So, this took a year longer to update than it should've. I know nothing I write could compensate for twelve months of procrastination, but I hope it's still at least a little satisfying.
"So, Brainless. What do you say?"
On her doorstep stands Johanna Mason, two blue-and-silver tickets fanned between her fingers. Katniss twists her neck, looking over her shoulder into her mother's darkened apartment. Her laptop is wedged in the cushions of her sofa, the screen paused on an episode of The 100.
Here we go again.
She grips the doorframe. "What makes you think you can manipulate me into this again?"
"Butts." She pinches the tickets. "So many cute butts." When Katniss scowls, Johanna cracks a smile. "C'mon, I'm only back in town for two more days. If you don't let me drag you to this game, you'll probably never see my beautiful face again."
"Pity," Katniss says, her tongue rolling in her mouth. But, sarcasm aside, she does know Johanna has a point. Because her friend managed to snag an internship out in Portland for the summer, Katniss hasn't been able to see her since May, and probably won't be able to see her again until fall break, maybe even Christmas. Johanna's back in Omaha this weekend in early July for her cousin's wedding, but as soon as Monday rolls around, she'll be on a plane back to the coast.
"Look, I know it's no CWS game. But it's still your last chance to spend some quality time with me. I'll even buy you ice cream."
"Well, if there's ice cream involved…"
Johanna playfully socks Katniss in the arm, and Katniss laughs, ducking back into the apartment to find her shoes.
The environment at Werner Park is entirely different from her memory of the previous year's TCU-Vanderbilt game, mostly because the crowd is one-tenth the size. On the way to the ballpark, Johanna explained to Katniss that they were going to watch a minor league game, meaning the intensity would be halved but the number of children would skyrocket.
Once they arrive, Katniss understands what her friend meant. Behind the seats off third base rests a carousel and small playground, crawling with tiny, screaming toddlers. Even though the game's about to start, half the seats are empty.
She doesn't know how to feel about this. Not that it matters. Baseball as an entity is her sworn enemy, anyway.
"Jo, do you even like this team?" she asks once her friend, as promised, buys her ice cream from the concession stand.
Johanna shrugs, passing her the cone. "There's a few players I wanted to see, but I'm not too invested, to be honest."
"Then why are we here?"
Johanna tilts down her sunglasses, arching her brows.
"Quality girl time. Now shut up and eat your ice cream."
They find their seats – first row, just off first base. As Katniss laves her tongue along the column of chocolate ice cream, she eyes the players warming up in the outfield.
"So, what's the deal with these guys? Are they just not that good?"
"Nah, they're alright. A few are coming off injuries, and some others are right out of college. All of them will be better than the guys we saw last year, though."
With the mention of last year, Katniss busies her mouth by nibbling on the cone's rim so that Johanna can't see her grimace. Although it wasn't easy at first, both of them have become quite adept to artfully ignoring any topics pertaining to last year. Or, more explicitly, Peeta Mellark. Not because she has beef with the guy, but because thinking about him always makes her lungs do funky things, like tighten or stop working altogether.
His team didn't make it very far beyond their game with Vanderbilt, so before he and Katniss could meet again, he was gone. While they both had noble intentions with frequent texting and the occasional phone call, it wasn't enough to sustain their connection.
Which was alright. Not because she wanted it to be alright, but because it had to be – did she have a choice? An hour of conversation and swapped phone numbers was a pretty feeble foundation for any sort of bond to begin with, even though things with them had felt… different. Special. But the impossibility of it all was something they came to terms with together, on an afternoon in September, when he called her because they hadn't spoken in weeks.
His voice sounded like crumpled crepe paper.
"What do we do?"
This was after he told her he'd be graduating at semester – he'd managed to score a contract with a professional franchise, meaning he'd start training with some double-A team that winter. That was when they both realized it couldn't work between them, if there was even something to work out in the first place.
She remembered how her fingers started plucking at the end of her braid, knuckles twitching, throat splitting down the sides. Everything hurt. At that point, she'd known for quite some time that they were failing, but it was his broken What do we do? that sent her into helpless surrender.
"I guess…" Her own words were stiff. "We try and forget."
Over the line's static, she could hear his breath wavering, shaky and heavy, as if his composure was slowly evaporating.
He said, "I don't want to forget."
But they didn't have a choice. Respecting her wishes, he never called her again after that.
She usually copes well with the dissolution of their friendship – at this point, he only flits through her mind on rare occasions, such as when she sees a TCU ball cap, or eats Sae's macaroni and cheese. Even then, the nostalgia is manageable.
But today, curled up in the green plastic chair beside Johanna, the throbbing under her ribs becomes more persistent than it's been in months.
She wants to ask Johanna if she's heard anything about Peeta – for mental health purposes, Katniss stopped keeping tabs on him the same time they stopped speaking – and she feels the question wadding in her throat, but she can't bring her tongue to form his name. It's been so long since she allowed herself to speak it, anyway.
Just before they start introducing the lineup, Katniss sneaks off to the bathroom after passing Johanna her cone, catching her breath. When she composes herself, she returns to find that the first batter for the other team is already up, and Johanna's hand is streaked with melted chocolate.
"It's ninety degrees out, Brainless. Do you know what happens to frozen things when it's ninety degrees out?"
Katniss apologizes, taking the cone from her hand.
"And, and—" Johanna's shaking her brown-glossed hand now—"You missed the lineup."
"I think I'll live," she grumbles before dipping her tongue around the cone for damage control.
She quickly discovers that minor league baseball isn't much different from college; the pitchers are a little better, she supposes, and most of these players have their socks pulled up to just below their knees. And, as made clear by Johanna—professional baseballers' asses are SO much better than those reedy little twerps in the CWS.
Otherwise, however, she sees no difference. Both levels are set at a brutally, painfully sluggish pace.
The top of the first inning passes by scoreless, and as the home team takes the outfield, Johanna turns to Katniss.
"So, how've you been lately?"
There's a sparkle in her wide-set eyes that makes Katniss's stomach flop. She knows that look too well, and she deadpans.
"Good?" she answers, drawing out the vowel.
With a devious smile, Johanna leans closer. "Any notable changes in your love life?"
She knew it, she knew it, she knew it. Katniss slouches in her seat.
"What do you think, Jo?" she grumbles. Her mood was already pretty low just from the scent of funnel cakes, but now that Johanna's brought up the most unfruitful aspect of her existence, she plummets into full-on Squidward mode.
"I mean—nothing's changed?" Johanna asks.
Katniss's gaze drills into the batter, who swings at a mediocre pitch and sends the ball whizzing straight up in the air. It comes down fast, straight into the second baseman's glove.
"Nothing's changed," she confirms as the batter takes his walk of shame to the dugout. "I went on one date, just to see how it felt, and I wanted to slug the guy the entire night. Wouldn't shut up about his damn dirt bike."
"Maybe you need to find a guy who's not into dirt bikes."
"Or maybe I can just accept the fact that I've got the libido of a rock."
Johanna chuckles and bumps Katniss's knee with her own. "You felt something with… with him, though."
Katniss feels her skin prickle, like someone's rolled her in a vat of sea nettles. But she doesn't want Johanna to know what she's feeling, so she forces out a tight smile. "Yeah, maybe."
"Maybe?"
Katniss shrugs.
"Girl, every time you got a text from him, you'd get this stupid grin on your face. I couldn't decide if it was more adorable or pitiful."
"Thanks," Katniss says dryly.
"Anyhow, I'm sure you'll feel that again."
"Yeah, yeah." Her voice is laced with sarcasm as she chomps into the wafer cone. "Sure."
"Sooner rather than later," Johanna says.
But Katniss's eyes are pinned on what little is left of her ice cream. "Mmhmm."
"Like maybe now." There's a smile in Johanna's voice, one that makes ice feather up Katniss's spine. "If you look up."
What?
Katniss's chin snaps up to her friend, who nods her head toward the outfield. Thoroughly confused, she follows her gaze, first to the players, then to the screen, then to the blue, blue, blue.
Shit.
She feels all her blood shoot to her heart, bundling into one massive wad of electricity, and then it drains, drains, drains into nothing.
She drops her cone.
He looks the same, crooked smile brilliant and white as it spans the screen. His hair's a little shorter now, but the blonde curls still peek out around the rim of his Storm Chaser's hat. His shoulders are broad, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven.
In the picture, he looks happy.
She's vaguely aware that her fingers have the ends of her arm rests in a death-grip, but she can't bring herself to let go, afraid she'll topple over if she's not holding on to anything. Her eyes flicker from the screen to home plate where he's standing, prepped for the first pitch, wooden bat poised over his shoulder.
It's him. Just a hundred feet away.
The pitcher launches a ball his way, at which he swings, completely missing. That's all it takes for the stiffness to snap from her shoulders, and she whips around to look at Johanna, whose expression is entirely absorbed by her devilish grin.
"Feeling it now?"
Katniss's lungs pulse as she tries to find her voice. When she finally does, however, it comes out sounding more like a wheeze than a threat.
"I'm going to kill you."
Johanna just waves her hand dismissively. "A simple 'thank-you' will suffice just fine."
But Katniss's face feels like fire. "How dare you?" she hisses, her nails digging into the plastic armrest.
"Look, I heard he negotiated his contract at the end of last month. His team didn't need an extra catcher, so now he's here in Omaha."
So Johanna was keeping tabs on him. She's not sure whether she should be enraged or grateful.
Enraged, she decides. She's much more adept to handle anger than gratitude.
"I can't believe you did this," she grits. Although, it shouldn't surprise her. This is the same Johanna who reeled in Peeta and Finnick after that first game, sandwiching Katniss between them for a photo; the same Johanna who left her alone with Peeta, hoping they'd hit it off; the same Johanna who suggested in secret that Peeta join them at Sae's.
The same Johanna who has been enabling this all along.
Her anger falters just as Johanna points out, "I can't believe you're upset with me. You should be celebrating, Kat! The kid's magically in the same town as you. You can see him again."
She can feel her face drain of color.
"Oh god. He didn't do this for me, right?"
"What, negotiate his contract for you? For a girl he literally met once?" A goat-like laugh bursts from Johanna's lips. "You've never been vain, so don't start now. I doubt he had much of a choice where he was sent to. Pure luck of the draw."
Well, if luck feels like a sack of rocks walloping against her stomach, than that's exactly what this must be.
Katniss's attention returns to him poised at the plate, just in time to watch a pitch sail straight into the strike zone. With a wicked crack of his bat, the ball splits up the center of the field, dodging the shortstop who dives a second too late.
She watches as he runs – even faster now than she remembers him running a year ago – and rounds first base, heading toward second, but as the center fielder scoops up the ball, he shuffles safely back to first.
And there he is. Less than twenty feet from them, and entirely oblivious.
Katniss feels like someone just shoved a cheese grater down her throat.
"I—I need to go to the bathroom."
"Katniss, you were just there—"
But Johanna's appeal falls on deaf ears as Katniss pogo-sticks up into the air, shifting past Johanna's knees. Once she reaches the aisle, she grabs the center railing for support, her head swimming with fog.
She doesn't know why she does it; she should know better than to turn around and look at the source of her panic attack, but something begs her to pivot, and she looks over her shoulder just in time to see Peeta Mellark tossing his batting gloves onto the grass. He's about to turn back to the plate when his eyes flicker up to the stands, locking with hers as if their gazes were magnets giving into their pull.
Blue, all blue, nothing but blue.
He looks like someone's just smacked his stomach with a sack of rocks, too.
And then she's squeezing the railing, spinning herself around and sprinting up the stairs so that she doesn't have to see his lips forming her name.
She's been gripping the sink and staring into the mirror for a solid five minutes when Johanna comes to find her.
"Jesus, Everdeen. Pull yourself together."
Her knuckles are white against the basin's rim, but her reflection's cheeks are even paler, tinged slightly green. The sloshing nausea subsided a few minutes ago, but her brain is still running dizzying laps inside her skull.
"I can't go back out there," she murmurs.
But Johanna, always audacious and never relenting, grabs Katniss by the elbow and yanks her toward the door.
"He's just a boy, Katniss."
"A boy that I really, really liked."
Her tone must be desperate enough, because Johanna stills, turning back toward her. Her eyes are softer, darker; she squeezes her friend's arm, sighing.
"I know that letting people in is scary for you, and that you're not used to having feelings and all, but… this is good, Katniss. That kid opened you up, and even though it's been a year, I bet you that he hasn't forgotten. You're not easy to forget, you know."
Katniss tries to smile, but her cheeks feel like iron.
"Hey, hey." Johanna's thumb brushes over her elbow. "If you really think being in the same ballpark as Peeta Mellark will bring on the apocalypse, then fine. Let's get out of here and go catch a movie or something. But… I think it'd be good for you to wait it out. And maybe even try to talk to him after. If he wants to talk, of course. Which he probably does, by the way he was gawking after you when you ran up those stairs—"
"Johanna—"
"—Just give it a shot, please?"
Ignoring the way her stomach swills under her ribs, and her lungs crimp together, and her head screams no, she swallows and nods, letting her friend lead her out of the bathroom.
t's the top of the second inning when they return, and now that she knows who the catcher is, her focus can't find a home anywhere else. She wonders if he's looking back at her, too. Not that she could tell through that weird-ass birdcage helmet.
He doesn't get the opportunity to bat in the second; he strikes out in the third, and in the fifth; he comes up to bat in the seventh, and hits a fly ball that drops just before the wall, allowing him to slide into second and thankfully a hundred feet from her. If he steals a glance her way, she doesn't notice.
But at the end of the eighth, his forearm gets clipped by a pitch. For some reason, Johanna cheers loudly at this. Then she explains that a batter who's hit gets to walk to first. Her heart gallops against her ribs as he strides to the plate just twenty feet from their seats, kicking at the dirt a little before turning his head to the stands.
He tilts up his helmet just enough for the sun to slant under the bill, shards of light illuminating his irises so she can see the way they follow her, pinning her to her seat even from this far.
She only manages to stare at him, her face as frozen as it'd be if she planted it in an icebox.
Somehow, her body stirs under his gaze. She feels her lungs inflating like two massive balloons. She can see that his jaw's gone slack, as if he doesn't know how to react, either; it's a small comfort to understand he's in the same boat with her.
Her heart flutters, delicate but insistent like a moth's wings.
And then she sees his face thaw. The corner of his lip quirks as he flashes her his shy, dimpled smile.
She feels herself breathe again.
Not even ten seconds after the final strikeout, Johanna's yanked Katniss up by the wrist and dragged her into the aisle.
"We're gonna go see him."
"Jo—"
"Don't struggle. I'm stronger than you."
Katniss doesn't fight it, nearly tripping over her feet as her friend slices through the hordes of mildly-drunk fans. Even though she knows who she's being taken to, she isn't sure where they're going. However, she has no choice but to follow as they dart past the front gates, past the lemonade stand, around the playground and the carousel and back toward a bridge. Underneath the bridge stretches a ramp, leading up to where Katniss presumes the locker rooms are. A metal fence keeps them from diving down, but she sees a child extending a dusty baseball over the bars, which are just low enough so that a player walking by stretches up on his tiptoes to sign the souvenir.
Players of both teams file out from the field, passing under the bridge on their way to the locker rooms. Some tip their caps, some sign autographs, and one of the older-looking players hops over the rail at the top of the ramp to meet his wife and son.
Katniss is sure her heart's about to detonate from all the building tension. She wonders if Peeta will come meet her, or if he'll just tip his cap and continue to walk on, as if she's nothing more than an ordinary fan. What if he doesn't even look at her?
Just before she works herself into a second panic attack, she sees a blue cap fringed with blonde curls appear from under the bridge, its owner's chin angled upward. She realizes, suddenly, that he's looking for her, too.
A trill of electricity flurries through her veins when he finds her, his eyes drilling into hers. This time, there's no wide-eyed, slackened-jawed delay before he breaks out into a grin, his thick hands finding purchase on the concrete wall as he hoists himself up. Before she can even catch her breath, he's vaulted over the railing, his baseball cap flying off and back onto the ramp.
Without hesitation, he takes her into his arms.
He smells like sweat and grass stains, a damp warmth radiating through his shirt and sticking to her own skin. With anyone else, she'd probably be disgusted.
But with him, she feels almost liberated.
"I can't believe you're here," he says against her neck before he pulls back, blue eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun.
"I think you're forgetting that this is my town." She reaches up to wipe a streak of dirt from his cheek. But once her thumb brushes his skin, she pauses – what is she doing?
How is this so easy?
If he's wondering the same thing, he doesn't let on. Instead, he lifts a hand to touch her braid as she retracts her own fingers.
"You look the same, Katniss."
She doesn't know how to respond, so she just smiles. While she wants to be startled by how relaxed she's already become around him, all she can feel is relief; somewhere, deep down, she knew this was how it'd always be with him. Always easy. Always right.
He looks past her for a moment, waving at her friend. "Hey, Johanna. Nice to see you."
"Nice to see you, too, Mellark. How's Odair?"
Peeta laughs. "Still causing a riot down in Texas. Just got engaged, actually."
"Huh. Always keeping people on their toes, I see," Johanna says, her hand moving to cup Katniss's shoulder. The gesture snaps Peeta's attention back to Katniss, his eyes raking over her. Her chest ignites when she sees his tongue dart out over his lips – probably unconsciously, but still so indicative.
Johanna coughs. "So, as much as I love third-wheeling, I think my time could be better spent. How about I go run some errands I've been putting off for the weekend? You two can catch up."
Katniss's eyes widen. "Johanna, you don't have to—"
"I hold myself personally responsible for your courtship." Her eyes twinkle. "It was fun seeing you again, Brainless. But there will be more time in the future."
She envelopes Katniss in a short hug, bidding her goodbye. And then, before Katniss can even gather her bearings, her friend has skipped off toward the gate, a sweaty and inconceivably handsome Peeta Mellark now the recipient of her undivided attention.
He's watching her like her skin's made of diamonds.
"You're—this is unreal," he says, his voice a thin breath.
Heat prickles under the skin of her cheeks, and her gaze drops to his cleats. "I had no idea you'd be here," she tells him honestly. "Johanna – well, you know Jo. Always going behind my back to sneak me into things."
His fingers skim over her elbow, and where he touches her, her skin shimmers with raw voltage. "I'm glad she did." He pauses. "So glad."
His voice is heavy, braced with some unfamiliar emotion; her chin shoots up, her gaze finding fat pupils and flushed cheeks.
"Let me buy you dinner." When she frowns and opens her mouth, his smile turns pleading. "Please?"
But how could she reject him? If an evening they shared over a year ago still commands her so strongly – if she still feels more for a boy that she spoke with for one hour than anyone she's ever met before – what makes her think it's in her power to decline?
What makes he think she would want to decline?
She feels her cheeks tense, and after a few moments, she realizes it's from her smile.
"I'd like that," she says.
Warmth emanates from the pavement, seeping through Katniss's shorts. She's perched just outside the ballpark as she waits for Peeta to shower and change into street clothes, her back against the tin siding. She can feel her muscles tensing. As each minute passes, her certainty in them, or in herself, begins to wane – what does she think she's doing, going to dinner with a boy she hasn't spoken to in months? One who's a professional baseball player, who's grossly out of her league, who's beautiful and kind and perfect and so much better than she deserves? He should be with a girl whose emotions are navigable, someone who isn't so romantically inept and persistently tongue-tied.
Her fears build, one on top of the other, nearing a threatening peak.
Then Peeta comes.
He's wearing dark-wash jeans and a cotton tee, one that happens to be her favorite shade of green. He couldn't have known this, since she never told him her favorite color, but something about the shade helps to soothe her pulse, and she stands to meet him on the sidewalk.
His hair is slightly damp but already curling out around his ears. He smells like laundry detergent.
"Hey," he says, his voice quiet enough to let her know he's nervous, too. It's this, and just his presence in general, that causes all her previous qualms to swan-dive straight into the ground.
She's safe.
"Um—hi."
(And still hopelessly articulate.)
"What do you say we go to Sae's?" he requests, his eyes are glimmering. "Someone once told me the macaroni there is legendary."
She tucks a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, avoiding his eyes. "That's a, uh—a pretty fair endorsement."
"So, have I won you over?"
When her gaze flickers up to his, she finds him grinning down on her, but there's something else pegging up the corners of his mouth – nervousness, maybe? Over what? Her potential rejection?
As if she could turn him down.
With a bob of her head, she admits, "Completely."
He relaxes and beams down at her, his expression as bright and warming as sunlight.
Without further ado, Peeta leads Katniss to his car. The ride to the bar is filled predominantly with small-talk, and while it isn't uncomfortable – he hasn't yet grown out of rambling, so the awkward silences are few and far between – she can feel something else bubbling under the superficial banter. As he babbles on about his new teammates and how he's acclimating to Omaha, she can't help but wonder what the pleasantries are covering up. It feels like a thick fog around her ankles, still allowing her to move forward but hiding any pitfalls in her path.
On a Thursday night, Sae's is relatively calm with a few patrons scattered along the bar and at tables here and there. It's slow enough that once they enter, Sae herself is able to greet them at the door, her calloused fingers mangling a dirty dishtowel as she approaches.
"My, my, girl! It's been ages!"
Katniss's entire body flares with pink heat, prematurely suffering from her imminent humiliation. "I just saw you last week, Sae."
"I didn't mean since the last time I saw you." Deep wrinkles web out from the corners of her eyes as she gives them her doughy smile. "I meant, since the last time I saw you with company."
And there it is.
The musical sound of Peeta's chuckle doesn't help – isn't he supposed to be on her side? – and she only flushes deeper, convinced she's probably a ripened shade of plum at this point. "Jesus, Sae. Give me a break."
"Honey, I'm not criticizing you," she laughs, touching Katniss's cheek. Her hands smell of dish soap, and a little like bourbon. "I'm celebrating. It's not every day you turn up here with a boy, much less a cute one." She winks and then turns to Peeta, extending a hand. "Be kind to this one, kid. She needs all the TLC she can get."
Katniss has never before felt a strong urge to drown herself in shots of vodka, but she supposes there's a first time for everything.
"I wouldn't dare do otherwise," Peeta replies with a little laugh. He takes her hand in a firm handshake. "You probably don't remember me, but I'm—"
"The ball player who wooed her last year?" When Katniss looks to Peeta, she finds his ears blooming with scarlet much like her own. "Nothing could make me forget the only boy who's ever turned Katniss into mush."
"We'll take a booth," she growls, her throat, face, and chest burning. She wants to curl up on the floor and melt into the veneer.
Proud smile and all, Sae leads them to a booth toward the back of the tavern. The polychrome lampshade overhead shrouds the seats in a dim gold, and Katniss is almost grateful for the poor lighting; maybe this way, her blushes won't be as obvious to Peeta.
He makes her blush a lot, she realizes.
As Sae departs to grab their drinks, Katniss slumps in the booth, her face falling in her hands.
"I swear, that woman's sole purpose in life is to humiliate me."
The heels of her palms are shoved hard enough against her lids that freckles of red flurry through the black, thankfully preventing her from seeing his reaction, but the delicate sound of his laughter is enough to fill in the blanks.
"She's a riot," he says. "I can't believe she remembers me."
You're not easy to forget. Her palms fall from her face, thumping against the wood of the table. Daring to look at him, she finds his eyes wide as saucers and his lips slightly parted, as if she's just sprouted a second nose.
And then she realizes why – she must've said that out loud.
Shit.
Peeta must sense her distress right away, however, because he reaches across the table, his fingers feathering over the insides of her wrist. "Hey, it's okay. You're not easy to forget, either."
Goosebumps dust up the length of her arm, sending shivers along her spine, down to her core. Her stomach twists – but not unpleasantly – as a strange warmth begins to anchor there. It feels almost the way hot cocoa tastes, frothy but rich as it sloshes around in her belly. Unconsciously, her thighs clench.
"Don't you find that funny?" she says, her voice no stronger than a chicklet's peep.
"Find what funny?"
She leaves her wrists bared for him, wishing he'll brush them again. It felt too good.
"How we didn't." Her throat bobs. "Forget each other, I mean."
She risks a glance his way, finding his cheeks dimpled in a soft smile.
"There's a lot about… this—" He motions at the table between them—"that I don't understand. It all seems so flukey, you know?"
"I'll say."
She almost melts when he at last indulges her, the pads of his fingertips finding her wrists again. But this time, they dance along the blue veins scribbled under the skin there, as if he's tattooing the feel of himself into her flesh.
"After I went back to Texas last year, I tried to rationalize it all," he begins, his voice arching in the way it always does when he's about to kick off a signature Peeta-rant. "I tried to justify why I felt the way I did when Johanna first pointed you out to me and Finnick, and when you shook my hand, and when you blushed virtually every time I spoke—"
The mere mention of her biological weakness causes her face to flush, as expected. He chuckles in response.
"It's cute, Katniss."
She blushes deeper.
"Anyway—" The smile in his voice twists up the corners of his words—"I just… I want you to know that I don't have an answer. For why I feel the way I do, I mean. I don't expect you to understand because even I don't understand it myself. But I—I guess I feel, well, drawn to you, if that makes sense? Jesus, that sounds corny. Maybe it is."
Her whole body is tingling.
"I live in Nebraska," she grumbles. "I live for corn."
He laughs harder at this than he should, his palm smacking against the table's surface. "Now that was corny."
Naturally, she wants to be mortified with herself, but with the way he looks at her – as if she's plated in gold – she can't help but feel radiant. It sends a jolt down to her core, amplifying the warmth she'd felt before.
His laughter tapers as Sae brings them their drinks, eyeing them suspiciously while she sets the two glasses of water on the table.
"Katniss, are you feeling okay? If I didn't know better, I'd say you actually look happy."
Unsurprisingly, Katniss scowls. "Remind me why I tolerate you."
"Strictly for my mac n' cheese."
"Right." Katniss's fist uncurls on the table. "Speaking of mac n' cheese—"
"Quite a bold decision, girl," Sae drones, sarcasm wedged in every syllable. "And for you, Mr. Right?"
"I'll have the same."
"Two mac n' cheeses for the lovebirds, coming right up." She grins at Peeta conspiratorially before plodding back toward the kitchen.
When she's out of ear-shot, Katniss slaps her palm against her forehead.
"I'm going to kill that woman."
"At least wait until after she's brought us our food," he laughs. "I've been fantasizing about this macaroni for a year now."
"You could've come here, you know," she says, her voice quieter than expected. "You've been in Omaha for a few weeks now, right?"
There's something in her words that makes his expression cloud, the flicker in his blue eyes dimming.
"I—I knew you came here a lot." His voice is hesitant. "I was, uh… I was afraid I'd run into you."
The brutal honesty isn't anything knew from him, so it shouldn't startle her. And yet it does.
She leans back in the booth, her fingers automatically flying to her braid. She tugs on the end nervously, swallowing through a rapidly-drying throat.
"Oh."
It's a pathetic response, but she doesn't know what else to say.
"Look, it wasn't like I didn't want to see you," he tries to explain.
But her fingers still feel stiff as metal as they pinch her braid. "You don't have to defend yourself, Peeta. I get it." Her mouth tastes suddenly sour.
"I don't think you do." Peeta says this too kindly for her rage to flare, but still, her eyes snap to his.
"What do you mean?
"I wanted to call you. I almost did, two or three times."
"You could've."
His eyes are sad. "You told me not to, Katniss."
Her jaw pops open, her own defense mobilized on the tip of her tongue – What do you mean, I told you not to? – but her memory of their last phone call knocks her flat before she can even find her voice.
I guess we try and forget.
She told him to forget her, so he treated her as if he had.
But he hadn't. And neither had she.
She startles when she feels his fingers on her hand, the one that's anxiously tangling itself in her braid, gently pulling it away. It's the exact same gesture as last year, the sensation sending her back to the previous June. The air in her lungs feel like thumb tacks. She wants to say something, but she isn't good at saying something.
But, as always, her silence is enough for him to understand her.
"I don't blame you, if that's what you're worried about. I get that none of this is easy for you. You—you do what you can to protect yourself, right? And that's fine. You had every right to step away from it. I mean—God, we literally spoke for one night. Even I didn't think I'd ever see you again, so… so I get it." His lips quirk up, smile soft but genuine. "It doesn't matter anymore, though. We're here now."
The corners of her own mouth begin to twitch. "Yeah."
"So, let's celebrate. With macaroni and ice water."
She smirks. "How glamorous."
"And then we can try to do this whole thing the right way. Whatever this is." He clears his throat. "If you'll allow it, of course."
Katniss looks him over, drinking in his lopsided smile, broad shoulders, innocent eyes. Maybe it's the combination of all those things that calm her, or maybe it's the presence of a different ingredient entirely; whatever it is, it eliminates her doubt, leaving her at ease, certain, and eager.
Her muscles unwind.
"I'll allow it."
Katniss curves a hand over her stomach as she trails Peeta to his car, absolutely stuffed from the macaroni and sated from their conversation.
They spoke for nearly two hours this time, about summer, baseball, art majors, Netflix, high school track, and virtually everything else that came pouring from Peeta's mouth. Which was a lot, considering the kid can talk at a mile a minute.
As they approach his car, however, the high from the night gives way to the sudden wave of nostalgia, brought on by the déjà vu that smacks her flat.
The wind is warm, gentle and thick, whipping the downy hairs at the base of her neck, hugging her skin. The world smells like grass and heated pavement; in the back of her mind, she can hear a drunk Johanna giggling, Finnick belching, Peeta's breath against her ear, cheek, lips…
"Do you feel that, too?" she finds herself asking.
They've reached the car, and Peeta stops at her words, turning to look at her. Shavings of moonlight cut across his face, illuminating his fat pupils.
"It's like it's last year all over again," he whispers. There's a huskiness there that makes her lower belly tingle. "Only I'm not about to leave this time."
"Nope." She takes a step inward, daring to flatten her palm against his chest. "You're stuck here."
"By some miracle, brought to you by the magical contract fairies."
Her fingers tremble against his heartbeat's steady cadence, the rhythm pulsing its way into her own system.
"What does this mean for…" She can't bring herself to say it – the word us seems too ceremonial, to final, and what if he doesn't want that from her?
But he just smiles, shifting closer until the tips of his shoes brush against her sandals.
"I think it means we keep seeing each other," he says, his mouth close enough for her lips to tingle under the curl of his breath. "To make sure that this is real."
She's already sure, though. She doesn't know how she's so certain about him, having only connected with him on two separate occasions, but she just is. Somehow. Miraculously.
"Do you think it is?" she asks. "Real, I mean?
Tiny wrinkles thread the corners of his eyes as he smiles through the gloom. "What else explains the flu-like symptoms?"
"Headache? Fatigue?"
"Fever, chills, sudden dizziness. You know, the usual."
She's smiling like an idiot. What the hell is wrong with her?
He lifts his finger to tap her on the nose. "You know, you should do that more often."
"Hmm?"
Her whole body jolts when he cups her cheek, but she relaxes against him as his thumb begins swiping over her lower lip.
"Smile," he says.
His mouth is just inches from her own now, her chest tight as its tugged upward by some invisible thread. His other arm moves to curl around her waist, and her fingers knot themselves in his shirt, keeping him close.
In the moonlight, his eyelashes look as if they're made from white gold, tangling together. She wants to feel them on her cheek. She wants to feel him. She wants him, his lips, his hands, his everything. She's never wanted anything from anyone else before.
This is how she knows it's real.
"Is it okay if I kiss you?" he whispers.
Please, please, please.
But, feeling a little bold: "What about those flu-like symptoms?"
He chuckles. "Sharing is caring, you know," he says, nudging her nose with his own as his thumb brushes her lip once more.
His arm tightens around her waist. She can taste his breath. His pupils have almost completely swallowed their blue perimeters. She wants him. Just like she did on that June evening a year ago, only now she wants him more, more, more.
Suddenly, and not suddenly at all, his mouth slants over hers.
It's like mounting a bike after two years of not riding, or picking up a piece of sheet music from high school choir, or tracing an old lover's name in the sand. The touch of his lips feels completely new, but once they part against hers, everything floods back. The soft pressure, the gentle flick of her tongue, the little moans – they're instinctive and novel at the same time, and she can taste in his kiss that it's the same for him, too. His fingers weave themselves in her roots, hooking her to him as he tilts her head back to kiss her more fully; he sighs against her mouth, then breathes her in.
It's patient until it's not, careful until it's confident. He backs her up against the car, his hand gentle but firm as it curls against her hip bone. She tugs him closer to sandwich herself between him and the vehicle; the snugness is dizzying in the most pleasant way.
While kissing him feels like second nature, the fire searing its way through her core's lining is entirely unfamiliar. She'd felt something like it when they first kissed, but now it's impossible to ignore. It stems from her belly up through her systems, jetting through her arms and in her fingertips, urging her to pull him closer, flatter against her. She feels his entire body against her, which is something she always thought would be too much. But now, it's not enough.
And hell, does not enough feel so perfect. The shallow breaths, the eager fingers, the racing heartbeats… it's something she never thought she could want, only now realizing it's what she needs. She needs him.
She'll tell him, she decides. Not now, however, because her lips are otherwise preoccupied.
His palm continues to caress her jaw even after his lips have drawn back, his forehead tilting against hers so they can catch their breath. A chorus of crickets sings around them, the wind slipping in ribbons around their bare skin. If she could, she'd freeze this moment so she could stay in it forever.
A shiver trills through her as his fingers leave her cheek, tracing down her braid to touch the tip.
"That was incredible," he pants.
Her cheeks flush, but this time, she's not embarrassed. With him, there's no time for things as frivolous as shame.
She tastes his chuckle, his breath cool against her wet mouth. "So, how are you feeling?" he asks. "Any flu-like symptoms yet?"
Her fingers release his shirt, palms grazing up from his chest to his neck, curving around the back to braid themselves in his curls.
"Not yet," she says, feeling so invincible under his gaze. "We might want to share a little longer."