."

"It's fine," I say, but I'm peeved enough to prod, "What about you? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

He shakes his head. "I just earned my Masters this last spring, and then the summer has been full with moving down here. Not a lot of time for dates when you're trying to sell and buy two different houses."

"Oh." The wheel lurches again, and the process of empty-fill-rinse-repeat begins again with the next basket. Johanna's hooting laughter reaches us from about a dozen feet below, but the background noise of carnival music, crowd chatter, rattling games and raffle announcements drowns out whatever else she's saying. "What did you master in?"

"Early childhood education."

My eyebrows lift and he chuckles. "I know, I know, probably not what you were expecting."

I shrug, and this time I know for sure he's watching me out of the corner of his eye when one bra strap slips down my shoulder. I shove it back in place as the wheel jerks forward once again. It actually kind of makes sense. I seem to remember Peeta talking a lot about wanting to start a family eventually, back in school, but I never gave it much thought until now. He was so stereotypically popular – blond, athletic, artsy, straight-As, involved with student council – I always assumed he'd come back from his fancy private college with a degree in socioeconomics or visual arts or something equally lofty. Then again, I was the most predictable college student to ever grace the crumbling campus of Panem University. Everyone expected the people-hating, nature-loving Katniss Everdeen to emerge from the local public college with a bachelors in forestry and a bucket load of debt.

The twins were a surprise, though. No one expected them, least of all me. At least I was expecting it when Gale decided family life wasn't for him and transferred to some city school before they were born. That I was prepared for. Gale was a good guy, but he hated domestic life with a passion. The first glimpse of a future raising twins in his quiet hometown sent him running. Which was fine with me. I had Prim, and even though he was useless most of the time, I had Haymitch, and I had Jo.

Now I wonder, as the empty-fill-rinse-repeat rhythm finally stops and the wheel begins to spin for real, how it is that I ended up with two kids – me, the girl who swore off marriage and children at the ripe age of sixteen upon the death of my parents – and Peeta, the very picture of a perfect husband and father, ended up with none.

Well. None so far.

By the time I arrive home, Faun is just reaching the peak of her sugar rush from the Lucky Charms and Prim is frantically attempting to coax her down from the lower branches of the backyard maple. She clambers down in a hurry when she catches sight of me, though, and leaps at me in a blur of unbrushed hair, mismatched shoes and squealing enthusiasm.

"Mama," she coos. "Where'd you go?"

Sorin, who has been hopping anxiously from foot to foot and squeaking, "Ca'ful!" while his sister climbed through the tree, now comes toddling across the yard with reaching hands. He glues himself to my leg contentedly as soon as he reaches me. Ever the Mama's boy.

The twins could not be more different. Faun inherited Gale and I's black hair, olive skin and slim build. My uncle, one Haymitch Abernathy, says she looks nearly exactly like I did at her age, silver-gray eyes and all. She's fiery like me, too – assertive is the word Prim likes to use. She's curious as a little fox kit, and just as restless. The only time she ever holds still is when I put her hair up in two French braids every morning, and this she only endures because she heard "Uncah 'Aymish" say that's how I used to wear my hair as a little girl. Sorin, on the other hand, can sit still for hours. He's the one that stares into forest streams or bushes, silently, watching minnows or tadpoles or finches while Faun romps in the shallow water nearby. He's the one that sits on my shoulders, my braid wound around his little fingers, as his sister demands to be put down so she can walk "by myssef!" He's as plump as she is willowy, as fair as she is dark. He inherited my reserved nature and love of the woods, but his honey-blond hair and porcelain blue eyes are all thanks to my mother.

"Hi Mama," he says, dropping a sloppy kiss on my cheek when I kneel, and I scoop him up.

"Hi owlet."

Faun tugs at my shirt. "Where'd you go?" she asks again.

Prim stares at me over their heads, one brow quirked delicately.

"I spent the night at a friend's house," I tell them, entirely truthfully.

Prim mumbles, "Yeah, I bet you did," and I shoot her a look.

"Auntie Jo?" Faun guesses, at the same time Sorin says, "Aw! I wanna come too!"

"Not Auntie Jo. An old friend. I knew him before you were born."

I take one small hand in each of mine and move past Prim's garden, pausing when Sorin wants to pick a strawberry and Faun wants a green bean. The gardener herself trails after us.

"So," she says. "You've dilly-dallied long enough. Details, now."

I roll my eyes, ensure the kids are busy playing – Faun has already roped Sorin into a game of "who can imitate the most animals the loudest" – and begin to tell her what happened after we split up at the ticket booth.

The basket dangles just loosely enough from the gargantuan wheel to make me ever-so-slightly nervous. Every time Peeta leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees or I shift my legs, trying to find a spot on the seat that isn't coated with a gelatinous film of ice cream cones past, the whole basket wobbles and swings as if a screw or two in the framework has loosened over the years. The motion isn't what sets my stomach swooping, though. No, that's entirely due to my fellow rider. Apparently Peeta has changed a bit since high school, because I don't seem to recall him ever being much of a flirt before.

"The deep stuff?" I echo as he grins at me from his own rickety seat. "Uh oh. Like what?"

"Like," he says, the sides of his mouth pulling down momentarily in mock-seriousness. "What's your favorite color?"

"Well, you've stepped over the line."

His head dips in a chuckle. "Seriously, though, what is it?"

"Green," I admit as we near the pinnacle of the wheel's arc. "What's yours?"

"Orange."

I make a face. "Like Miss Tinket's hair?"

His eyes crinkle at the reference to our eccentric eleventh grade Home Economics teacher, who favored a cotton-candy pink wig for one semester and an obnoxious orange one the next. "No. Not that orange. More of a sunset kind of orange."

I turn automatically to the west, but today's sunset has already come and gone, leaving only a violet streak above the gently sloping mountains.

"That's all right," he says, evidently catching my line of sight, "Next time." I look at him curiously and he hastily amends, "That is, if you'd like to."

"Like to what?"

He only hesitates a moment before straightening in his seat and answering, "See each other. Again. I mean, after the fair."

I blink, and then the pieces come together. "You're asking me to go home with you?"

His eyes widen. "No! I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to – but that's not what I –" He huffs out a sheepish laugh. "I'm sorry, this isn't coming out at all like I meant it to." Then he's smiling again, but it's not the easy, self-assured smile that aggravated me on the ground. This one is so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. "Unless you want to come home with me, in which case…"

An instinctive laugh pops between my lips, and I'm about to respond in the negative when I begin to wonder: why?

"Do you make a habit of picking up random girls at the fair and luring them to your house?" I half-joke.

"Does this seem like familiar territory for me?"

I look at him then, and, no, it doesn't. Underneath that personable air and those easy smiles, there's a trace of the same nerves that thrum through me. And then, without quite meaning to, I'm watching his lips as he wets them with the tip of his tongue, and thinking about what else that tongue might do.

My legs shift yet again, this time pressing together.

Damn him.

"I guess not," I concede, and he carefully steers the conversation on to smoother waters. But I can't help it; once I start thinking about Peeta's tongue, or arms, or eyes, or any part of him, really, I can't stop. Maybe it's the fact that his own eyes seemed to have darkened as much as his cheeks, or maybe it's just that five years is a long time, but I'm starting to seriously reconsider his accidental offer. Prim already promised to watch the kids for the whole night, so I could potentially accompany Johanna on whatever crazy late-night venture she dreamed up this time, and we wouldn't even have to worry about protection. I never cancelled my shots, even after the twins were born and dating looked to be a thing of the past. I learned the hard way that "just once" isn't always as harmless as it seems. Never mind being single, and contentedly so, I wasn't taking any chances.

A large part of me is taken aback by the direction of my thoughts, but at the same time, I can't let go of the idea. Surely I deserve this. One night of borderline recklessness after years of constant, exhausting work and worry and thrift. One night of pure debauchery. And why not? It's not like Peeta is a stranger. We're acquaintances, even friends… sort of. That is, we were, for a time, and that's got to count for something.

We talk about completely boring, mundane things for the whole rest of the ride, but by the time the jolting empty-fill-rinse-repeat rhythm begins again, I've just about worked myself into a frenzy. Why does he have to do that with his jaw? Why do his eyelashes have to catch the multicolored lights of the fair that way? And why does he seem so abashedly hopeful, like he's wishing I would change my answer and give in?

We reach the bottom, finally, and I'm off the sticky seat and out of the basket nearly before the operator can unlatch the door. Peeta follows at a more controlled pace, but I know I'm not imagining the way his gaze traces up my legs as we stand awkwardly aside, waiting for Johanna, Finnick and Annie to disembark.

"Hey, Brainless, did you know Mini Finn is the same age as the tiny terrors?" Johanna says in way of greeting. "I thought he was like two, but, nope. Four. Crazy how they grow, yeah?"

"Yup," I agree, only half paying attention.

"Maybe they should have a play date. We could set them loose in the lake. It'd be fun." She turns to Annie. "What do you say?"

Annie smiles even as I inwardly seethe. They're my kids, not hers. She doesn't get to set up play dates, and especially not with people I barely know the names of. "I'm sure Kai would love that. He was sad to leave his friends behind when we moved, you know. He'd probably have a grand time with some other kids his own age."

"It's a small town," Finnick adds. "They might even be in the same class."

That's right. I keep forgetting. Kindergarten starts in about a week. I got an email from the K-12 principal yesterday about how the kindergarten rooms have a new teacher this year, to replace Old Sae. I was beginning to wonder if she'd ever retire – she was my teacher when I was the kids' age. Come to think of it, Peeta might have been in her class, too. In fact I'm sure of it. He had a part in the kindergarten school play – a little lion, I think. Strange. I haven't thought of that in a long time.

"We'll see, I guess," I say in response to Finnick and Annie's patient smiles.

There's a beat of silence, in which Peeta clears his throat and Finnick fixes a piece of Annie's hair, and then Johanna claps her hands together.

"Anyway! Tiny terrors aside, Finnick was saying something about a club in the next town. It's only like forty five minutes away. You in?"

And there it is. I knew, just like the inevitable marriage conversation, that this would happen sooner or later.

"No, thanks," I say. I'm already trying to guess where Prim and the kids might have gone off to, since it seems like they'll be my company tonight, after all. Sorin likes the pony rides and petting zoo, and Faun likes the inflatable slides that they always put up right next to the shabby circus tent. Prim could have taken them to either.

"Yeah, I think I'll stay, too," Peeta says, surprising me out of my train of thought.

"You sure?" Finnick pouts, and when Peeta doesn't relent he says, "Well, all right. See you later then. Still on for finishing up painting on Tuesday?"

"Definitely," Peeta says, and within moments they're gone, leaving us standing in the kaleidoscopic lights of the Ferris wheel.

"Well." Peeta scrubs a hand through his hair when I turn to him. "What do you want to do?"

We end up wandering, mostly, talking. Catching up. I learn about his Etsy store selling commissions and original works of art, from charcoal to oil paint to watercolor, and he learns about my position at my uncle's fishing and hunting supply shop. I tell him about how hard Prim is working to get her doctorate in medicine as we pass a psychic's tent, which billows with incense and gauzy scarves, and he tells me about the pros and cons of city life when we pause at a dart booth. I beat him soundly, even though the game is pretty obviously rigged. My prize is an enormous lollipop hard enough to chip a molar. He talks me into letting have a lick or ten. And okay, maybe I said yes just to watch his tongue swipe over the glossy candy. And just like that, I'm right back where I started, imagining his tongue between my legs instead.

It's only when we shell out a stupid amount of money for an Italian ice to share that it occurs to me that I might not be the only one thinking along those lines. I've been watching Peeta's mouth work at the lollipop, and he, in turn, seems to take a special interest in my lips as I take scoops of the cherry-flavored ice. We're strolling through the booths, watching sparks from a distant bonfire mix with the emerging stars, when the cloud of pressure above us finally breaks.

Peeta mumbles, "Fuck it," and, just between the fried pickle stand and a water gun game booth, he looks me straight in the face and says, "May I kiss you?"

My answer is to lean in.

His tongue tastes like the fair – like overly sweet candy and chilled cherry ice. A trickle of evening wind pushes away the lingering dusty heat of the day, sending waves of goose bumps across my skin. The tips of his fingers push just under the hem of my shirt to smooth over the gooseflesh, and I'm about to rise up onto my toes so he can reach me without having to hunch over so much when a stern little "A-hem" sends us jumping apart. A middle-aged woman glares at us over the heads of her troop of children, apparently not one to approve of PDA.

We duck our heads, reddening, as she moves away.

"Car?" Peeta suggests hoarsely, and I nod.

Hand-in-hand, we cut through the fair. The clown at the exit asks us if we'd like hand stamps to get back in, and when Peeta politely declines my heart begins to kick at my ribs.

Peeta's car is a spacious Subaru Outback, worn and scratched but obviously well taken care of. Black mountain mud flecks the exterior, but the leather seats inside are clean and blessedly adjustable.

I clamber into the passenger seat with a throbbing heart and increasingly damp panties and Peeta fumbles with the keys. He nearly drops them before he succeeds in starting the car.

We make it out of the field they've roped off, designating it as fair parking, and maybe two miles down the street before Peeta pulls off on a ragged dirt road I know leads to a trailhead. He stops in the oblong area of packed dirt that barely passes for a parking lot, making sure to half-hide the car under the low hanging branches of a nearby pine even though we're at least a mile from the nearest paved road and swathed in thick forest and deepening shadows. Then, very efficiently, he reclines the back seats all the way, climbs into the back, locks the doors, pulls me between the two front seats and resumes kissing me.

It doesn't take long at all for his shirt to come off, and then mine, both pieces of clothing falling somewhere in the carpeted valley between the front and back seats. I'm quick to unhook my bra, and the first quiet moan leaves my lips when his tongue tickles wet circles around both pebbling nipples.

I have never been so very grateful for tinted windows.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" he pants, one hand working at the button of my jeans at my nod of approval.

"Since the Ferris wheel?" I guess. I knew he was looking at my legs when we sat down.

He slides down the zipper and his fingers wriggle beneath my panties, not even waiting to remove the offending articles of clothing before dipping into my wetness. I inhale sharply, hips rising off the warm leather of the seat, as he shakes his head. "No. Years. Since school."

"Huh?" I manage. His middle finger has located my clit, sending me squirming on top of him as taut coils of pleasure begin to seep through me.

I arch towards him, trying to increase the friction, but he eases back with a knowing grin. "Call me a romantic, but I've had a crush on you pretty much forever. You have no idea how surprised I was to see you again."

This new information swirls in my head, clashing and blending with the sparks of pleasure he's purposefully withholding. I decide the latter is more important, for the time being, and say, "Shut up and kiss me."

He complies with enthusiasm.

The tight confines of the backseat, even reclined nearly to the point of being flat, force us to shift from one position to the next, trying to get comfortable. Eventually I end up mostly in the back of the car, leaning back on my elbows with my legs thrown over the lip of the seats and Peeta's head between my thighs. The air in the car grows hot and thick and dark, like a black sponge against my bare skin. The stuffiness is enough to fog the windows slightly, the trembling beads of moisture swelling as, outside, night falls completely. The car moves as we do, lurching and swaying like the Ferris wheel basket, tricking my dazed mind into believing we're floating. And with Peeta's lips locked around my clit, suckling intently, and two of his fingers inside me, curling repeatedly against my front wall, we may as well be.

That's when I reach my first orgasm. And then, after a hazy blur of re-dressing, falling back into the front seat and riding the rest of the way to Peeta's house with heated skin and messy hair, I reach my second against the as of yet undecorated wall of his living room.

I'm still twitching with aftershocks as Peeta carries me up the stairs and sets me gently on his neatly made bed. Neither of us bothered to turn on any lights, but the soft glow from the window is enough for me to make out his form as he rifles through a jumbled pyramid of packing boxes nearby, searching for condoms, until I tell him I'm on the shot. I've coaxed him onto the bed and inside of me within moments, but it feels like something a long time coming. And it's not just the aching fullness I haven't indulged in since the twins, or the way he grinds his thumb against my clit even as he maintains a deep, rapid pulse inside me, or the little kisses he plants on my face and neck. It's not just the sex, it's him.

So after, when both of us are panting and slick with sweat which dries slowly in the breeze from the open window, I don't get up and dressed immediately. Instead, I allow Peeta to pull the sheets over us and drape his arm over my waist, stealing another kiss as he does so. I'll leave soon, but not just yet… For now I'll just indulge in this, and try very hard not to think about how it will all evaporate into nothing by tomorrow, leaving me alone again.

I don't know how she found it, or even remembered it, but Prim has managed to dig up the little red plaid dress I wore on my first day of kindergarten. It's a bit short on Faun – she inherited the Hawthornes' height, it seems – but otherwise a decent fit. Haymitch even does a double take when he comes barging in, presumably to see the kids off to their first day.

"Agh!" he cries in mock-distress. "My niece shrank!"

"No, Uncah 'Aymish!" Faun giggles as I tie off her second braid with a jaunty red ribbon. "Is meeee!"

"Well, so it is." He bops her gently on the nose. "You excited for school, pip squeak?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, enjoy it while you can. Give it about five years and you'll be doing everything you can to avoid it."

There's the clatter of a small body hurdling down the stairs, and then Sorin comes flying through the kitchen doorway in pink polka-dotted pants and a bright yellow "I've got a Pocket full of Sunshine!" T-shirt – I can't tell if Prim picked the outfit or if he did – and jumps at Haymitch.

"And there's the other little bugger."

Sorin grins up at him until Haymitch reaches down to poke his nose, too, at which point he ducks away with a squeal. Just another Monday morning. Except, it's not. Because for the first time since preschool ended last Spring, they'll be spending the day away from home, and I have no idea what I'm going to do once I get back home. What did I do when they were in preschool? Finances, mostly, I answer myself as Prim chases Sorin down the stairs, comb in hand. Stretching the paycheck and waiting for them to get back.

Prim has a nine-o'-clock class, and Haymitch has to open up shop, so the kiddos and I are alone when we pull up to Twelve Pines K-12. My old school. Their new one.

"Your teachah was Miss Sae, right?" Sorin asks as we all join hands and march across the parking lot, which by now is more cracks and weeds than asphalt.

"Right," I confirm. The start of school announcement email is in my hand, printed on wrinkled paper, and I scan the highlighted sections yet again. I've memorized the room number by now – hell, I had it memorized twenty years ago. It's the same room Old Sae taught in. The same one I sat in every day for two years, at my place under the fading paper cutout of a smiling Mercury on the ceiling. The line where the teacher's name is supposed to be listed is still blank, though. The school probably hasn't had a chance to upload the new teacher's information into their ancient computer system yet. Oh, well. I guess I'll find out momentarily.

"But we have a new teachah, right?"

"Right."

"But it's the same school, right? The one you went to?"

"Right."

Sorin's little hand squeezes around two of my fingers. He's keeping even closer to me than usual, like he's nervous, and I rub my thumb over his wrist in an attempt to soothe him. Faun, on the other hand, would be halfway across the school by now if it weren't for my firm grip. She bounces as she walks, repeating, "C'mon Mama! C'mon Sorin! C'mon!"

The brightly colored classroom is teeming with kids and their parents, and a familiar pang goes through me when I see all the couples with their children. There's Cinna and Portia with their third little girl – god, I remember when Prim met Rue here. There's Bonnie and Twill, the friendly couple from Summer Meadows Drive, and – oh. There's Annie and Finnick, fussing over a small boy just as freckled and bronze-haired as his father. I sigh, knowing I'll have to eventually talk to one of them about the play date Johanna proposed, and lift my eyes to the ceiling. But it's different. No more peeling, sun-bleached paper cutouts here. Oh, no. Now, whirling across the ceiling in whimsical shades of silver, black, purple, gold and blue are sparkling renditions of the sun, planets and constellations. And it's not just the ceiling, either. Two of the four walls are painted with incredibly detailed murals, one of the deep ocean rippling with bars of light and chock-full of all kinds of fish, the other a scene straight out of a fairytale – or, more accurately, all the fairytales. Little Red skips up the path to Rapunzel's tower, unaware of the wolf that follows both her and three little pigs and their houses, which are built right next to the Seven Dwarves' home. Tarzan sits with Jane in a nearby baobab tree, and, below, the Little Prince uproots several smaller versions of the plant while his rose and vixen look on. I haven't even begun to count all the allusions and characters when it hits me: I know this style. I've seen these brush strokes before. Featured in a big-city magazine. Posted proudly on the school announcement board.

And when I hear him say, "Katniss?" I know I'm right.

I turn, and there's Peeta, dressed in the cheerful yellow smock required of all the kindergarten teachers.

Oh.

I don't know why I didn't put the pieces together sooner. The new teacher email, the early childhood education degree, the "prep work" Peeta mentioned about a week before school started…

I can't seem to form words. Faun, on the other hand, has no such problem.

"Are you our teacher?" she pipes up at him, and the moment Peeta looks down at her his eyes go even wider than before.

He recovers quickly, though, and squats to look her in the face. Sorin hides behind my leg. "That's right," Peeta says, his voice giving only the slightest hint of unsteadiness. "My name is Mr. Mellark. You can call me Peeta if you want. What's your name?"

"Faun," she says. And then, dragging him out from behind me, "This is my brother. He's Sorin."

Sorin looks up at Peeta just long enough to give him a little wave. Having been tugged away from me, he now clings to his sister's braid, instead.

"Well, Faun, Sorin, it's nice to meet you too."

They nod politely, watching me out of the corners of their eyes for me to signal they're free to go and play. I nod and they bolt to where most of the other kids are playing already, escaping the boring grown-up conversation without a second glance.

"Probably should have guessed," I say suddenly, in an attempt to dispel the tension between us. I gesture to the ceiling and Peeta stands again, following the motion with his eyes.

"You like it?"

"It's…" I look around again, at this old place made new again, at the kids that are already ooing and aahing over the fairytale wall. "Perfect."

He relaxes into a smile. "I hoped so. I still have one wall to go, though. I'm thinking a meadow."

"Just one?"

"I'm leaving the last for the kids to decorate."

I duck my head to disguise another smile. "They'll like that."

Another parent approaches us, bouncing a tearful toddler on her hip, and I step away, realizing how close we are. "Ah. Well. I'll see you later, then?"

It may not be entirely appropriate, or even allowed, but I find myself hoping against hope he'll agree.

"Definitely," he says, and I go to find Faun and Sorin again before the semi-formal parent-teacher orientation begins.

I'm surrounded by couples again, primarily Annie and Finnick, who immediately pounce on me about that play date, but for once I don't mind. For once, as I sip on the weak lemonade and nibble the significantly more impressive cheese buns Peeta provided, I don't feel so intensely out of place. Just before the presentation ends and the parents get up to leave, he catches my eye. And on the permission slip he hands me as I file out the door, he's scribbled, Saturday afternoon, coffee?

The first time Peeta and the kids are in the house at the same time, they're delighted that their beloved "Mr. Peeta" has come to visit them. Although, the sugar cookies he brings probably help on that front.

The second time, we take a nature hike in the late-summer mountain chill, bundled lightly in flannel and gloves. Faun makes it her business to teach Peeta all about what kinds of plants are good and bad to eat, and Sorin refuses to let go of either of our hands.

The fifth time, we wake to the first frost tracing delicate feathers on the windows. Peeta makes rabbit shaped pancakes and then drives the kids – and himself – to school.

The fifteenth time, Prim brings the kids back from a play date with Kai early, and Peeta and I have to jump out of the shower and dress so quickly that my shirt is on inside out for the rest of the day.

The fiftieth time, Sorin accidentally calls Peeta "Papa." It's the first time I ever see him cry, silently, pressing his smile into my shoulder.

It's full seasons and many, many visits later, though, when the kids have settled into their first grade room, Thanksgiving has come and gone again and Peeta may as well live with us, that he pulls me aside. The ring is slim and silver and studded with one modest pearl. I kiss my acceptance into his mouth, and in the other room, our kids play on unaware.