My eyes fly open as a crash in the hallway jolts me awake.
"Mom? Prim?" I call out tentatively, sliding out of bed and creeping towards the door. Absently, I notice my shirt is soaked with sweat, all that's left of the nightmares. For once I don't remember them, and I can't help but be glad. They're always variations of the same, the arena filled with a mix of tributes, friends and family. Prim and my mother, Gale, Rue. Cato and Clove make regular terrifying appearances. It's exhausting.
There is no sound coming from the hallway now, and I can feel my hunter's instincts kicking in, though they are rarely used now. Slowly, tensed for battle, I ease open the door and peer out. An orange furball streaks between my legs, into my room. I let out a startled cry and tumble backwards onto the floor. Heart racing, I clutch my chest and scowl at the cat sitting contently on my bed.
"Stupid cat," I mutter. "You scared me half to death." As I get to my feet, I hear the patter of light feet and look up to see Prim hurrying towards me.
"Katniss! Are you alright?" She hovers beside me, concern creasing her forehead. I smile and smooth out her frown with my finger.
"Don't worry, I'm fine." As the traces of adrenaline leave my system, fatigue sets in and I stumble a little. I try to pass it off as a backwards step, but Prim sees through me.
"Nightmares?" She asks sympathetically. I sigh.
"No." Prim stares at me, unconvinced. "Well, yes. That's not what woke me, though. Buttercup broke something..." I swivel my head and survey the hall. An expensive ornamental bottle, one of many that came furnished with our house here in the victor's village, lays shattered on the floor. Prim bites her lip.
"Oh Katniss, I'm sorry." She means it too.
"I'm not. I always hated that bottle. Who needs so many dust catchers anyway?" I coax a smile from Prim, then slip my arm around her shoulder.
"Come on, I'll tuck you in." I walk her back to her room, and she climbs into bed. I pull the covers over her and kiss her forehead. "Goodnight, little duck."
"Goodnight." She closes her eyes and I turn out the light. As I'm walking back to my room, I glance out the window and catch a glimpse of a light on in Peeta's bedroom. His house, next to ours, is usually dark, especially in the middle of the night. I scan the room for him, but he doesn't seem to be there. Just then, I hear a knock at the door. I glance at the wall clock, it reads just past two in the morning. Who could possibly be here at this hour?
Out of habit, I swipe my hunting knife off the dresser and head down the stairs. I pause in front of the door, wishing we had a porch light. Through the window, all I can see is a tall dark shape, most likely male. I put my hand on the knob and swing open the door.
"Peeta?" I'm so surprised, I just stand there for a moment, while he peers behind me into the dark. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night." I try to sound irritated, but it just ends up sounding surprised.
"I heard you scream. And saw the lights on." He looks awkward standing there, in his pajamas. We haven't spoken much in the months that we've been home, he's been avoiding me, and I've never been one to know the right thing to say to set things right.
"Oh. It was just buttercup." I gesture vaguely in the direction of my bedroom, and trail off, watching him. His face has hints of stubble, something I had never noticed before. His has dark circles under his eyes and I realize he has been having the nightmares too. Of course he is.
"Oh. I'll just go, then." He turns to leave, but I find myself calling out.
"Wait. Peeta, would you like to come in for a minute?" I am exhausted, it's two o clock in the morning, and we aren't friends, not now. But for some reason I can't let him leave looking so sad. I feel an urge to throw my arms around him and hold him until some of the sadness leaves him, but I fold them behind my back. That wouldn't help anything.
Peeta looks at me for a moment, searchingly, as if he suspects me of some ulterior motive. Then he shrugs.
"Yeah, alright." His face is guarded, but not hostile, and I take this as a good sign. I step back to let him in, then lock the door behind him. He follows me up the stairs into my bedroom and sits in the armchair closest to the fireplace. I sit on the other one and we perch in silence for a moment.
"So," I finally say, breaking the silence, "how are you doing?"