You can do this, you can do this, you can do this.
I repeat the same words over and over again in my head like a mantra, as though the more I say it, the more confident I'll be. It doesn't make a difference, though. My stomach is still twisted in knots, my heart continues to beat out a super fast rhythm in my chest, and the nerves that course through me are close to making me tear back upstairs and hide myself in my bedroom.
But I don't. Because tonight isn't just about me. It's about her.
And the possibility of an us.
It had taken us months to get even close to here. Months of tiptoeing around each other, neither wanting to show their hand before the other. For me, after dozens of phone sessions with Dr Aurelius, it was no longer the worry that I'd hurt her in the throes of an episode, or that she was my enemy. No, it had been the same fear that had kept me from telling her how I felt all those years ago - the fear of rejection, the fear of saying no, the fear of our differences being a downfall. Except now it wasn't society or the archaic class barriers that stood between us.
It was war and death and loss and the knowledge that neither of us would ever be the same again.
But we'd finally moved past that. Every day there was a growing undercurrent of the possibilities, of maybe. Of could we.
The day things began to change, it had already been the middle of the night, light from the moon streaming through the open living room window. Her eyes had been wide with terror, tear-stained cheeks pale and wan, her teeth biting down on the corner of her bottom lip. We'd fallen asleep on her sofa, the memory book open between us, our tired minds and tired bodies being lulled into sleep by the sounds of crickets and owls and the rustling of leaves from the outside.
Her screaming had drawn us both out, and without even thinking I'd pulled her into my lap, tucking her head into the curve of my shoulder as I'd run a hand soothingly down the length of her sleep-mussed braid. I'd felt her tears dampen my collar, had felt her chest hitch against mine as she fought to bring herself out of the nightmare. Her hand had fisted itself around a wad of the fabric from my shirt, while her foot had tucked itself under my thigh.
And then, as her sobs had slowly eased, she'd looked up at me.
And something had changed.
Neither of us said anything that night. Or the next. Or even the one after that. Even now, we still hadn't said anything. But enough changed in that moment that we hadn't spent a night apart since.
Innocent could be the best word to describe our nights, though after everything we've been through, innocent was something we definitely weren't. But we'd lain side by side in her bed, our hands or feet touching, just the slightest acknowledgment that the other was there. By the time we woke in the morning, we'd be wrapped around each other, but we never talked about it - we'd simply slide apart until it was just that barest of touch again.
But there were nights when I'd wake while it was still dark and lay there, enjoying the feeling of her head on my chest or her hand entwined in mine, or quietly study the profile of her cheek highlighted by the faint moonlight. And I knew that there were times that she'd done the same.
I hadn't perfected the art of pretending to be asleep when my mother had checked in on me as a child for nothing.
But I'd realised it was time for more; it was time for me to tell her how I felt - again. I needed to throw caution into the wind and hope for the best. After what we've had to endure, fear of rejection should be the least of my worries.
So I'd asked her out on a date. A prospect, and idea, that seemed so foreign to both of us.
I'd been able to sense her hesitation at first, had seen it in the way her hands had clenched around the edge of the porch swing we'd been sitting on. And when she'd finally spoken, it hadn't been to turn me down.
It had been to make certain that I was sure.
With absolute certainty, I'd suggested the Harvest Festival, the first to be held in Twelve for as long as anyone could remember. I'd told her it was a good thing for us to get out, to begin to spend more time with the others who had returned. To begin to celebrate the future.
In the end, she'd nodded, and I'd fought to keep the ridiculously large and overly enthusiastic smile off my face.
You can do this, you can do this, you can do this.
I survey myself one final time in the mirror, ignore the bare strip across my eyebrow that stubbornly refuses to grow back, and deem myself presentable enough. The wardrobe is still full of clothes from the Victory Tour, and while many of them will never see the light of day again, the pale blue button up - rolled at the sleeves, I refuse to hide my scars anymore - and dark blue slacks feel subtle and casual enough for tonight.
I leave the downstairs powder room, my prosthetic already aching slightly with the cooler weather, and glance at the clock, cursing when I realise I'm going to be late. Snagging my coat from the stand by the door and tossing it over my arm, I run outside to see her already waiting on her porch.
She looks beautiful with her wavy hair out and brushing the edge of her shoulders, in her simple tan pants and orange and cream striped sweater that looks like fall personified, but I figure I need to tell her that later.
We fall into step beside each other as we head into town, her footsteps silent, mine as loud as a rampant wild bear. We talk about nothing - or at least I do. I don't even know what I'm saying, the words just a jumble of sounds falling from my mouth. But she nods, occasionally murmurs a reply, so I must be saying something right.
Unless she's humouring me.
The closer we get to town, the more the outside world begins to drift into our bubble. The square is packed with people, excited for the evening ahead. Small lights have been strung out, twinkling like stars, and music fills the air, the fast, erratic rhythm of fiddles and banjos. The smell of cooking meat and sweet cider fills my nose and my stomach grumbles, reminding me that those nerves had kept me from eating all day.
At the grin that tugs at the corner of Katniss' mouth, it's clear she hears how hungry I am too.
"Let's go eat," she suggests, her hand reaching out for mine. And when it quivers slightly as our fingers entwine, I realise she's as nervous as I am.
We eat and drink, chat briefly with Sae, and Delly and Thom. Haymitch, unsurprisingly sitting at the makeshift bar, raises his glass when he catches my eye, a proud smirk on his face.
I suppose I do have him to thank for telling - threatening - me to get my ass in gear.
A lilting song from when we were children begins to echo through the air, and for a moment I close my eyes, imagine us both back then. Her hair in two braids, her dress bright red, her voice clear as a bell. Me, dumbstruck and awestruck and wishing desperately that I hadn't lost my front tooth the week before and didn't have a weird lisp as a result.
The lisp had gone, as had the dress, and the dual braids. But almost 12 years later, I was still dumbstruck by her. Maybe even more so, because I knew what I felt wasn't fleeting, or childlike. It was solid. And it was real.
I open my eyes and hold out my hand to her; she stares at it for a moment before hesitantly sliding her palm into mine and allowing me to lead her onto the makeshift dance floor in the centre of the square. We stick to the edges, the side furthest away from the majority of the townspeople, and slowly begin to sway from side to side. It feels like another lifetime since we did this, stilted and wooden and playing for the cameras. But not tonight.
I draw her closer into me, my arms sliding around her waist, my hands splaying at the small of her back. She looks everywhere but at me, but her hands have slid up to cup around the back of my neck, and I can see the pink tinging her cheeks, even in the dim light. And I can feel the hammering of her heart from how our chests are pressed together.
I wonder if she can feel mine?
I lower my gaze, and allow my hand to drift from around her back; I slowly begin to trail a finger up and down her arm, pushing the sleeve of her sweater up to her elbow. I watch as goosebumps pop out on her skin, feel her shudder against me, hear her short intake of breath.
And then I look up, lift my hand to cup her cheek.
"Katniss," I mumble.
"Yeah?" Her voice cracks, and she swallows heavily.
"I...really want to kiss you right now," I blurt out, then silently curse myself. That wasn't what I wanted to say. But...who am I kidding? I do want to kiss her. I want to kiss her all the time.
She blinks rapidly, and I can feel her stiffen in my arms, and I'm already regretting everything about tonight when she lets out a small breath.
"I want to kiss you too," she murmurs, and I can hear the nerves in her voice. "I've...I've wanted to for so-"
I don't let her finish. I can't let her finish because she just told me she wanted to kiss me too and there is no way on Earth that I'm missing out on that for one more moment and so I kiss her.
It's not fast, or hungry, or needy, though I know I'll want kisses like that every day for the rest of my life. It's slow, and tender, almost like a memory of another time. Her lips are soft, her tongue teasing and her breath is sweet like the cider we'd drunk; her arms are tightening around my neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, and I never want to let her go.
And I know I won't.
She pulls away, and while I protest at first, she shakes her head to stop me.
"Let's keep that for us," she says quietly, her eyes flicking back over my shoulder; turning my head and following her line of sight, I can understand why.
Those closest to us are staring, looks of approval or wistfulness or happiness clear on their faces. And while I appreciate that they're happy to see us together, Katniss is right. This isn't for them.
So I agree, and simply draw her back into me, not even caring that the song has changed and it requires a livelier step than the one we're doing.
Snow may have taken her from me for a time, but some bonds can never be broken, some threads can never be cut. One day, I'll tell her that I love her, but for now, that can wait. I'll tell her when it's just the two of us alone, with no one else around. I've declared my feelings for her in public before - I don't need to do it again.
This time, when I tell her, it'll be just us. Just for us.
And I'm fairly certain that when I do tell her, she'll say it back.