Like my other fic, I put songs that I think match this portion of the story for every chapter. Listening is optional but recommended. The song for this chapter is Lightning by The Wanted.

I do not own The Hunger Games or any characters.

Chapter 1: Lightning

Peeta's POV

Business has slowed down severely this Friday night, so I had started cleaning up before I heard the bakery phone ringing.

I quickly set down the broom and walk over to it. Wiping my hands on my apron, I answer the phone.

"Hello, Mellarks' Bakery. This is Peeta, how may I help you tonight?"

"Mel- Bak- what are you talking about?" The man on the other end of the line sounds confused as he pauses. "Alright, no, I don't have time for games right now."

Now I'm as confused as he sounds. I stumble over the words, "I-I'm sorry, sir, I-I have no idea what you're talking about. This is Mellarks' Bakery—on Merchant Street."

"Don't play dumb with me. You've had your fun, now get Katniss. Now, please, before I get impatient."

Katniss? What is a katniss? "What is a katniss?"

"Fuck, man. You know who Katniss is. I need to talk to her—about the party on Saturday. Tell her it's Cato."

Katniss is a name? Definitely not one I've ever heard. "I'm sorry, sir- Cato," I run my hand through my blond curls, "There's no one here at the bakery named Katniss… Maybe you have the wrong number?"

"No, I checked it twice before I called. This is definitely the number she gave me—unless… That bitch! She gave me the wrong number! She flirted with me and then gave me the wrong number!"

This is one of the most awkward conversations I've ever had. It even trumps 'the talk' with Dad when I was eleven. "Um, well. I'm sorry."

Abruptly the line ends, and I can't say I'm sad to see it go.

Three days later, I'm wiping down the display glass and almost ready to go and lock up the doors.

The phone rings.

I sigh as I walk to answer it, wiping my moist fingers on my apron before I grab the phone.

"Hello, Mellarks' Bakery. This is Peeta, how may I help you tonight?" I say into the receiver, cringing at how loud my voice sounds in the empty bakery.

"Fantastic—this is the right number. It only took me forever to re-find it," a woman's voice says under her breath, then she comes back louder, "Um, are you still open?"

"That depends. What do you need?"

"Some cheese buns for a party tonight. I was supposed to grab them earlier, but I forgot," quietly adding with a laugh, "I gave away my reminder."

"How far away are you? I won't mind waiting a few minutes to close down for you."

"Literally five minutes. I'm right down the street."

"Okay, how many cheese buns do you need? I'll have them waiting for you."

"Like… two dozen? Will that work?"

I survey my inventory. I have twenty six cheese buns. Perfect. "Yeah, that works. See you in a few." I'm about to hang up but an urge stops me. "I didn't catch your name."

She laughs, "That's because I didn't give it. But it's Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen. Bye, Peeta." She hangs up.

It doesn't even hit me until I'm folding the lip of the brown paper bag that contains twenty six cheese buns down a few seconds later.

I pause. Katniss. She said her name was Katniss. The same name of the girl that guy, Cato, was looking for earlier this week.

What are the odds?

That thought has just run through my head when the door bells jingle—indicating I have a customer. I look up, desperately wanting to see the girl that caused me trouble with that jerk.

I'm stunned by her. I guess with a name like Katniss I should have anticipated an exotic beauty, but her grandeur surpasses anything that my feeble mind could have thought up.

Her high cheekbones and angular face make my eyes pop. Her deeply tanned skin is complemented by her straight black hair with is pulled to the side in a mussed braid. I'm sure my jaw has scraped the ground once I take in her dark skinny jeans that fit her long legs like a glove, her bright, multi-colored tank top which has a gray cardigan buttoned on top of it but is sliding off one of her shoulders, and her white high-tops that are spattered with neon stripes of all colors.

She smiles at me, and I swear, I stop breathing. She's stunning.

I realize that I can't stare at her like this, or she'll think I'm some sort of creeper. Distracting myself, I grab the bag of bread from the counter and bring it over to the cash register. When she walks over and starts rummaging through her purse, she starts talking, "Look, I can't thank you enough for staying open for me. I would have been here earlier, but my sister needed me, and I forgot all about the party—and that I needed to bring food. And my friend recommended this place a few days ago and gave me the number on a piece of paper, but I kind of gave it away—for a good cause. Which is why I had to search for your number tonight, and I ended up calling you at closing time on a Saturday. And what I'm trying to say is 'Thank you for making my shitty day a little bit better.'" She smiles brightly up at me through her eyelashes as she continues to search in her purse for her wallet, I assume.

I smile at her, "It's no problem really. I don't have any place to be." I don't realize how lame that sounds until after I said it. It's Saturday; I'm young, and I'm not out partying with friends. I'm going home to lounge on my couch, cuddling with my dog and watching TV.

But she's not paying attention. Her hands become more frantic in her bag before she gives up and sighs. "Excuse me, but I need to be sure." Then she proceeds to empty the contents of her leather purse on my counter.

She sifts through the pile, moving a pack of gum out of the way, then a tampon, then a tube of chapstick, and a few other random items before sighing again. Swiping all of her belongs back into her bag, she says, "I'm sorry for wasting your time. Because I forgot my wallet at my apartment." She shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose.

I just laugh. Not at her, but the whole situation is so unexpected and unbelievable that I can't help myself. "Don't worry about it. Just take them."

She looks up with scrunched eyebrows. "I can't do that. And won't you get fired?"

I chuckle again, "I own the place; I can't be fired. And really, just take the bag. I won't be able to sell those tomorrow because they'll be a day old, and I like to have fresh bread every day."

"You own this place?" I nod, and she continues, "Impressive. All right, I'll take them, but one day I'll repay you for this."

I pause. "You can repay me right now by answering a question."

Visibly cringing, she pauses with an uncomfortable look on her face. "So that's the catch of getting free food. Okay, when people say something like that, it's never good," she meets my eyes, "If you ask me if I want to kiss you—or more, and you try to guilt me into it because of your good deed, I will leave right now without this bag." She raises the bag of cheese buns to eye level.

I feel my eyes widen and eyebrows rise. "What?! No- who do you think I am? I'm not going to guilt you into anything; I'm not a sleeze ball," I pause and then shrug, "In retrospect, I realize that I might have sounded a little bit creepy, but I would never ask you to do anything like that."

She obviously relaxes, and I smile.

"Plus, I don't kiss on the first date."

She grins with me, and we laugh for a second before I say, "My question is this: do you know a guy named Cato?"

This throws her for a loop; she was not expecting this question. Slowly, she starts nodding. "Uh, yeah. He's this guy who kind of, um, stalks me, I guess," she chuckles softy, "Actually, funny story, a few days ago he demanded that I give him my phone number, and I was afraid of what he would do to me if I didn't, so I did. But not really—I gave him a phone number but not mine—yours. Madge had given me your number on a slip of paper, so I took out that piece of paper and pretended to write on it and gave it to Cato," she laughs again, "He didn't even realized that I was holding a red pen, but the number was written in blue ink." She looks into my eyes, "I guess that's just another thing I need to thank you for. Thank you."

I smile and nod. "I would hold off on thanking me. I have a story about my one and only encounter with Cato," she looks confused, so I continue on, "Cato called here, looking for a Katniss."

Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. "Oh, shit! What did you say?"

"Well, at first he thought I was screwing with him because I asked what a katniss was, not knowing he was talking about a person—because even you have to admit that 'Katniss' is not an average name. It's definitely no 'Bob.'"

Katniss just throws her head back and laughs, "Actually you were semi-right. Katniss is a type of flower. Not a common one, like roses, but it's a flower nonetheless." She grins and says, "And you're one to talk!" She touches my name badge with her index finger, "'Peeta' isn't a run-of-the-mill name either. I've meet a Peter before, but no Peetas." She raises an eyebrow at me and pokes me in the chest, "And if you think 'Bob' is such a common, stereotypical name, pray tell, how many Bobs have you actually meet?"

Her question makes me pause, "Uh, well, none."

She beams, "Exactly."

I smile too but then carry on with my Cato story, "Cato had wanted to talk to you about the party tonight. I assume that means he's going to be there. And then he figured out that you gave him the wrong number and called you a bitch."

She sighs and closes her eyes, "Shit, okay, thanks for the heads up. I need get going." She reaches out and touches my arm and smiles softly, "Hey, thanks for everything today—and even a few days ago. I've known you only ten minutes, and you've already proved to be one of the good guys of the world."

"Yeah, it was no problem," I beam back. Sad to see her go, I slowly reach to take off my apron and walk to the other side of the room to hang it on the hook.

I hear the door open, and the bells jingle, "Bye, Peeta," Katniss says as she stands in the threshold.

"Bye, Katniss," I respond.

And then she's gone.

I walk around the bakery, checking to make sure that everything's in order. I'm about to snap off the lights when I see it.

A ripped piece of a brown bag sits near the register. Walking over to it, I see something written on it.

A phone number.

In red ink.

Signed by 'K' in a loopy scrawl.

Is this her real number? Or is she just screwing with me, like she did Cato?

Only one way to find out.