The first thing that struck me as I woke was the cold. After spending years as The Girl on Fire, I honestly didn't mind the cold. Water, I still wasn't fond of, but the cold was almost a welcomed change. It signified that I could put behind me that chapter of my life or, perhaps more appropriately, I could at least try to move on. The frigid winter air wasn't what woke me with a start. It was the empty space in the bed next to me as I rolled over that set my heart racing.
I tried not to panic when I woke up alone. My own nightmares, though never quite gone, had lessened over the past few years. They were often replaced with dreams of those I had lost, and I much preferred the bittersweet remanences of my subconscious than the terrors that awaited me back in the arenas or in the Capitol. What concerned me was that the cold seeped in through the barren mattress next to me. As I propped myself up and glanced quickly around the room with the aid of the early morning light, I didn't see him anywhere.
I assured myself he was fine, ignoring the pounding in my pulse and the beating of my heart as I quickly climbed from the bed. The floor froze my toes, and I knew it would be a long winter ahead with little opportunity for good hunting. It mattered less and less these days, particularly without Gale and especially with the hurt and loss that overcame me every time I thought of him and our complicated past. The previous winter, I had found myself spending less time hunting in the woods and more time learning to tend to the garden with Peeta.
Just his name in my thoughts sparked another surge of worry. Grabbing my bathrobe, I pulled it around myself in a protective cocoon as I pushed through the bedroom door and into the hallway. I checked the most logical place first. When I found the kitchen empty, the panic began to spread in earnest. Pushing down the hundreds of possibilities that clouded my mind, I hastily shoved my feet into my boots by the door and pushed out into the welcoming winter morning.
My breath froze in a majestic cloud floating before my face as I hugged the bathrobe closer. The fresh powder crunched beneath my feet, my boots sinking into its depth with every hurried step I took. When I reached the primroses, my heart sank. He wasn't there either, and the worry spread from my heart to every dark and pessimistic crevice in my body.
A rushed trip around the perimeter of the house brought me back to the front, still without a sign of him. It was then that I let the panic consume me. I sent prayers into the sky, pleading with an unknown deity I didn't believe in. This world had already taken everything else from me; I would not let it steal him as well.
I did not stop to remove my boots as I opened the front door with trembling, freezing hands. I did not stop to close the door behind me as I made my way to the closest phone. I hadn't realized the full extinct of the bitter cold until I picked up the receiver and tried to dial the only number I knew by heart. Shaking so badly, I fumbled the number the first time. The extra time it took to hang up and dial again tore through me like a knife to the arm.
One shrill ring turned to two and quickly became three. Eyed squeezed shut, I tried to force myself to calm down before my worry turned into a full blown panic attack. He was the only one who could calm me once I got started, and he wasn't there. My free hand gripped the edge of the table painfully as I waited through the fourth and fifth rings.
Mercifully, the line connected before the sixth. "Is he there?" The words tumbled from my mouth before any chance of a greeting could be offered. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for a response.
"Morning to you too, Sweetheart," came the usual gruff retort on the other end of the line.
"Is he there?" I asked again, my voice raising an octave and cracking at the question.
He must have realized the extent of my panic as the usual, somewhat unfriendly banter did not follow. "He's here," came the words I longed to hear.
I did not wait for anything else as I hung up the receiver and promptly sank to the ground, my legs no longer able to hold me. My name is Katniss Everdeen, I repeated silently in my head, the familiar mantra the first thing that came to my mind as my heart exploded in my chest. I survived the Hunger Games. I survived the war. It took all my strength to try to even out my breathing, my throat still burning from the cold inhaled during my short stint outside. Peeta is alright, I told myself. Peeta is alright.
It did not take him long to return. Luckily, I had collected myself enough to at least stand up by then, though I had not moved a single step away from the phone. He did not waste time on removing the layers of fabric around him as I heard the door slam shut and footsteps approaching immediately after. They echoed through the otherwise empty house, and the sound alone helped calm my battered nerves.
"Katniss," he whispered as soon as he appeared in the doorway, moving swiftly towards me. The power of the guilt held in the way he said my name never ceased to amaze me. He was the one who still struggled sometimes to distinguish between reality and fiction, and I was the one he was worried about. Shame flooded through me even as relief overtook me at the mere sight of him.
"I'm sorry," we both spoke at the same time, our words mixing together in the silence. "I should have realized," he added. No other words were needed in explanation.
Shaking my head, I caught the lapels of his coat and pulled him the remainder of the gap standing between us. "I should have known," I corrected him, cursing myself for my stupidity. I had let the panic get the better of me. I hadn't stopped to think, to realize what day it was. Of course he had gone over to visit Haymitch. He went over every Sunday morning, like clockwork, to check on him.
"Are you okay?" he asked, the words soaked in concern. His hands were cold against my skin as he brought them up to palm my cheeks, but it was a welcome cold. Just a hint of the touch was enough to warm my skin beneath his tender hands.
"Yes," I breathed, my hands moving from his lapels to wrap securely around his waist and draw him closer. It was hard, sometimes, to tell which one of us was more damaged. We each had our fair share of scars, and we both carried more emotional turmoil that any one person ought to be able to handle. At the ripe old age of twenty, I felt as if I had already lived more than a full life. "I am fine now," I assured him, my breath undoubtedly tickling his neck as I buried my head against it.
Inhaling deeply, I devoured every scent he carried, as if the smell of him could make me believe he was real and that he was fine. More often than not, it seemed to work. I caught the faintest traces of flour and butter and buttermilk on him, overpowered by the stale scent of Haymitch's home. He smelled vaguely of winter as well, of winter pines and fresh snow and frigid cold.
I felt him sigh against me, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as his hands moved to hold me as well. Closing my eyes, I planted a trace of a kiss against his neck, his warm skin comforting against mine. I could never forget those times of uncertainty, when I wasn't sure if he would ever get past the hatred for me the tracker jacker venom had instilled in his heart. I promised myself I would never take moments like this one for granted, and I tried to savor it for as long as possible.
"You should probably get back," I finally spoke as the minutes continued to stretch on. "Left to his own devices..." I trailed off, the sentence not needing any further explanation.
"I won't be long," he promised, making no move to pull away. I took comfort in the fact that Peeta clung to these moments as much as I did, even if it filled me with a small fear that someday it wouldn't be enough to keep him with me. Though nightmares of my time in the games and the war were still far from eradicated, more often than not they revolved around one singular point. One solitary dread plagued my subconscious above all others, and it was the one I fought so hard day in and day out to control.
"You love me?" I asked, the words muffled against his neck as I held my breath for an answer. It shamed me, the fear that coursed through me as I waited for his reply.
"Real," he whispered as he pulled away. His hands returned to my face, stroking my cheek before he pulled me to him. I tried to let the worry evaporate into the still air, but parts of it remained rooted in my soul. As he pulled away, I brought him to me once more, not ready to let him out of my sight again just yet.
It amazed me, how different our kisses were from the first one we ever shared, in that cave in that godforsaken arena. Our first kiss, my first kiss, had been filled with desperation and worry and has been subtly masked with a lie. It had been broadcasted for the entire world to see. It had been awkward and chaste and ended as soon as it had started. In all honesty, it was a moment I would have been more than happy to forget.
Though this kiss still shared a hint of the desperation and worry, it carried none of the lies. Unlike the other kisses that had followed our first, this kiss was not meant to be put on public display. It was intimate, personal. Though it did not carry the same kind of heat as others we shared, its meaning ran deep. It was real.
"You love me?" he asked, the faintest hint of a smile quirking the corner of his lips, for he already knew the answer.
"Always," I whispered, my nose pressed against the side of his, my lips a hair's width away from brushing against his. My own assurance in the words surprised even me sometimes, considering where we started. I never thought I would find any kind of happiness from the Hunger Games. I never wanted to be thankful for anything even remotely related to them. But I couldn't help but realize that they sealed my fate, in every possible way. They destroyed my life, ripped apart my family. They brought out the side of people I didn't know existed, myself included.
But they also gave me Peeta. I could never be thankful for the Hunger Games or Snow's reign in the capitol, but I will always be thankful for that fact.
"You should go," I repeated when he made no move to pull away. "You know how grouchy he gets when we keep him waiting."
"His default mood is grouchy," Peeta reminded me with a chuckle. Reaching for the end of my braid, he toyed with my hair, wrapping it idly around his fingers. I had been hesitant to let it grow out and keep it at the same length it had been, but he told me the reminder helped, so it stayed. A childlike giddiness filled me as he fingered it. "I left breakfast warming in the oven for you." His words were soft, as gentle as everything else he did. "I shouldn't be gone long."
"Don't hurry on my account." I hated that I had become this person that he felt he needed to be beside at all times, though I treasured the sentiment. All he had ever wanted to do, all he ever tried to do, was protect me. In moments like that, I couldn't help but think that Haymitch was right. I would never deserve that boy that had become this man.
His lips trailed across mine, his fingers still wrapped in my braid moving to capture my waist. I inhaled his breath, as he did mine, and I knew that moments such as this made all the worry worth it. "It won't be just for you," he teased as his lips moved to hover next to my ear. The words and their implication sent a shiver down my spine as my toes curled within the tight confines of my boots.
I doubted I would ever be able to understand the extent of the comfort I felt with him. Somehow, my dark, jaded, broken heart had allowed the baker's son in. I could cherish these moments I never imagined I would have. I could look forward to a peaceful, happy life I never dreamt possible, before. And I could share it all with him.
I forced myself to pull away. If we lingered any longer, I would not have the will to let him return to his visit. If there was one thing I had learned in the past two years, it was that I could be an incredibly selfish and self-serving person. I was trying to work on that, so I gently pulled away. As if to push the notion, my stomach let out an angry grumble at the previous mention of food.
"Eat," he commanded as he placed one last gentle kiss to my temple before untangling himself.
"I will," I promised. My arms let him slip away so easily, though my fingers itched to pull him back.
"We'll work on the book when I return?" he asked.
"If you can pry it away from Haymitch." The book ought to have been finished over a year ago, but it symbolized so much to each of us that we had a hard time letting it go. We found ways to keep adding to it, and old memories kept resurfacing even years after starting it. It was painful, sometimes, the memories that returned. But mostly it was simply bittersweet, and it seemed an inaugural part of our path to healing and moving on.
"I will do my best," he swore in as serious a tone as he could muster. Tempted for one last kiss, as if he were hopping the train to another district instead of walking to the next house down the street, I held back. We had all the time in the world now, I reminded myself. So with a smile, I released him with a simple, "Your best is more than enough."