Author's note:Rated M for mature themes e.g. terrorism.

Written for papofglencoe as a birthday gift. I love you, my friend!

7/4 2017 – 15:23, Stockholm inner city

"Guys."

A coworker's voice breaks through the chatter between the desks. The Friday afternoon feeling has settled over the office and it's obvious everyone is preparing to leave for the weekend. Some are taking their family out, hoping to get a glimpse of the sun, others are doing their spring cleaning. Ugh. I'll probably just stay in.

"Guys. A truck just drove through Drottninggatan."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know, but my mom just texted me, asking me if I was alive."

"Are you serious?"

There's a clatter of fingers hitting keyboards as everyone tries to find out what happened. I turn to my computer, quickly typing the url to the first newspaper I can think of. Large, bold letters fill the screen, together with a blurry picture of an ambulance apparently at Drottninggatan.

Truck rammed pedestrians on Drottninggatan. Two dead.

"They're saying it's a terror attack."

Our work halts completely. We can't work. Drottninggatan. That's three stops from here. I walked that street last week.

Fuck, this office is small. I can't breathe. We were supposed to move from this place last fall. Why the fuck hasn't our boss worked that out yet? Fucking, incompetent son of a— "I have to use the bathroom." I can't stay in here. Pushing my chair out, I dart for the bathroom stalls. It's empty. Everyone's probably watching the news. I sit on the toilet, putting my head between my knees.

Rub my eyes. Itching.

What should I do? Nobody texts me. Should I reach out to my family? What should I say? 'I'm fine, in case you're wondering?' That feels a little presumptuous.

Facebook is asking me to confirm that I'm safe. Am I?

I can't stay here.

Cars passing by in walking speed. What's the point? Where do I go? I have nowhere I need to be. No one to ask for help, no one who wonders where I am.

Something lodges in my throat, blocking the oxygen from reaching my lungs. I gasp for air, but every effort to breathe only makes me more desperate. The ground sways. It shouldn't, right? Grabbing the wall next to me I try to keep my balance. I can't lose my shit now. I need to get— Where? I have nowhere to go.

Heat climbs up my neck my vision becomes blurry. Some force presses itself against my skull, as if it's trying to break free. I have nowhere to go.

I pull out my phone. I need to focus on something. No notifications.

A lump forces its way from my stomach up my throat. I try to retch but nothing comes out. The ground is swaying again. It can't be. It must be me. Trying to keep my balance I put my other hand on the wall. I don't even know where I am.

"Excuse me?"

Keep walking. Nothing to see here.

"Excuse me. Do you need any help?"

I can function just fine on my own. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Leave me alone.

"You don't look fine."

"Gee, thanks." I try to gather the last strength in me to look this guy in the eye, and gently tell him to fuck off. "I don't need—" His piercing gaze effectively cuts me off and sucks me in, like he's some sort of magnet, not letting me go.

The depth of his concern is written all over his face. There is no makeup in the world that could make those eyes look anything but gentle. I don't know if that's a good thing.

"I'm sorry. Do you have somewhere to go?"

I have nowhere to go.

I need to get home.

"Where do you live?" Did I say that out loud? "The subway and inner city buses are on lockdown. Do you live nearby?"

"I'm fine. Leave me alone." No one can see me like this.

"Have you been… Have you been taking anything? Alcohol? Drugs?" He searches my eyes, inspecting them. This guy has some fucking nerve. But he doesn't push. "Okay."

He holds out his arm, as if waiting for me to loop my hand through it.

"Would you let me help you get somewhere inside? You can't stay out here like this."

There is no place for me here. "Okay."

Why did I say it? I want to be alone. Let me wallow in my own misery. But my body doesn't follow my brain's command, letting my hand grab his outstretched forearm. Like it craves something I can't understand.

"I'm Peeta."

"Katniss."

"It's nice to meet you, Katniss."

He doesn't say anything else and we walk in silence. I'm grateful that he's not one of those who tries to force an awkward conversation, doing anything to avoid the silence. I'm comfortable with not talking and he seems too.

Then we arrive at an apartment building. "Where are we?"

"At Maskrosgatan. I live here."

No. I can't go into his home. I'm smart enough to know not to get into a stranger's home.

"No."

He looks at me, his eyes pleading. "I don't know what else to do here, Katniss. You can't get home, the hotels are booked, and I can't just leave you on the street. I have to get you somewhere safe, and this is the only way I know how."

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the non-threatening posture, the softness of his face or the overall impression that he seems to really care. So against my better judgment I say, "Okay."

He enters four digits on the display next to the door and a there's click and then a buzzer goes off. Opening the door, he lets me get inside first.

"Can you walk the stairs, or do you want to take the elevator?"

"I can walk." I'd prefer to use the elevator but I don't want to appear weak so I grab the railing and use it for balance and support as we ascend the stairs. "How many floors?"

"Only this one."

The steps pass underneath me as if they weren't even there. Every step is a struggle, but my body doesn't seem to understand that.

His name is in capital letters on the mail slot. P MELLARK. Guess I know his name if he tries something. He jingles with his keys before sliding a large one in, turning it, and then repeats the procedure with another smaller one. Holding the door open for me, he lets me in first.

I stamp my feet on the doormat before removing my shoes. He kicks his own shoes off, and squeezes himself past me in the narrow hallway. His hand accidentally grazes the my right hip, and he retracts it immediately. The anger I didn't let myself give into before rises to my chest, constricting my throat.

"I should go," I grit out.

"No, please. I… You have nowhere to go."

I have nowhere to go.

He backs away, leaving a couple of feet between us. "You can leave if you want, but it would make me feel better if I knew you were safe." Why does he care so much? "Listen. I won't follow you if you decide to leave, but please stay. I need to make a phone call. I'll be in that room so you'll have complete privacy."

I can't lock him up in his own home. "No. You don't have to leave."

"Okay. But I need to make the phone call, though. The living room is through there, and the remote to the TV is in the drawer in the table. If you want to watch TV." He pauses. "Or not."

"Thanks."

He doesn't say anything else before ducking into what I assume is his bedroom. It's a two room- apartment, and the kitchen is integrated with the living room. The widescreen-tv is mounted on the wall across from the beige leather sofa. Along the walls are bookshelves filled with books and photographs. Running my fingertips along the back of the books I'm close enough to read the titles. This man must read a lot. There are books on psychology, fitness, and canines, mixed with literary classics like Lord of the flies, Crime and punishment, and many titles I've never heard of.

I spare a glance at the photographs. It feels a little like prying, but he wouldn't had put them up if he didn't want people to see them. There are pictures of what looks like his family. They all have the same fair skin and blonde, thick hair.

There seems to be some photographs missing. Some spots on the shelf are left open. There should be something there, but there are no signs in the dust. Come to think of it, there is no dust. In fact, this place is spotless. Nothing seems out of place and not a speck of dust in sight. Anywhere. There's not even dishes in the plate rack.

Pulling out the drawer I find the remote and turn on the tv. Every channel is occupied with the same news. Nothing new. They still don't know if it was a terror attack, the subway and buses are still on lockdown, experts say the same thing on every channel.

The silence when I turn the tv off is a relief. There are muffled sounds from the room Peeta went into.

The clock on the wall says twenty past five. How long was I out?

I can't stay here. Even if Peeta seems genuinely nice, I can't stay at a stranger's apartment like this. I'm a grown woman. I can't rely on everyone else.

"Hey."

Peeta's voice break me from my chain of thoughts. "Hey."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Okay. Listen, I have to go to work."

You'd thought that employees would get this day off. Considering. But I don't comment on it. It's not my business.

"Yeah, I was gonna leave anyway so…"

"You don't have to go. You can stay here until they open the subway again."

"I can't do that."

"I don't mind. Here." He hands me a key. "You can just toss it down the mail slot if you leave before I come back."

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. "Okay."

The tips of his fingers graze mine as I accept the key from him. It's the first time he's touched me voluntarily since he helped me up the stairs. "There's food in the fridge if you get hungry."

He grabs his jacket from the rack and pushes down the handle. I surprise myself by reaching out to grab his arm. "Peeta?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He scribbles a number on the small whiteboard next to the door. "This is my cell number if you need anything. I probably won't be able to answer right away, but leave a voicemail or send a text and I'll return it when I can."

"Okay." That seems to be the only word in my vocabulary today.

When the door closes behind him, I make sure to lock it. This is not how I had envisioned this day. Work, head home, have a glass of wine, and maybe watch a movie. Instead, someone needed to take out his or her problems on the busiest street in our capital, paralyzing the entire city. And country.

I head back to the living room. Peeta left his door slightly ajar, and I can't stop my eyes from peeking through the small opening. His bed is unmade which seems out of character for him. Not that I know him, but based on the rest of his apartment I'd assume his bedroom would hold the same standard. I don't judge him, but I'm surprised.

Thinking of beds makes me realize how tired I am. Lying down on the couch I let myself close my eyes. Only for a couple of minutes.

Something tugs at me. No, leave me alone. Let me stay here in this cocoon of warmth.

"Katniss."

The soft voice brings me back to the present. I don't know what it is but it feels as safe as where I just was. Slowly, I pry my eyes open. The light blinds me, but I force myself to look again. Blurry, his face comes into vision.

"Hey. Did you sleep well?"

I blink a couple of times. Where am I? It comes back in pieces. The attack, the horror, the hopelessness, the kind stranger.

"Peeta? What time is it?"

"Ten thirty."

"At night?"

"No. It's Saturday."

"What?" I can't have slept that long. That must've been more than twelve hours. Looking out through the window the late morning light confirms what Peeta just told me. As in some fucking cliche I rub my eyes like I'm still tired. I slept for twelve hours. I shouldn't be. I'm not.

Peeta's sitting on the coffee table, facing me, as if waiting for me to say anything. His eyes are the same as yesterday—soft, caring. That's when I take note of his clothes.

The bright yellow should've drawn my eyes to them, but it didn't. The reflective fabric on the smaller dark blue patch on his chest spells out five bold letters. I can't stop my fingers from tracing the edge of the word, and Peeta doesn't stop me.

POLIS

This explains why he had to go to work. Of course he couldn't stay home on a day like today. Yesterday.

"You've been working until now?"

He looks down. "Pretty much."

"You must be tired."

He's silent, and the slumped shoulders and hanging head tell me he's exhausted, but he doesn't seem to want to admit it. Instinctively I sit up on the couch and he slumps down beside me. Without thinking I slide my hands over his back. I don't know why I do it, but it looks like he needs it. Through the clothing I feel the tension in his muscles. He could probably need someone to knead it out, but I suppress the urge.

"I am. I'm so tired."

And here I am, an imposter in his home. I should go. But I can't. Instead I trace the outline of the same letters on his back. What did he see? What did he go through?

I don't know how long we sit like that. But he doesn't seem to mind, and honestly, neither do I. But eventually I pull out my phone to quickly check the news. The subway is open which means there is no reason for me to stay here. So why do I want to? He looks so broken that leaving him alone seems like a cruelty. Or maybe he wants to be.

"The subway is open. I should go home."

"Yeah, okay. Rådmansgatan is just round the corner. You think you'll find it or do you want me to come with you?"

"No, it's fine." I don't want to keep him anymore. He looks like he's been awake for a week.

"Okay."

"Thank you for…" How do I say this? Thank you for taking care of me when I had no one. Thank you for opening up your home to me when I had nowhere to go. For keeping me from breaking down completely. I put my hand over his in a moment of complete clarity. "Thank you, Peeta."

He lets out a breath through his nose, resting his hand over the one I have on his. "You're welcome."

He doesn't follow me to the door when I stand up to leave.

The subway is quiet. It usually is, but this is different. It's eerie, people's thoughts filling the entire car and leaving me barely any air left to breathe. I usually like riding the subway. It gives me time and space to switch on and off work mode, but right now I only want to go home.

No one is waiting for me. No one's been wondering where I was. No one cares.

One person cares.

Does he? Or is he this considerate to everyone, and I just happened to be yesterday's charity work? No, that face radiated genuine concern. I find the photo I took before I left. His number. The one he wrote on the small board by the door. I don't know why I took it. He has no need to see or hear from me ever again. I lock the phone before I talk myself into something else.

10/4 2017 – 17:42, Sergels torg, Stockholm

It's like walking into a brick wall. A wall too high for me to deal with. The urge to let down my guard is overwhelming, but I think I manage to keep my emotions from showing on my face. I must look cold. Some people are crying, other talk with their friends. I can do neither.

The black and white paving stones only serve as a reminder of how divided this country is. It's ironic, really, that this is the place where so many came together in an effortless to attempt to prove to everyone that it isn't.

I couldn't come here yesterday. Too many people. Thousands filling the entire square, suffocating me. The evidence of the demonstration is on the flight of stairs leading up to Drottninggatan. A sea of flowers and flags, little notes of love. Notes who will never be read by those they're written to.

The walk up the stairs to Åhléns is difficult, but I feel like I have to do it. Not for me, but for someone. I don't know who. Two police cars are draped in roses and tulips. Sticking out from the wheels, in the handles, jammed between the windshields and wipers, looped around the rearview mirrors, and the rooftop flashing lights. Everywhere where it fits, there is a flower.

The concrete barriers meant to stop traffic are also covered in flowers. They say that without them the truck could have reached a much higher speed, killing more people. The makeshift wall where the truck hit is peppered with post-it notes. I could go closer and read them, but I don't. Instead I walk back down to the square.

The police officers on site are busy. Random people walking up to them, giving them hugs, flowers. All of them have dozens of roses pinned to the their yellow vests. A little teddy bear hanging from a utility belt.

He's here.

Looking over the sea of people he looks like a hero, strong and unrelenting. But he's not. He's like the rest of us. Like me. Tired.

The tulip in my hand was meant for the dead. But I decide to give it to the living.

He's turned away from me. He doesn't see me.

"Peeta?"

Turning around, his face morphs from confusion to recognition, a subtle smile on his lips. "Katniss."

It's the most natural thing in the world. It's three days too late, but he doesn't seem to care. My arms around his neck. The soft hair peeking out from under his hat against my temple. The slow beat of his heart against my cheek. His warmth. Not only physical but the warmth of his spirit. Thank you.

He doesn't comment on my weird behavior, instead letting me thread the tulip through one of the hinges of his vest. His thumb caresses the skin below my left eye, swiping away some of the tears.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine, I…" I'm not fine. I clear my throat. "Better than three days ago."

"Glad to hear it."

"Listen, I—"

"Excuse me." A redheaded woman with two children interrupts us. "Can I just… I just want to say thank you. I think you did an amazing job."

A smile tugs at the corner of Peeta's lips. "It was a team effort, but I'm glad that we could be of help."

"You were."

One of her daughters impatiently pulls her mother's hand. "Mama."

"My daughters would like to take a picture with you. Is that alright?"

"Of course." Peeta drops down so he's sitting on his haunches, eye-level with one of the girls. "What's your name?"

"Nova."

He holds out his hand to her and she takes it, eyes wide. "I'm Peeta. It's very nice to meet you."

The other girl is shy, hiding behind her mother's leg. Nova pipes up. "That's my little sister. Saga. She was really scared."

"I think we were all a little scared. Even the grown-ups." He spares a glance up at me, and it's oddly comforting.

The woman snaps a couple of photos of Peeta and the two girls before they leave.

The many flowers attached to his uniform demonstrate that this is not his first encounter with grateful capital residents. "I bet that's been happening all day."

"Yeah…" His eyes drift, looking out over all the people gathered in the square.

"Well, thank you for helping me." I sound pathetic, a weak 'thank you' after pulling me out of that black hole I was falling into, but it's all I have to offer him.

"I was just doing my job."

He was doing a lot more than his job, and we both know it.

"Sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean that I don't… I guess what I'm trying to say is…" He takes a deep breath, and surprises me by taking my hand. My first instinct is to jerk it away but I don't, the warm and gentle touch of his fingers against my palm spreading all the way down to the tips of my toes. "You're welcome."

His gaze pierces me to the ground. There's kindness, but there's something more hiding behind those blue eyes. Pain. What did he see? Did someone help him through it, like he did for me? Instinctively, I squeeze his hand, and like a curtain opening, the clouds in his eyes vanishes.

My mouth is dry, preventing me from saying anything, but Peeta saves the awkward silence. "If you, ah… If you ever need company, or anything…" His eyes drop to his feet. "You know where I live."

He's not pushing me away. A lump forms in my throat, but for once in my life it's not from sadness or misery. It's… relief.

I have somewhere to go.

Author's note: Also dedicated to the first responders on April 7th 2017, and to all of the people who opened up their homes to strangers.

Thank you for reading. This is a very personal piece so thank you for experiencing it with me. As always, if you enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear your thoughts.