Peeta watched as Katniss abruptly sat back, her back stiffening as she licked absently at her upper lip. Her cheeks bloomed red and her hands fell limply to her lap.

And before he could even stop them, the words fell, unheeded, from his mouth.

"Was it good?" he asked, and was shocked at how deep his voice was, at how needy it sounded.

"Yes. V-very good," Katniss stuttered in reply. "Really good." Then she licked her lip again, a long slow trail with her tongue.

He knew she hadn't done it intentionally, but it still didn't stop his stomach from turning and twisting painfully; he shifted on his feet uncomfortably as all the blood in his head drained to his groin. "Really?" He managed to choke out.

"Really."

Peeta hoped to God the counter and the apron he was wearing was successfully hiding any evidence of how he was reacting to her, because right now his body felt like it had when he'd been 14 and had watched Pamela Anderson run along the beach in slow motion in that damned red swimsuit. He fisted his hands at his sides, dug his fingers into his palms. "That's, uh, good. I'm glad you liked it. I was...hoping you would."

Katniss blinked once, then twice, as if trying to determine what he was saying. If she figured it out, he mused, he hoped she told him, because right now he had no idea. He didn't know if he was trying to flirt, or was genuinely happy she just liked the batter.

Shit, he was so out of practice.

"Yo, Katniss, can you bring out that box of danishes for Mrs Cartwright?!" Finnick bellowed from the front of the shop, and Katniss practically fell off the stool in her haste. She scrambled over to the side counter to where the white and blue box sat, yanked it into her arms and pushed the door into the shop front open with her hip, her confused eyes fixated on Peeta as she disappeared.

The minute she was gone, he slumped against the counter. What the fuck was he thinking? He wasn't prepared for this, no matter how many dreams he'd had of her. Dreams were one thing. In person was another thing entirely. Because he hadn't been prepared for the way her eyes had flared, or the bolt of electricity that had shot straight up his arm from the simple touch of her delicate fingers on his wrist. He'd thought he could be all nonchalant and cool, as he figured out whether she felt anything towards him the way he - against his better judgement - did about her. But he'd barely been able to hold a conversation, let alone anything else.

He shouldn't have done that.

Taking in a deep breath, he resolved to pull himself together by the time she returned, and was fully immersed in putting the finished cake in the oven by the time she pushed back through the swinging door. He didn't look at her as she settled back at the counter with the order book, simply focused on stacking the industrial dishwasher, wiping down the benches. They didn't say a word to each other, nor share a single look. The silence was deafening, but he wasn't willing to break it. Not when he had no idea what words would tumble out of his mouth.

His stomach still felt like it was tied in knots over an hour later, as he finished icing the cake. He'd mulled over his actions the entire time he'd mixed the cream cheese frosting, cursing himself for not thinking clearly before he acted. He'd known what he was getting himself into - hell, it had been his own idea to march into the bakery unannounced - but now, upon reflection, he wondered if it had really been the smartest thing to do.

Because the feeling of Katniss' tongue sliding against his finger still lingered on his skin, and the flush on her cheek still hadn't died away. And the air between them was thick with a tension that he was worried only one thing could break.

And if they did that, right here and right now, they'd likely break a dozen food safety laws.

He wasn't even sure he was prepared for that.


She needed to go home.

It was the one and only constant thought Katniss had had since she'd slid her lips from around his finger. Sure, since then she'd thought about walking the 20 paces it took to carry Mrs Cartwright's danishes out to the front of the store, or thought about what spices they needed to restock. But underneath them all had been the undeniable feeling of needing to get far, far away.

Because while she'd thought about Peeta a lot over the last few months, she'd never expected to have that kind of reaction to him. It had swooped in her stomach, set a dozen butterflies into a frenzy until it had been nothing but a quivering mess. Her heart had leapt up into her throat, had almost threatened to swallow her whole. She'd felt the urge to squeeze her legs together ever since, just to try and get the ache that had settled in her core to abate.

And she'd realised she'd never, ever felt this way before. Not even with Gale.


She wiped the cloth over the mahogany bar for the third time that shift, but it made no difference. The stickiness left behind from years of alcohol rings and spillage was never going to go away, no matter how many times she cleaned it. And in the end, it really didn't matter. Cray didn't give two shits about how the place looked, as long as she served drinks, and didn't argue with the customers.

She didn't, not anymore. She had on her first few shifts, when a couple of customers had mistakenly thought that she would happily come for free with their drink. But a slap to the face of one of them, and a dig at the minute manhood of another soon taught the regulars and non-regulars alike at Twelve, the dodgy bar under the apartment where she'd lived, not to mess with her.

The minute she'd turned 21, she'd fronted up to Cray and asked for a job. If the noise from the bar was going to keep her up half the night, she figured she may as well be working there. Plus it paid more and the tips were surprisingly better than at the shitty diner she'd slaved away at during her first year in Panem.

Another year later, she'd moved out of the apartment in what she now realised had been a rushed decision - one of the other bartenders, Jo, had had a spare room in a house she shared with two other girls, and as the rent had been considerably cheaper than the shitty apartment, she'd agreed.

Much to her annoyance, Jo had unexpectedly moved out a month later with a sudden plan to head to Oregon, taking with her another one of their roommates. She'd hastily advertised for new people to share the rent, and in the end Katniss had been left with three girls who drove her insane. And stole her fucking jeans.

But she still stuck it out at Cray's. It wasn't what she wanted to do with her life - hell, she still didn't know what that was - but she was saving enough money for whatever it was. And it kept her occupied, and her mind busy. That was all that mattered.

She looked up as the door to the bar swung open, bringing with it the cooling September air, and the long, lean form of one Gale Hawthorne.

Katniss turned away then, under the guise of rinsing out the cloth in the small bar sink. But, more than anything, it was to try and get her flushed cheeks under control before he made it to the bar.

He was a regular, often dropped by after his construction shift ended for the day. Sometimes he'd show up with a few of the crew, others he'd be on his own. They'd gotten to chatting one night, months ago, over a shared interest in the benefits of sustainable housing, until eventually they'd downed a few drinks off-shift, had gone out for dinner a couple times here and there. And just the Thursday before, they'd gone to the cinema, and ended up back at the small house he'd proudly told her he'd spent the last two years renovating.

She'd lost her virginity at 16, something she later regretted on account of Cato Anderson turning out to be a dick, and as a result, had studiously avoided anything similar in the time since. But Gale Hawthorne, with his strong hands, dark hair the same shade as hers, and long, muscular body, had changed that.

"Hey Katniss," he greeted, and she turned back to face him, hoped her inflamed cheeks had settled. She was lucky in the fact that you had to be close to her to see the pink, on account of her olive toned skin, but she still hated the feeling of the heat on her face. If her best friend from high school, Madge, had been here, she would have gently teased her about still being so pure after all these years.

Gale didn't smile as they locked eyes - she noted he didn't smile very often, but that was ok, because neither did she - but his cheek twitched slightly as the corner of his mouth lifted, and she knew he was happy to see her.

"Hey Gale," she replied. "Thought you were out of town visiting family this weekend."

"Came home early," he said simply, tapping his fingers absently on the wood. "Can I get a glass of the Tracker, please?" She nodded, reached for a glass, put it under the tap of the local brew, and began to draw the beer. "I, uh, was hoping you maybe finished soon."

Katniss glanced at the clock, noted she only had 5 minutes until the end of her shift - Darcy, a cute, no-bullshit redhead had drawn the close - and shrugged as she slid the beer across to him. "I finish in 5."

This time the smile did creep across his face. "Great. Do you...do you want to grab a late bite to eat?"

"I guess," she replied noncommittally. "Just at the diner?"

"Sounds good," he agreed.

He kissed her later, another one of those kisses that led to another, then another, then eventually back to his place. He knew where to touch, and when, and she came apart under his clever hands, as he slid in and out of her in smooth, measured strokes. And while it wasn't as though he made her heart stutter or anything like that, it was pleasant, enjoyable. She just figured she wasn't built for fireworks and feeling like her heart was going to pound out of her chest and experiencing mind-numbing orgasms that left her limp and drained, like those stupid housemates of hers liked to talk about in the kitchen.

Just like she knew she wasn't built for love.


She snapped the order book shut, and slid from the stool again, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. "I'm going home," she muttered. "I'll submit the orders from my laptop there."

Peeta looked up at her, from where he was carefully smoothing out the final pieces of frosting on the cake he'd been preparing. If he was bothered by their earlier…interaction, it didn't show. "Ok," he said simply. "I guess I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, sure," she replied, then hightailed it out of the bakery before she had to say another word.

She needed to speak to Annie.


"Katniss, you didn't."

"I did."

"Oh my God."

"I know. It was so stupid."

"No! Oh my God, as in, this is the best thing I've heard all week!" Annie's eyes shone with amusement as she placed the steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of Katniss, dropped onto the sofa beside her. She glanced over quickly at a finally sleeping Dylan in his portable crib, then tucked her legs up under her, lifted her own coffee to her lips. "I've had a sick baby - hearing about you licking batter off Peeta Mellark's finger has officially made my day."

Katniss dropped her head into her hands. "You saying it like that doesn't make me feel any better."

"It shouldn't," Annie retorted. "Right now you should be playing sexy pastry chef with him, not having coffee on my sofa. Seriously, Katniss. If that wasn't a move, I don't know what is."

Katniss looked up again, sighed. "He assured me it wasn't anything, and completely ignored me afterwards. Then things felt super weird."

"Super weird like what?"

"Like...the air was really thick or something."

"You might be out of practice, Katniss, but that sounds like simple sexual tension to me." Annie tipped her head, amusement in her eyes. "Can I remind you - the guy asked you to lick batter off his finger. We have a considerable stock of extra spoons, you know. Pretty easy to grab one out of the drawer, scoop a little batter, then hand the spoon to you."

Katniss pursed her lips, picked up the mug and drank deeply, in an effort to school her thoughts together. She wasn't blind in the way she'd seen his eyes change through it all - dilating down until the blue was almost non-existent - nor the way his voice had deepened. But he'd appeared so unaffected and his usual unsociable self when she re-entered the kitchen that she'd just figured she'd been wrong, that it had all been her own imagination. "He's rude, you know."

"Yep."

"And unsociable."

"Uh-huh."

"And secretive."

"Sure."

"And - Annie, you're not arguing with me."

Annie laughed lightly. "Of course I'm not, because everything you just said is true. But there's also more to him than that. Between my observations, and the few things you and Finnick have told me, there has to be. He actively asked Finnick the other day how Dylan was doing. If he was that much of an ass, would he ask that?"

Katniss shrugged, put her now empty mug back on the coffee table. "I'm...I'm..."

"Yeah?"

She scrubbed a hand across her face in frustration. "I'm still broken, Annie. I can't attach myself to someone like that. I can't..."

"Can't what?"

Katniss fiddled with the hem of her striped shirt, twisting it around her finger until the tip turned purple. "Gale was good. Gale was nice...but he was just a distraction. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm afraid Peeta could get too close if I let him."

A short cry from Dylan interrupted them, and Annie slid her mug onto the coffee table and rose, crossing the room to look down into the crib. She reached in, her hand brushing against the baby's belly, and she murmured soft words to him that Katniss couldn't make out from her seat on the sofa. She didn't need to hear them though; it was an image steeped in love, and showed an unbreakable bond between the two.

When he'd settled again, Annie moved back, picked up her mug and grasped it in her hands tightly as she sat again. "Sorry about that."

"No, don't apologise. I should go, let you have some down time while he's sleeping."

Annie shook her head. "Katniss, I don't want you to leave. I want you to tell me why you don't want to get too close to Peeta."

Katniss sighed, closed her eyes. "I don't even know him."

"You can't use that as an excuse. You've worked with him enough by now that he's definitely not a stranger. Try again."

"Because he's basically the epitome of who I wouldn't want to date. Not that I want to date anyway."

"Katniss." This time, Annie adopted a tone that Katniss had only ever heard use on Finnick, when he was in trouble.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Because...because there's just something there between us. Something I haven't felt with anyone else. And I don't like it."

Annie smiled, obviously happy that she'd finally gotten the truth out of Katniss. "You know, the same thing happened with Finnick and I - and look where that got us in the end. My dad skipped town on my mom and I when I was a kid, left the two of us alone to fend for ourselves and I didn't want to run the risk of the same thing happening to me. But Finnick was persistent, didn't matter how many times I turned him down, he stuck with it. I'm glad he did."

Katniss shook her head. "But Finnick is Finnick. He's charming as all hell and was persistent. Peeta isn't. He just...makes me feel funny. Even while he makes me want to punch him."

Annie bit down on her tongue to keep from laughing. "I love how you narrow all of this down to 'feeling funny'."

"Well it's true."

"And so is me telling you the batter was a move, even if he ignored you afterwards. Maybe he was as freaked out as you are. Just test the waters, Katniss. Ask him out for a drink or something."

"I'm shit at that kind of stuff."

"And from the sounds of it, so is he."

"Maybe-"

"Maybe you just both need to learn how to make a proper move," Annie interjected. "Neither of you are particularly great at communication. No offense."

"None taken," Katniss replied honestly. How could she when it was the truth? "But anyway, I can't ask him out for a drink."

"Why not?"

"Because what if he says no?"

Annie shook her head. "What, are you 15 again? Just say it's a drink between co-workers. Anything. Just do it!"

Katniss chewed on her lip. "A drink as co-workers. I can...I can ask him to do that."

"Finally." Then Annie leant forward in the seat, anticipation on her face. "Now that we've established that, you have tell me - what did the batter taste like?"


He shook the snow off his coat, rubbed a hand over his head to remove any wayward flakes. The five minutes of effort he'd put into it had already gone to waste in the short walk from the subway to the entrance of the tall, glass monstrosity of a skyscraper, but it didn't really matter. Peeta wasn't here to pick up - he was here to be introduced to Plutarch Heavensbee, Christopher Boggs and Alannah Paylor, his new bosses.

Well - technically, Cinna's new bosses for this project, but as he was lead architect, it flowed onto him as well.

"You good, Peeta?" Cinna asked, brushing a hand absently down his black jacket. It was the man's standard 'final meeting' outfit - black suit, black tie, black shoes, black shirt. The only hint of colour was gold stitching on the breast pocket of the jacket, so subtle you hardly noticed it.

Peeta had come to think of it as Cinna's 'lucky' outfit, because every plan he finalised when wearing it invariably blew the client away when the project was done and dusted.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Good. They just have a few questions around the final layout of some of their offices for the renovation. It's just a shame Cressida couldn't make it," he mused, referring to their lead interior designer.

Peeta nodded - they'd already gone over this a million times back in the office - and stepped towards the elevator banks. "I don't blame them for wanting a refit, to be honest. I don't think this place has been renovated since Clinton got into office."

"You were barely in high school when Clinton got into office," Cinna said wryly, stepping into an open elevator.

"Doesn't mean I don't know architecture and design from that time when I see it," Peeta grinned, pressed the button for floor 13.

"Why do you think you're here?" Cinna replied with a chuckle. Their exchanged smile spoke more for their friendship than their relationship as boss and employee, and they rode the rest of the way up in silence.

They spent more than an hour inspecting the offices that would be renovated more extensively, those of the partners and a few up and comers. The final office Peeta studied wasn't a coveted corner, but it was the next best thing. The windows looked out across the street, affording a view of the hustle and bustle below - tourists, cab horns blaring, cyclists weaving in and around the cars lining the road. This office needed clean lines, simplicity. He wanted whoever it was who worked in here - Cassandra Mere, he noticed from the brass nameplate on the desk - to want to drink in the outside, to swivel her seat around to see the action below. Not look at some boring, pastel watercolour on the opposite wall like she did now, he thought, as he turned and screwed his nose up at it distastefully.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was smooth, cultured, though it had an element of huskiness that was appealing. Peeta looked up at the door, and the blonde outlined in the frame. Her perfectly highlighted blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in glossy waves, and a body that had curves in all the right places was sheathed in a simple sleeveless, navy dress that should have looked frumpy but was anything but.

"Sorry," he apologised, sliding his left hand into the pocket of the stone grey suit he wore. "I'm with Cinna and Associates, and I was-"

"Mentally wanting to rip the watercolour off the wall, right?" She smiled winningly, stepped across the thick, beige carpeting until she stood beside him at the window. She rested a hand on the glass, obviously not caring about the fingerprints she'd leave behind. "I much prefer looking out the window at the people."

Peeta raised an eyebrow in amusement as they locked gazes. "You must've read my mind, because all of that was exactly what I was thinking." He extended his hand, was rewarded with her own slipping into his almost immediately. Her skin was soft, her nail polish a pale, pearlescent pink. "Peeta Mellark."

"Cassandra Mere. Though my friends call me Cass."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cass." He lifted the corner of his mouth in a slight smirk, waited for her to correct him for using Cass when they very obviously weren't friends.

She didn't.

"And you too, Peeta," she replied simply. She glanced back down at the street below, and he took a moment to admire her profile - the almost aristocratic nose, the perfectly proportioned lips, the faint remnant of a scar on the curve of her jaw. He wasn't going to lie - she was damned attractive. And something about her made him want to make a move, made him want to forget his self-imposed rule to never date a client.

"I think you need an office that reflects you," he started.

She turned to face him, curiosity clear on her face."Really? And what would that be?"

He rocked back on his heels as he glanced around the room. "Clean lines. Your desk would be dark wood, almost a cherry, as would the shelves on the far wall. You'd want that watercolour to be replaced by something more...abstract. Bright. It would be in blues and greens, and the low slung armchair under it would be a dark grey. Nothing too ornate or over the top. But none of that would really matter, because you'd shift your desk so that it's perpendicular to the window, and every time you wrote, you'd glance out the window." He glanced down at her hand. "I'm assuming you're left handed, of course."

Cass smiled as she held up her hand, the offending ink staining the side of her palm. "Very good. But I thought you were an architect, not a designer." He raised an eyebrow at her comment, and she shrugged. "What can I say? When I was told C & A was doing the refit, I googled the team."

He couldn't help the frisson of pleasure knowing that she'd looked them up already, but he nodded nonchalantly, kept his famous composure in check. "I am. But I still like to think about the details," he replied simply, then turned back to the window, shook his head at the drab blinds that framed it. "There'd be no drapes or blinds. You'd want to see this view every day, and there's no point buying something you'd never use. This view is the first and last thing people will remember when they think of your office." Then he glanced back at her, smiled slightly. "Other than you, of course."

Cinna had always told him that he had a way with words. That while his designs were what won clients, it was the easy charm he possessed in spades that always got them over the line. It never hurt that he was affable, kind and friendly, of course. But Peeta's strong sense of communication, his way of knowing what to say - and when, and how - was a huge attribute in his career, and his life.

It also helped him to secure a drinks date at a bar in the West Village with Cass Mere for the following Friday.

And it certainly helped when, 6 months later, she enthusiastically said yes to the elegant diamond he got down on one knee to present to her.


He'd already hung the apron up on the hook, had grabbed his wallet and keys and shoved them in his back pocket when Katniss swung through the kitchen door. They'd managed to avoid each other for most of the morning, and he'd been looking forward to nothing more than to getting out of there and going home. He was tired and annoyed - he'd stayed up most of the night before kicking himself for doing the stupid icing thing. He was fairly certain all he'd done was make a fool of himself.

So right now, he just wanted to go home, hibernate and forget the whole thing had happened.

"Uh, hi," she muttered.

"Hi," he replied shortly. "I'm heading off. Is there something you needed?"

Katniss nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. "Uh, no. Not need, or anything. But I wanted to know…"

"Yeah?"

She took a deep breath, and he could see her shoulders rise up so high they almost hit her ears. "I used to go out for a Friday night drink with Finnick and Annie. They're not so keen these days. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Don't be dense," she snapped with a scowl. "I'm asking you if you want to go for a drink. At The Hob."

Peeta wasn't sure if it was shock or surprise that caused his jaw to drop. "You want to go for a drink. With me."

"I was offering to go for a drink with a co-worker, and you're it because Rue isn't old enough yet. But whatever, forget about it." She glared at him, turned on her heel back to the door.

He'd spent 5 years avoiding this, and the temptation to say no was real and strong. So he was surprised when something else entirely slipped from his lips. "Yes."

Katniss stopped, turned and glanced over her shoulder at him. "What?"

Shit. "Yes."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll meet you there at 6. Tomorrow night."

"At 6." he echoed, and with another nod, she disappeared through the door back to the shop front.

Alone in an empty kitchen, Peeta wondered what the hell had just happened - and whether maybe his shitty attempt at a move the day before had actually kind of worked.


He felt half a dozen sets of eyes swing towards him as he stepped inside The Hob. In all the time he'd lived in Quarter Mile Bay, he'd never been inside the bar, and he studied the interior with a practiced eye. It was nothing spectacular - a lot of wood, a few seascapes on the wall, some counter seats and a dozen high-top booths. But it was comfortable, gave off a friendly vibe.

Or at least, Peeta figured it did when people weren't staring at him like he had three heads.

Intentionally not catching anyone's eye, he moved towards the last booth, sat on the side that left him with his back to the rest of the room. At least this way, he didn't have to watch as they burned holes into his back.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, answered an email from Cinna's assistant, did a quick check of the weather on the app. Rain was predicted for later that night, and all of the following day.

Perfect.

The beer slid across the tabletop, and he looked up in time to see Katniss drop into the booth opposite him, her hair pulled back in a ponytail instead of her standard braid, and wearing the faded leather jacket he normally saw on one of the wall pegs in the bakery. "Hope you like Tracker," she said simply, tipping her head towards the beer.

He lifted the bottle, studied the label. "Never heard of it."

"It's local to where I lived before here. They've started to really promote it the last few years; it's gaining some popularity."

At Katniss' words, Peeta shifted the bottle so he could see where it was from. Panem. Huh. He'd stayed a night or two there years ago, back when he was on his...drive of rediscovery. Before he'd settled up in the house on the hill.

"I've been to Panem," he admitted. "Not long before I moved here."

"Really? That's interesting," Katniss replied, and he didn't know if she was being sarcastic or honest.

"Yeah. It was...alright."

"Sure."

Silence - what seemed to be their go-to form of communication - reigned supreme as they drank their beers.

"Another?" Katniss asked, once both their bottles were sitting empty on the table, along with the tattered remains of the label Katniss had torn off of hers.

"Sure," Peeta replied as she stood up, and he pulled a twenty out of his wallet. "Here, I'll get this round."

Katniss took the note without a word, slid out of the booth and headed to the bar.

He only realised he'd watched the sway of her hips as she walked away when his gaze slid up and collided with the redheaded bartender who was giving him the evil eye.

"What's his problem?" Peeta said bluntly as Katniss arrived back with their drinks. He flicked his eyes back over to the bartender, and Katniss followed his gaze as she lowered into her seat.

"That's Darius. Grew up here."

"That's good and all, but why am I getting the stink eye from him?"

Katniss shrugged. "I dunno. He's been trying to get me on a date for ages." She sipped at her beer, and Peeta watched as her eyes widened the moment her words set in. The bottle fell abruptly from her lips. "Not th-that this is a d-date," she sputtered.

This time the pull he took of his beer was slow, long, leisurely, and he smirked slightly. "Not at all," he agreed.

"He, uh, just doesn't know you, I guess."

"Very true." He sipped again, and for some reason, the discomfort in her posture and the horror in her eyes gave him an odd sense of confidence. "Actually, neither do you."

"Huh?"

"You. You don't know me very well."

She scoffed. "You hide out in your man cave, so no one knows you very well. I think half the people in the bar are still in shock from seeing you in here."

Peeta leant forward in his seat. "Then ask me."

"Ask you what?" He watched as the lines between her brows appeared, as though she was confused.

"A question."

"What kind of question?"

"A question about…the deep stuff."

Katniss rolled her eyes. "Like, what's your relationship like with your mother?"

He felt his lips twitch at her quick response. "No. I was thinking more about…favourite colours."

Katniss turned the bottle in a small circle on the table, studied him curiously. "Alright. Pretty lame, but whatever. What's your favourite colour?"

"Orange. Like the sunset," he replied promptly, then shifted in his seat. "Now you have to tell me yours."

"Green," she muttered. "Like in the forest."

Peeta nodded, then leant backwards, stretched his legs out under the table. "See, we know each other better already." He smiled, rather pleased with himself.

"Sure," she agreed, sipping at her drink again. He noticed that a gentle flush was creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks.

Maybe, just maybe, he mused, the charm everyone used to tell him he had was still inside of him, just waiting for a chance to get back out.

He prepared to settle himself in for another drink.


A/N - Thanks for reading, for your follows, favourites and reviews. You can find me on tumblr, under sponsormusings, where I spend a lot of time...procrastinating ;)