Author's Note—I continue to be overwhelmed and encouraged by the incredible response and lovely reviews to this story. Thank you, and thank you to the guest reviewers as well, to whom I can't personally respond.

As always, thanks to iLoVeRynMar for her love and support. All mistakes are mine.

~*~Chapter 10-The Date~*~

Only a few girls come up to me and congratulate me on a good game. Most of them sneer at me or ignore me entirely. I don't care. Petty jealousy isn't going to kill my mood.

As tempting as it is to roam the gardens and enjoy the beautiful weather, when Annie asks me if I want to go back to our rooms, I agree.

"If I couldn't win, I'm happy it was you," she says.

"Thanks," I reply.

"You were really good," she continues. "More games like that and Glimmer and Cashmere and Madge are really going to have to watch their backs." We climb the steps to the main terrace, where two guards open the doors for us. The stocky blond one definitely ogles both of us as we pass through, his lips curved in a predatory smirk. I narrow my eyes at him, but Annie doesn't seem to notice his leering. She keeps going on about what the prince might have planned for my evening with him. I try not to get too caught up in her fancy scenarios. I'm sure I'll be dining with him and the only question I have is where I'll be eating with him.

When we reach our wing, however, Annie clams up and pauses at the top of the landing, smoothing her hair back and looking down at her dress. She runs her tongue over her teeth and offers me a little smile when she notices me watching her.

Officer Odair stands between Annie's door and the room next to hers. He flashes those dimples at us as we approach. "Afternoon, Lady Katniss," he drawls. "Lady Annie. Heard there was quite the croquet match out on the lawn just now."

Annie nods, her eyes lighting up as she tells Officer Odair all about my performance. He cuts his gaze to me when she finishes.

"Alone time with the prince. Very valuable this early in the competition," he says, winking at me. I know he's alluding to my rooftop meeting with the prince, but he doesn't say anything more.

"How did you fare?" he asks Annie. She shrugs, her pretty face morphing into a playful pout as she describes her near win in her group.

They look so comfortable standing together, chatting like friends, that I excuse myself and cross the hall to press my thumb to the panel beside my door. I don't think either of them notices that I've left when my door shuts behind me.

It's hard to contain my surprise when Lavinia arrives at my door an hour later, bearing a tray with my dinner on it. She doesn't seem to notice my confusion, as she places the tray on my nightstand and leaves the room without a word. I guess I'm not dining with the prince after all. He must have something else planned for our date.

I activate my screen and set it to a beautiful image of a forest then eat my dinner in silence. It's pheasant, moist and tender. I barely have to chew it; the meat melts on my tongue. Gale and I have caught pheasants occasionally, but they've been gamey and tough. This is heavenly.

My thoughts linger briefly on Gale. I wonder if he's snuck beyond the fence to hunt since I've been here. Probably. He hunted before he knew me. My absence isn't going to stop him.

Cinna arrives just as I've wiped my mouth and set my tray aside.

"I knew my girl would be a force to be reckoned with," he praises. "Lethal with a croquet mallet, huh?"

I grin and shake my head at him. "It's nothing compared to a bow." And then I freeze, realizing that's not something I should be broadcasting to anyone from the Capitol. But it slipped out so naturally, and I know it's because I feel so at ease in Cinna's presence. He's already become as much of a friend to me as Annie.

If Cinna caught my comment, he doesn't say anything about it and he doesn't press me to elaborate. He merely smiles and says, "You're making quite the impression, Lady Katniss."

"Cinna," I hedge, my conversation with the prince last evening flitting through my consciousness, "would you call me Katniss?"

He knits his brows. "I think that can be arranged."

I don't expect him to agree so readily and I launch into an explanation. "I know you have to use the title in front of Effie and Octavia and the others, but—"

He laughs and holds up a hand. "It stays between us, Katniss. You have my word. Now, let's get you ready for your time with Prince Peeta."

"Do you know where I'm going?"

"I do." His golden eyes gleam mischievously before he ducks into my closet. I follow him and lean against the doorjamb, watching him bypass all my dresses. He grabs something off a hanger on the bottom rack and hands it to me.

"Pants?" I run my hand over the fabric. It feels like my hunting jacket, but a hundred times more supple.

"The prince requested that you dress comfortably."

"I'm allowed to wear pants?"

He grins. "You're allowed. The prince said whatever you wanted. I figured this would be what you wanted."

Cinna doesn't let on where it is that I'm meeting Prince Peeta, but he makes a remark about making sure I'm warm enough when he layers a long open sweater over the sleeveless lace top that he pairs with the pants. He apologizes for the heels that he shoves in my direction and swears they're comfortable ones. I bite back a comment that 'comfortable heels' is a contradiction.

There's a knock on the door several moments later, but instead of my prep team sweeping inside, I'm shocked to find Officer Thresh standing outside, conversing with Officer Odair. Both guards smile at me.

"Good evening, Lady Katniss," Officer Thresh says, bowing. "If you'll come with me I'll see you to the prince. He's ready for you."

Cinna sidles up to me, flounces my hair a little with his fingers, and whispers, "You didn't need them for this." He's read my mind about the absence of Octavia and company without me saying a word. "You look perfect."

Swallowing, I quietly thank him and follow Officer Thresh into the hallway. As he leads me away from my room, my stomach swirls with nerves. I've been alone with the prince twice now, but this feels decidedly different. Attaching that word—date—to our meeting tonight probably has a lot to do with that.

Officer Thresh leads me to a part of the palace that would appear to be subterranean. I shiver and wrap my sweater tighter around me as we descend another set of stairs. It's cavernous and echoey, far from claustrophobic, but I can't prevent myself from thinking of the mines back in 12. I've never liked the idea of being underground. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and my heart kicks my ribs a little.

We approach a set of massive doors, where another guard stands sentry. He's massive, about the same size as Thresh, and he appears to be older than Thresh, too. This guard gives me a warm smile and exchanges nods with Officer Thresh. The older guard raps his knuckles on the doors twice. They swing open immediately.

Prince Peeta steps forward. "Thank you, Thresh, that will be all." His words may be directed at Officer Thresh, but the prince's eyes don't leave me. His gaze travels up and down the length of my body once, his mouth toying with a smile as he studies me.

Officer Thresh departs obediently, and as soon as his footsteps retreat, Prince Peeta brings my hand to his lips. "Hi," he says, finally allowing his smile to break through.

"Hello, Your Highness." As I start to curtsy, I feel his hand curve around my right hip, halting my movement and bringing me closer to him. I gasp in surprise at the close proximity of our bodies.

"Peeta. And no curtsies. I thought we talked about that," he scolds.

"Oh, I thought…" I try to peer past him into the room, shaking my head slightly, "I thought that since this was a date, they would be filming and—"

"No cameras for this," he interjects. "The croquet match was my idea, a spontaneous one, and I told production while they could report on it, it was not to be shown, nor would any part of my date with you be televised. There are just some things that I deserve privacy for. My first real date is one of them." He says something to the guard who remains in place, and then closes the doors and holds out his arm to me. "Shall we?" I link my arm through his and clutch his arm. His sweater is plush to the touch, like rabbit's fur, and underneath the soft fabric I can feel the strong muscles of his biceps.

As he leads me into the room, my jaw drops. It's a theater. A massive screen takes up the entire length of the rear wall. Lights built into the ceiling have been dimmed, casting the room in a warm golden glow. There are two rows of individual seats, eight leather recliners in all, and two large leather couches sit behind those. I'm so entranced by the sight that I don't hear whatever it is that Peeta says to me and I have to ask him to repeat himself.

"I said you look very beautiful."

"Oh. Thank you. You, um, look beautiful too…I mean, you look really handsome." I can only laugh at my idiotic rambling and try to play it off, but when I look over at Peeta, he's gazing at me with empathy in those big blue eyes.

"You know, Katniss, it's okay if you're nervous. I am too."

"Please," I scoff as we stop in front of one of the couches, "you don't get nervous. You've been nothing but calm and composed every time I've seen you."

He takes my hands in his. They're not as warm as I would have expected. They're damp and a bit clammy. "Perhaps. But up until now, you and I have met as allies. This is our first date. Guys get nervous when they're with a girl that they really, really like."

"Did you just say you like me?" I ask, blinking at him.

His lips curve into a little half-smile, and he looks down at our joined hands. "Yeah, I did. Because I do. I was so happy when you beat me this afternoon, Katniss. There isn't any other girl here who I'd want as my first date. I've been waiting for this for a long time."

"I'm really the first girl you've ever had a date with?"

He nods and, still holding my hands he guides me down to sit beside him on the couch. "What about you? This is your first date too, right?"

I stare at him, a little surprised that he'd even ask such a question. He has to know the rules and things that girls of reaping age were subject to in the districts. We were asked to swear under oath that we had never been courted by a man. A girl has already been sent home for not being a virgin. But maybe in asking me so casually he's hoping that I'll slip, if in fact I haven't been truthful? I know in 12 there were plenty of rumors of girls who broke that rule. While they dutifully avoided public courtship they did plenty of things in private. The slagheap has long been rumored as a meeting point for clandestine lovers.

Me, however, I can honestly say that I've never been alone with a guy—other than Gale and his brothers. My hunting trips to the woods with Gale could never be construed as a date. As illegal as they were, they were a necessity, a means of survival. I know that people have always whispered about our closeness, but it's always been easy to shrug off such silly gossip.

"Katniss?" Peeta stares at me, clearly waiting for my answer. I feel heat race across my cheeks.

"I've never been on a date before, no. But even if it wasn't against the law, I wouldn't have been interested in being courted. I didn't give it a second thought until the day my Reaping envelope showed up at my house."

He gives a soft laugh. "Funny, how different we are in that respect. I thought of nothing else."

"Because you have all this," I say, extricating one of my hands from his grip and gesticulating at the lavish theater in front of us. "It's easy to think about trivial things when you don't have a worry about where your next meal is coming from or if your house will be warm enough in the winter."

"I guess it depends on your perspective," he replies, looking pensive. "For me, this is anything but trivial. I've known my entire life that this was how I was going to find my wife." His thumb starts to move slowly along the inside of my wrist. It's a light touch, but little tingles radiate up my arm.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I know. It's okay. We've led very different lives." He shifts closer to me and his thumb continues its ministrations, journeying a bit further up my arm. "Tell me about your family. I know you have a sister you adore, but what about your parents?"

"What about them? What do you want to know?"

"Well," he begins, "I know most of the men in 12 are miners. Is your father a miner?"

"He used to be." Unconsciously, my finger drifts to my hair and I start to twirl it.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, if you're not ready to share yet," he says gently. He motions towards my hand. "You do that thing, with your hair…when you're nervous. I don't want you to be nervous, Katniss." I drop my hand hastily, stunned that he's so perceptive about such an insignificant thing.

"I'm sorry. It's just…I don't know that I've ever talked about it. Back home, everyone knows. I've never had to explain it." I take a deep breath. "Do you remember several years ago, there was a mine explosion in District 12?"

He nods. "I remember. It was devastating. That was the last time I visited 12."

"You've been to 12?"

"Yeah. My father had me go along with him for the memorial service that was held for the deceased. So your father, he was in the explosion?"

"He was. He was one of the lucky ones. He only lost a leg, not his life. But things haven't been the same since." I explain to Peeta how there's not much else for unskilled laborers to do in my district. Merchant boys are apprenticed at an early age, learning the trades of the businesses that they will one day take over from their fathers. Everyone else pretty much accepts the fact that his destiny is deep beneath the ground.

"After the accident," I continue, "my mother was too busy taking care of my father as he recovered. I had to step up and do a lot more to provide for them, and to make sure Prim was taken care of. The two winters following the explosion were particularly brutal. Horrible weather. Supplies didn't get through. Food was scarce."

Peeta is quiet as I speak, but when I pause to collect my thoughts and take a breath, he clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," he says simply.

"For what? It's not like any of it is your fault." Actually, I know if Gale were here, he would say the way we live in 12 is absolutely the fault of the monarchy and the Capitol, and therefore, Peeta is partially to blame. I've listened to Gale rant about it enough. He's always grousing that things need to change, but nothing I've seen in my sixteen years has made me believe that changing Panem is ever a realistic possibility.

"I just…" Peeta looks remorseful, ashamed almost. "I just never realized that so many were struggling. Now I see why you were so concerned about the cheese buns."

I glance down at my hands, one of them still trapped between Peeta's, and I feel badly that I've turned the mood so somber. Some date I am.

"Were there really times that you didn't eat?" he asks quietly.

As if on cue, a door to the left of the screen opens, and a maid steps inside, bearing a large tray. She approaches us, sets the tray down on the table beside the couch, curtsies, and retreats. The heady aroma of butter and chocolate invades my senses when I inhale.

Peeta gives me a sheepish grin. "Impeccable timing. Guess that's what you call irony, right?" He finally lets go of my hands and reaches behind him. He holds out a mug to me. A ribbon of steam pipes from a small hole in the mound of whipped cream.

"What is this?" I ask, cupping my hands around the mug and taking another deep whiff.

"Hot chocolate," he replies, grabbing the second mug. "A completely decadent treat that's been a favorite of mine since I was young."

"It sounds delicious," I say, hoping I sound enthusiastic enough to ease any guilt he's feeling over the luxuries he's enjoyed. I lift the mug, feeling the warmth of the beverage before it hits my lips. I take a tentative sip.

Oh my gosh. The rich, creamy sweetness floods my mouth. It teases my tongue and glides down my throat. There's a hint of something that lingers after I swallow; something spicy, but not a hot kind of spicy.

"It's so good." I'm practically moaning, but I can't help it. I take another sip. Peeta watches me, an amused smile replacing his contrite one.

"What? What is it?"

"You just…" He raises his hand to my cheek and very gently, his index finger brushes my nose. He brings his finger down and shows me the tip. "You had a little whipped cream on your nose." My hand automatically comes up to feel my nose.

"I got all of it," he assures me, wiping his finger on a linen napkin he retrieves from the tray. He passes one to me, and remembering Effie's advice, I unfold it and lay it across my lap, thanking him as I do.

He continues to watch me, carefully sipping from his own mug as I savor another long swig of the creamy drink.

"You really like it?" he asks, when I lower the mug and lick my lips.

"I love it. Prim—my sister—she would love it even more. She has a bigger sweet tooth than anyone I know." Not that she has ever truly able to indulge it. Cookies and cakes are practically nonexistent in our house. When Lady yields a good draw of milk, goat cheese and apple tarts are about as indulgent as we get.

"I like that smile you get on your face when you talk about your family," he says, setting his mug back down on the tray. I drain the last drops from my cup and he takes it from me. "Well, shall we start the movie?"

"Whatever you'd like," I reply.

He shakes his head at me. "This is your date too."

"I don't know much about movies," I admit.

"There's not much to know about them." He chuckles softly. "You just watch them and enjoy them—hopefully. I have seen some bad ones."

I hesitate, not sure if I should really continue to bring up the stark contrast in the things he's been exposed to here and the lack of luxuries and amenities that I'm subject to living in 12. Our television programming is limited to news broadcasts, Capitol Reports, and the annual special that airs on Sovereign Day, the anniversary of the establishment of the kingdom of Panem.

"I trust your taste," I say.

"I'll try not to break that trust, then," he replies, grinning, as he stands and walks over to a large paneled cabinet. His back is to me as he stands still for a few seconds, then suddenly the huge screen flickers to life. The lights above us dim, bathing the room in a hazy blackness. Not total darkness, but so dim that I can only make out his silhouette as he walks back towards me.

"I know I said this once already, Katniss, but I'm so glad that it's you here with me tonight," he says quietly as he settles next to me on the couch, pulling something into his lap. He balances the large bowl on his thigh. "Please tell me that popcorn is something you have in 12."

"Oh, yes, sometimes."

"Help yourself," he says, offering the bowl to me.

I pop a few pieces into my mouth and nearly have to close my eyes. The flavors dancing on my taste buds are such a contradiction: salty and sweet with a slight hint of what I think is cinnamon. As with most of the things I've sampled since arriving in the palace, it's nothing like what I've had at home. The corn that Prim and I have popped has always been plain. Once or twice we've had butter to melt and drizzle over the kernels, but usually it's dry and thus sticks in my throat.

I take another handful and let the fluffy kernels dissolve on my tongue as Peeta explains the general plot of the movie that's beginning on the screen. I listen politely, but it sounds a lot like those fairy tales I used to read to Prim—sounds nice in theory but it's just not reality. Which I guess is the point.

It doesn't matter. I find that just being in Peeta's company is good enough. After a while, he asks me in a hushed whisper if he can take the bowl away. Though I could probably polish off the rest of it myself, I allow him to do just that. I lick the remnants of salt and sugar off my lips and dab at the corners of my mouth with the napkin. Peeta takes that from me, too, and sets it aside with his.

There's a kind of muffled creaking sound, which I realize is the leather of the couch as he shifts closer to me. Then I feel a soft weight on my shoulders as Peeta's fingers come to rest lightly on my upper arm. My breath catches.

"Is this okay?" he asks, the question tumbling out in a hushed whisper.

I remember what Seneca told us about not refusing the prince anything. I wonder if that's part of the reason Peeta seems to seek permission for everything he does—he knows I can't very well say no. But having his arm around me doesn't feel wrong. Without the hot chocolate and popcorn in front of us, I can smell that spicy scent emanating from him. His scent. It makes me want to burrow further into his warmth.

"Katniss?" he asks again, an edge of uncertainty in his inflection.

"Ah…ah, yeah, it's…it's good. It's okay." I hear him exhale and feel his body relax. His free hand reaches for my left hand and entwines our fingers. That increasingly familiar tingling shoots up my arm and spreads through my chest. It settles there like mist, hovering, dissipating through me. It's a pleasant sensation. I feel deliciously calm and weightless all of a sudden.

When Peeta's fingertips start to rub slow circles on my upper arm, I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder. I can't help but think about how nice this is. How nice Peeta is. Privileged or not, he's either a very good actor or he's just that good at heart. I could get used to this.

And I guess I do, because the next thing I know, Peeta is quietly murmuring my name. My eyelids flutter rapidly and when I raise them, I have to squint a little because of the lights. The screen is black. I jerk upright and smooth my hair back, working up some saliva to swallow. I fell asleep. I fell asleep on the prince. His first date and the girl falls asleep on him—literally on him. Heat swarms my cheeks and my stomach drops.

"I'm so sorr—" He raises a hand to me.

"It's quite all right. You had a long day. And hot chocolate can have that effect. Besides, I kind of liked watching you sleep. You looked so peaceful, so happy."

I tug on my lower lip and drop my eyes, my embarrassment not fully quelled by his reassurance.

"We'll just have to keep it between you and me that I put my date to sleep."

"Oh, gosh!" I bury my face in my hands, but before I can fully wallow in my mortification, he gently pulls my hands away and holds them in his.

"I'm teasing you. This night is better than I could have hoped for. I'm not ready for it to end. Would you like to go for a walk with me? That is, if you're not too tired."

"No, no," I say hastily. "I'm fine. A walk would be great. You're sure we're allowed outside this late?" It must be after ten by now, possibly even later. And I remember what Officer Thresh said that first night, about the prince being on the grounds at night.

He pulls me to my feet and smiles down at me. "I have my ways. Come along."

As he leads me down the corridor, I keep waiting for him to use that thing on his wrist to contact one of his guards, but he doesn't. We also don't go the same way back that Officer Thresh used to bring me down. When we pass a wide flight of stone steps descending even further underground, I nod towards them and ask Peeta where they lead.

"Dungeon," he replies, and clasps my hand tighter.

"Palaces really do have those?"

"A necessity, I'm afraid. More of a holding cell than anything, really, until the offender can be sentenced. Most of them are then transferred to the prison in the Capitol. The ones who stay here…" he falls quiet for a moment, "they're the ones who get dealt with swiftly, and harshly."

I don't need much of an imagination to conjure up images of what he's alluding to. There have been many times where we were ordered from our houses and told to report to the main square. There, some poor soul was given a very public punishment in front of all of 12. These were usually whippings, but occasionally a thief would have his or her hands cut off. In a few extreme cases, our attention was directed to the Justice Building, where a screen would project the execution of the accused from other districts—nearly always 8 or 11. The offenses were always lumped under the universal offense of treason. Further details were almost never provided.

"Don't worry about it," he assures me, squeezing my hand firmly. Still, a shudder skates through me as we pass the staircase, and shortly after, we come to another flight of stairs, not too steep and very windy. When we reach a small landing, Peeta presses his thumb to a panel on the wall and it slides open. I gape, and he laughs softly.

"Just have to know where to look." He has to stoop a little, but I realize, with a start, that the air is getting considerably warmer. Peeta pushes on another panel, and a moment later, he and I are standing under the inky night sky.

"Unbelievable," I whisper, shaking my head. Prim would definitely be enchanted by the idea of secret passages.

"Yeah." He laughs again. "Between the passages and the safe rooms, the collective paranoia of my ancestors is all over this place."

"Safe rooms?"

"You'll learn about them soon enough," he replies cryptically. "Let's talk about something more interesting. Like you."

"I'm not that interesting."

"Yes you are. We got a little off-topic earlier when you started to tell me about your family. Tell me a happy memory, something that makes you smile. I like seeing you smile."

I blush, not used to all these compliments, however little they are, as I comb my mind for a memory that's suitable to share with him. Most of my happiest times have been in the forest or the meadow, but I can hardly admit to breaking the law by slipping under the fence, often having to sneak back in after curfew.

I decide upon the story of how I got Prim's goat for her, because it was a good day. I have to change some details here and there, because again, to tell the whole story would implicate not only me in breaking the law with my illegal hunting but I would also incriminate Gale and the butcher and those others who trade with us in the Hob.

I've never been a good liar, but it's easy enough to omit the detail of where I got the money for Lady and play up how injured the goat was. I exaggerate the extent of the lame goat's injuries, placing her nearly at death's door so it sounds as if the Goat Man was desperate to unload the pathetic creature. I tell Peeta that Prim has always been a bleeding heart for injured creatures, having nursed her mangy pet tabby cat back to health when she found it skulking, homeless and decrepit, in our yard one night.

"She gets it from our mother," I offer, "this need to nurture and heal."

"What about you?" he asks, arching a brow at me.

I hesitate. Not me. I don't heal. I wound. I kill.

"I'm more squeamish than them," I answer. He smiles sympathetically, seeming to like that response. He's probably been trained to see that as a desirable quality in a girl.

As we walk through the gardens, the muggy night air settles over us like a shroud. I start to feel very warm. Peeta must get hot as well, because when we reach a small clearing in the garden not unlike the one where I spied him speaking with Haymitch (for all I know it's the same one, but I can't tell for sure without the vantage from my window), he pauses to pull his sweater over his head. I nearly gasp, until I see he has the polo shirt from earlier on underneath. It rucks up slightly with his movements, offering the briefest glimpse of his flat stomach. The shirt slips back down into place before I can get a closer look. He raises his arms again to lay the sleeves of the sweater around his neck, knotting it loosely just below his throat. I watch his forearm muscles flex and am struck once more by how strong he appears.

I have no idea if it's proper etiquette for me to remove my clothing in front of him, but I'm suddenly feeling even warmer than before. It's a relief when Peeta motions to my sweater and smiles, a little shyly, and offers, "I'll gladly hold that for you, if you'd like to take it off." Gratefully, I shrug off the sweater and pass it to him. He drapes it over the crook of his elbow and moves towards the bench. I follow him, taking a seat on the stone, which is cool in spite of the sticky heat. I still feel warm as we sit beside one another, and when I take a deep breath, the air is heavy as it fills my lungs. Peeta's scent invades my senses.

He nods above our heads. "There are a lot of stars out tonight."

"That's nothing," I reply, sweeping my eyes across the sky. "You should see how many you can see in 12."

"Really?" He sounds intrigued as I explain to him about how black the night gets with absolutely no light to interfere.

"I assume it's true about any of the districts though," I supply, venturing a guess that none of them have the kind of electricity that the Capitol enjoys. Peeta has to know about the rationing.

"When I was very young," he says, his eyes trained above us again, "I liked to sneak out into the gardens after dark and lie in a small patch of grass on the east lawn, near the edge of that copse of trees." He gestures off in the distance with one hand. "I'd stare up at the sky for hours, connecting the stars to make pictures in my head, and then I'd make up stories to go with them."

"I used to do the same thing with my father when I was younger, before his accident," I say. "But he didn't make up the stories himself. He would tell me the ancient tales from long before the Dark Days."

"Tell me one. You did such a lovely job with that goat story." His voice has a pleading edge to it, reminding me a little of Prim, when she was very young and would beg for 'one more story' before bedtime. But Prim as a toddler is a very different audience than the future king of Panem.

"I don't think—" I start to protest, but Peeta is nothing if persistent as he fixes me with those blue eyes, and there is only so much resistance I can offer. I consider which of the stories I know the best. I settle on the story of Cygnus the swan, since it's about a king. Peeta listens to me, rapt, and though I sneak the occasional peek at him, I largely keep my eyes trained on the stars as I talk.

"You're an excellent storyteller. I enjoyed that," he murmurs. I lower my eyes and am surprised to find him incredibly close to me. His gaze wanders to my mouth. Before I can even think about the way he's studying me, I feel his lips, soft and warm and hesitant, sort of nestle between mine, pressing lightly. I've never been kissed before, so I have no idea how to respond.

But I don't get the chance. He draws back and lets go of my hands, jumping to his feet. My fingers automatically move to touch my lower lip. There's a pleasant tingling feeling where his mouth just was.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and then he grabs my sweater from the bench and holds it out to me. "We, um…I should get you back to your room. It's getting late."

"O-okay," I stammer. I get to my feet and take my sweater but I don't put it back on. Clutching it in my hands keeps them from trembling. I'm not sure why I'm shaking. He offers me his arm, still a gentleman in spite of whatever has caused the abrupt change in his mood. We walk in silence back towards the palace. My body hums while my mind races a mile a minute. Did I do something wrong? Or maybe…did he not like kissing me—if you can really call the short peck we shared kissing? That humming feeling gets stronger.

We reach a door—not the same one we had emerged from earlier, though—and once we're inside, the surroundings are not familiar. A sleek metal door that looks entirely out of place embedded in the stone wall glides open. Peeta gestures for me to enter, and I realize it's an elevator. He follows me inside and presses a button. He evades my eyes for the very short ride. I chew on my lip, my confusion mounting.

The door slides open as we come to a stop. The guard standing in the corridor is the same one who was outside the theater.

"Officer Boggs will see you back to your room, Lady Katniss. Thank you for a lovely evening." Peeta bows to me, and he's gone, disappearing around the corner, leaving me in stunned silence.