It's the very last Prompts in Panem week. And it's Jessa the Great (aka Misshoneywell). So here's a little something based on her wish for a Daddy!Peeta fic. This is for you, my friend!

Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.

Music: "Holding a Heart" by Girl Named Toby.

SONGBIRD

Monday

Morning. Rush hour. The D12 line.

I was an eighteen-year-old smirker with a chip on one shoulder and an acoustic guitar dragging down the other. I was made of dark, hard, deep corners. Silver gel-penned irises, bird-and-flame tattoos that licked up my arms, and a body swathed in black, in the sort of cloth that clung and snapped as I moved. Long hair, a thick, whipped-up shadow of it, that struck my lower back. One lock dyed green and corded into a tight braid. Lips painted onyx and kohl-lined eyes. Scowl.

That was me. The opposite of him.

I stood at the back of the subway car, leaning against the connecting door, because I was serious like that. Under the crisp shriek of the fluorescent lights, he stood in the middle of the car, warming the spot between the auto exit and one of the metal poles. His blond hair—curled at the ends—whispered over his collar, the sound impossible to catch yet somehow roaring in my ears, louder than the rush of the train.

A watch flashed above his wrist, connected to strong-looking hands that gripped the pole for balance. A tan and expensively classic trench coat that he'd left unbuttoned and gaping. A tailored shirt over a solid chest. A long, plaid scarf swinging from around his shoulders. Orange-rimmed glasses.

I knew gorgeous when I saw it. Girls, women—they probably went nuts for that cutie face.

Not me. He wasn't my type. I liked them painted and pierced.

Still, I'd looked, because he was like a sunset. No matter what you were doing, you couldn't help but look.

He was pawing at his phone, like everyone else. But when he sensed me watching him, he glanced up, his blue eyes—holy shit, how blue—darting all over me.

It usually smelled of coffee and body odor and restlessness in this cramped space. But not today.

Today, it smelled of something hot and baked.

One second. He gave me one second, his brow furrowing as he took in the roughness of me, the three-row spike bracelet and everything else that came with it, then those blues flitted away, back to his phone. Uninterested. Unimpressed.

Whatever. I had music to play.

Deciding on "The Valley Song," I strummed and opened my mouth to sing. The wave of shuffling throughout the car halted. I kept my eyes on the strings, but I felt all of them stopping to listen. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught that blond head whipping up again. I felt that stranger's face taking a second look. A closer one.

I finished. Not too shabby. Commuters offered rain droplets of coins as I crossed up and down the aisle with the shell of my cup.

The train whistled to a halt. The doors gasped open, the herd bustling out onto the platform and taking a flying leap toward the escalator. As that blond guy headed out, he glanced at me over his shoulder, pausing for a breath to peek at me.

No, not to peek. To gaze.

Then he was gone, the tan slash of his coat disappearing into the mass. No tip from him. Not a penny.

I pursed my lips. Fucking rich cheapskate.

kpkpkpkpkp

Tuesday

He was there again. Same car. Same time. Same trench coat.

When he stepped inside and grabbed the middle pole again—ahh, a creature of habit— his gaze bumped into mine by accident, his golden lashes flapping in recognition, then in surprise.

My fingers tripped over the chords to "The Hanging Tree," which pissed me off. I played for cash, but I wasn't a fan of attention. So I stared back, tried to mess with him. I had a question and made sure he saw it: What the fuck are you looking at?

I liked the slashes of peach that assaulted his cheeks. But I regretted how it made him uncomfortable, how it made him turn away.

The train coasted down the rails. For the rest of his trip, he averted his face, the slope of his jaw angled to the floor. I sang louder, knowing he was listening.

kpkpkpkpkp

Wednesday

Same deal, except with a twist. He brought a kid with him. The girl had to be about five. A gleeful little handful in a dress, tights, glitter shoes, and a miniature wool coat that had to cost more than my instrument.

As I played "Deep in the Meadow," she danced around his legs, her corkscrew pigtails bouncing. Then she latched onto his calf, yanked on his trousers, and said, Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, and then pointed at me and my guitar. Who is she? Who is she? Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, who is she? Daddy? Who is she, Daddy?

Exasperated but smiling, the blond stranger mumbled something to her. He called her Dandelion and ruffled her hair with his free hand, while the other one carried her backpack and lunch box.

Bird, bird, bird. I'm a bird! the girl sang, her squeaky voice eclipsing mine. Tweet, tweet, tweetskiiiiii!

Her father gave me an apologetic look: I'm sorry.

Pff. Gimme a break. This dandelion's racket had nothing on my little sister.

Still, he knelt down, took the child's hands, and spoke to her, his timbre stern but loving. Likely, he was trying to get her under control, more out of respect for the rest of the passengers than for my music. But the child giggled over him, not really listening, and vaulted into his chest for a hug.

He laughed. Such a tired, overwhelmed, affectionate laugh. A masculine vibration that rippled through me.

He handed something to his daughter and whispered in her ear. He gestured at me, sending the little girl trotting over, beaming and suddenly bashful. She threw a bunch of coins into my cup and, before I could thank her, scurried back to him, where she watched me from behind his legs.

I hung my head so that her father couldn't see me crack a rusty grin. But when I raised my eyes, I caught the quirk of his lips, telling me that he'd noticed it anyway.

kpkpkpkpkp

Thursday

I wasn't easily charmed, but the guy and his kid did me in. I deliberately chose the same car, same time, and there they were.

When he wrestled into the space along with the rest of the throng, some lady in scrubs got to her feet, offering her seat to his daughter. The child hopped on, her legs swinging madly as she munched on what appeared to be a bread bun slathered in melted cheddar.

Her father's head swerved, searching and then finding me. A tiny smile broke across his face.

My pulse tap, tap, tapped.

Instead of focusing on my guitar, I nibbled on the lip ring that I'd put in that morning, my lips chapped and thirsty and prickling. What the hell was up with me lately?

I knew that at the end of his ride, he would send his daughter to me with more coins. But I didn't know if I'd be able to appreciate it. If I'd be able to concentrate.

Because I felt that smile of his everywhere. In my toes, in my knees, in my mouth.

And I hated him for it.

And as my heart tripped, he got a good look at my reaction, his perky grin wavering, as if he'd just gauged what was happening to me. Or maybe, to him, too.

kpkpkpkpkp

Friday

This time, when his daughter approached me, she chirped, It's my first week of school. Play me a song. As an afterthought, she glimpsed the reproachful look her father gave her and added, Um, please?

I played her my sister's favorite tune, something more upbeat than my usual style. My combat boots hammered out a rhythm as my voice rocked through the car. With a nod of my head, I invited her to sing along. I led her through the chorus as we jutted our bodies from side-to-side, chuckling through the girly lyrics, while people admired us from their seats.

For the first time, commuters perked up and actually clapped. The little girl and I saluted each other.

My gaze landed on her father, which was a bad idea. Those blue irises smoldered with appreciation through his orange glasses. And jfc, that sexy, open trench coat.

Shit. Not a chance. I was a smokey-eyed guitarist, dipped in kohl and tattooed. He was a preppy daddy with a dandelion for a kid. And he had to be ten years older than me.

The little girl gave me another handful of coins and skipped back to her father. The picture book he handed her stole her attention, and she buried her nose in it.

The commuters were in prime spirits, ripe for the giving. I strapped my guitar over my shoulder and straightened, grabbing my cup.

Don't do it. Don't.

I did it. I peeked at his left hand. No wedding ring.

Satisfied, I moseyed past him, taking my sweet-ass time. A silent test, because I knew what he saw. The fringes of my cut-off shorts knocking against my thighs. The exposed legs and the toss of my hips. The ink blazing a mockingjay trail across my skin. The oversized t-shirt, the scoop of it so wide that it left one shoulder bare—and the lacy bra strap snaking out and looping over that shoulder. I knew what he saw, just like I knew exactly what I was doing, just like I knew intimidation rarely stopped guys from checking out my situation from behind.

His lingering gaze burned a new tattoo into my back, becoming something permanent.

kpkpkpkpkp

Saturday

Weekend jobbers, tourists, bicyclists, some lady with plastic-surgery feline features, a slumping drunkard who hogged two precious seats. We crushed ourselves into the car, shoulders squashing together, our bodies contorting, huffing and puffing, breathing lattes and bagels all over one another. And some unlucky souls had to suction themselves to the auto doors in order to fit inside.

Due to mechanical problems on another train, we were running on one track, creating a backup and forcing people to get cozy. I hated when this happened. No room to play.

I should get off soon and try another line. It's not like I'd see him here today.

The doors hissed. The crowd jostled and grunted. People spilled in and out, elbows knocking, mouths muttering as everyone tried to move and accommodate. I grabbed the neck of my guitar case, ready to squeeze a path to the platform.

Then I stopped, because of the coat, the blond hair that popped into view. Blue eyes wended their way through the mass and crashed into mine. His face lit up. My pulse jerked, and it took effort not to grin back.

Jeans, with a knit sweater and that plaid scarf. Mussed curls, liked he'd just woken up or been recently fucked. I hoped not the latter.

No kid this morning. Maybe she was with the mother for the weekend?

I shook myself. Now I was making up stories about his life.

I twisted away, setting my guitar case on the floor and grinding myself against the center pole, making room for him, knowing that he was wrestling his way toward me. The cold, hard pole wedged between my breasts, which began to heave the instant his hot, baked scent hit me, the moment his breath shoved against my nape.

I wore a clingy number, the hem of the skirt hugging my ass. I sensed him tipping his head, taking in a glimpse, shredding my outfit to nothing. That preppy coat slapped my hip. That wall of sweater and chest and muscle pressed into my shoulder blades.

From behind, he cleared his throat. Discreet, he inched back as best he could, then reached up and grasped the pole above my head, holding on, holding tight.

Without much to go on, and despite him checking me out, I pegged him for a gentleman. He was the type who would bring me flowers on a date. He would listen more than he would talk. He would bake me a birthday cake. He would carry me to bed and stay with me as I fell asleep. He would rest his palm onto my waist, to guide me through this crowd. He would wear his heart on his sleeve, would say things that made me roll my eyes, even though I liked what I heard.

Unexpected warmth flooded my body. An overwhelming tenderness. A longing.

How could I repay that? With a song?

I hummed a tune, only a slice of it, quite and private. I thought I heard him chuckle with appreciation as he listened.

The tune faded from my lips. It wasn't enough. I wanted more, though he was out of my league.

Because he would never do what I was about to do.

I made a move on him. A slight rock of my rear into his body.

He gasped, tensed. I did it again, just to be clear. Then, because I'd wordlessly offered, because I allowed it, he nudged back. Tentative. Just once. And I responded, also once more, rubbing against his groin. There was the pressure of it, the friction.

A shocked sigh drifted from his mouth. I bit my lower lip to stifle what had to be a moan. The gentle scrape of his jeans—a mere suggestion, a hint—against my bare thighs made my legs quiver. I felt a wet rush between them.

My eyelids dropped closed, and in my head, I saw him screwing me like this, both of us gripping the pole, our fingers threaded, as he angled me, our bodies jetting upwards with each tender, patient, prolonged thrust.

And as the train lurched forward, forcing us to lurch into each other, my ass nudged into him yet again. Into a hard, long piece of him.

We didn't squirm away. We didn't speak. But oh, my god.

Oh, my god.

kpkpkpkpkp

Sunday

We had plenty of space, and we'd taken it, and it was awkward. But it didn't feel right, the distance.

I stood in my usual spot by the connecting doors. He glued himself to the exit. We kept peeking at each other and then turning away, like some kind of sheepish, fidgety game.

We'd gotten too close, so fucking close, and we'd enjoyed it. Brushing against one another, his bangs had whisked against my hair, and I almost came against that pole. I'd suffered through an ache that had built and built and built.

It had been too much. This was too much.

I was into him. Really into him.

This older guy. This bourgeois single father.

In truth, I avoided his gaze more than he avoided mine. When he looked at me, I saw his embarrassment, desire, hope, and all the other things swarming in my own chest, and I couldn't take it. No way would this work. We were too different. We hadn't even uttered a syllable to each other.

He peered at me expectantly, and my thoughts must have crept into my face, because his shoulders dropped. Disappointment. Understanding.

I swallowed a lump the size of my fist. I wasn't good with words unless I was singing.

Sucking it up, I focused on my guitar and played a song for him. One more time. One more tune. My favorite song, and when the lyrics rose from me, I sent them to him. No matter how hard it was, I locked practical, reasonable, adult eyes with him and sang, my voice echoing like we were in a cave.

When it was over, he broke from his spot, seizing me by the throat as he approached. He stared down at me, handing me a dollar, a pinch of humor loosening his features. And we laughed.

My pride wouldn't have taken the money, not from him. But maybe it would be the only thing of him that I'd get to keep.

As I accepted the dollar, the laughter died. Something electrified shot through the paper, gripped and straining between us, one end in his grasp, the other end in mine. I was surprised it didn't rip down the middle.

He waited, his fingers twitching. Did he want me to say something? Thank you?

The train slid to a halt. On an exhale, he released the dollar, walked backward two steps, drinking me in. With heavy steps, he turned and left. I stared at the open doors, the empty space, a thousand moments that had never happened surging through me. A home. A family. I thought of the music I'd played for him and his little girl.

After what we'd done, that might have been it. Good-bye, nice knowing you, sort of.

He might not get back in this car again. He might take a different one, maybe at a different time, and no matter where I searched, the chances were slim that I'd find him. No number. No name.

I felt my brow furrow. We were different? So what?

Too late. I'd realized too late.

The train idled because this stop was a transfer hub. Seconds collected into one minute, two minutes. The conductor droned through the static, warning us to clear the doors.

I snatched my guitar and bolted. My beanie sailed off my head as I sprinted across the platform and tore up the escalator. I flew, giving zero fucks, rudely barreling through bodies, passing voices that snarled at me, not caring that I'd left my instrument case behind. Automated announcements. Kiosks spitting out tickets. Hundreds of feet. Trains careening through tunnels, an expanding whoosh, like the inside of a lung. Noise, noise, noise.

At the next platform level, my head swerved everywhere, my heart in my mouth, ready to shout. No. Please, don't leave. Please, wait. Please!

My combat boots skittered. I saw the tail of his coat, the golden curls, the bowed head. He walked slower than everybody else. So slow that space opened up around him as the mass departed through the turnstiles.

"Hey!" I shouted.

He froze. I gulped as he whipped around. Those baleful blues followed the sound and located me from twenty feet away.

He knows my voice.

I sped toward him, sloppy and crazy, and also giddy. Setting my guitar down, I vaulted on my tiptoes, grabbed his dumbstruck face, and crushed my lips to his. He went rigid, his wide eyes fixing on me as it dawned, dawned, dawned. Yes. This.

His lids fluttered shut. That warm, supple mouth yielded. Scared and curious. Quite and kind and careful. A fragile first kiss held together by a string.

Or . . . or was he just being tolerant? Because I'd given him no other choice?

I pulled back, my mouth tingling, my throat burning, and my confidence shot to hell. Mortification and uncertainty rustled in my gut as he stared down at me. Only an instant passed, but it was plenty. He hadn't liked it. I'd misunderstood him.

I started to creep backward when his hand shot out and clamped onto my wrist. His gaze on me, he tugged me closer and reached up to cup my face. And then he swooped in. And I was lost.

He took my lips. He sealed them to his, angling and parting them, aggressively, gently. I gasped into the depth of him, gasping a second time when his tongue swept against mine. Retreating and diving in again, and again, and again. My hands pushed through the flaps of his coat and gripped his waist as I kissed him back. Kissing and kissing and kissing ourselves into a stupor. One of his hands raked through my hair, keeping my head in place as he sank deeper into me. Slick caresses and a drugging rhythm. Each curl of his tongue felt like sex, like being filled. Christ, he did this well.

Edging apart, we sucked in air. Helpless, his thumb traced my cheekbone. He whispered something like god or good. It didn't matter which.

His orange glasses had been knocked askew. Biting my lower lip, I straightened the frames with the tip of my finger, and he gave me a shy smile, with just the right touch of sweetness.

And I dreaded letting go. I think he did, too.

So we didn't.

"Hi," he said, breathless. "I'm Peeta."

I grinned back. "I'm Katniss."

Happy note: My second book is coming out next month! Special stuff is happening on my tumblr, so come have a look!

I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com.