Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.

I finger the dark blue velvet of the curtain and peer out into the auditorium. Most of the audience has trickled out already. A few stragglers remain, parents chatting with one another as their younger children play in the aisles and their older children interrupt every few minutes to beg for car keys, money, or the chance to just stop waiting on the dull adults to finish their conversations so they can get on with living their lives. A camera flash strobes for a second and the kids complain about the blinding light while the father mutters and glares at the camera while he fixes the settings. The typical end to a night at the school play.

We still have a performance tomorrow night and the final show on Sunday afternoon, so many of the teachers and stagehands have already made their way out to meet up with parents or home for the night. I linger for a second, holding my ballet flats in my hand. They're my go-to dress shoes but years of wear have finally caught up with them. Tonight, the soles separated from the uppers and I'm not sure I'll be able to glue them back in place this time.

It's not my destroyed shoes that's keeping me lingering, though, but the need for a few minutes of peace after the chaos of the performance. And maybe it's also the chance to observe unnoticed the mismatched family still in the auditorium, waiting for someone. I've met every one of them by now, although I still sometimes have difficulty remembering which kid technically belongs with which adult, a problem compounded by the fact that whenever they're all together, they all seem to share responsibilities for the children. Even the unmarried and childless firefighters step up to help.

Finnick Odair, Mr. July, carries a young boy on his shoulders and another squirming under one arm as he talks to Ashton Abernathy, Mr. October's teenage son and Haymitch's nephew. Castor and Dalton, Mr.'s June and March respectively, swing a giggling young girl with pigtails between them, while Pollux - Mr. September - carries on an animated conversation in sign with a boy around eleven or twelve. Thresh, Mr. December, kneels in the aisle and talks softly to one girl to coax her out of a fit of shyness. When he manages to instill some confidence in her, she spews out questions for the leading actress of the night, who answers with a smile. Then there's Peeta, listening as a little girl in pigtails reads from a book. An entire rag-tag family out for a night of theater. Adorable and irresistable. My belly and heart flutter in a strange harmony.

Annie pauses next to me and sighs. "If he weren't such a cocky asshole, it might be attractive," she mutters, startling me from my observation of the family. I glance at her, ready to defend Peeta from the furious look in her eyes, until I follow her gaze and realize that it's not Peeta who's snared her attention but Finnick. I can't blame her ire at him, but having gotten to know him a little better, I know that despite the plethora of t-shirts with sexual innuendos, the arrogant playboy is an act, not the real Finnick. I bite back a laugh as I imagine Annie rolling her eyes at the most recent one Finnick wore: Forget the Fire Truck, Ride the Firefighter.

"He's single, you know," I needle and Annie scoffs.

"He probably can't help it. It's his natural state to play the field." I don't disagree with her. Finnick seems too easy to get and then too easy to lose with his strings of dates who never stick around for more than a few weeks, if that. While I can't deny that he's perhaps the most outwardly sensual person I know, underneath it, he's searching for something more lasting. But I feel like Annie's interest is too shallow to keep her hanging around long enough to figure that out about Finnick and I feel oddly protective of Peeta's family after only a month of official dating.

We fall silent for a moment and my cheeks heat as I feel her eyes focus on me while I try not to reveal how closely I'm watching Peeta. I shift my eyes so they don't linger too long on any one face, but my gaze is perpetually drawn right back to Peeta.

"I dunno," she says. "I think someone more stocky and maybe blond would suit my tastes."

She laughs and shakes her head as mine whips around to stare at her, to decipher her meaning. "Relax, Katniss. I'm just teasing you. So how long has that little flame been burning?"

"Oh, um, he's my neighbor," I manage to say and Annie nods.

"Convenient," she says with a soft smile and a nudge. "You should get home. It's late. I'll see you tomorrow for curtain call."

She leaves me speechless and uncertain as she walks off to make sure the stage crews have finished cleaning up backstage and resetting the sets for tomorrow night. I haven't told anyone at work about Peeta and I, only mentioned in passing to Prim that I was seeing someone. She knew better than to pry after I shut her down at question number one from her, but Annie's response has me wondering what exactly she saw. Is it written all over my face that I've been sleeping with Peeta?

I carefully school my features into indifference and leave the wings, walking down the stage steps into the auditorium.

"Katniss!" the two kids hanging off Finnick like he's a jungle gym squeal in unison and fight their way free to fling themselves at me.

"Well hello there! Did you enjoy the play?"

"We loved it!" Jackson shouts and Jayden tugs on my arm to get me to kneel down.

"I liked the horse," he tells me. "And my tooth is loose!" He grins and wiggles the tooth with the tip of his tongue.

"How did they make that one guy fall? Was he on a harness? I said he had to be but Jayden said he landed on a trampoline or padding and-"

"Alright, knuckle heads. Too much talking ruins the magic," Castor says and tosses Jackson into the air. The boy squeals as he returns to his father's embrace and Jayden grips Castor's free hand.

"Uncle Pollux said we were going to get ice cream," Jayden says and Castor shakes his head.

"He said we'd get ice cream tomorrow," Castor corrects, setting Jackson down and showing his twin sons the signs.

"Oh, right," Jayden says unconvincingly and Jackson elbows him.

"Told you it wouldn't work."

One by one, the firefighters hug me and tell me the kids were great tonight, making me wonder if they were all waiting around to talk to me. Then the group slowly trickles out the doors. At some point, Peeta takes my hand in his and squeezes, Dalton's niece sleepily curled up on his shoulder with her book clutched in her hand.

The fluttering in my middle shifts to a throbbing ache, one that feels primal and timeless, and that I ignore. But the feeling persists, a low hum in the background as Peeta frets over my stockinged but shoeless feet until I wave off his concern. Out into the cool autumn night and to Dalton's car where Peeta helps his precious cargo into her seat. Over to my car and during the entire drive home. Once I've parked, Peeta hurries over to the driver side and before I can protest, he's scooped me and my ruined shoes into his arms.

"I can walk," I say testily, thrown off by this ache inside me.

"Do you want me to put you down?" Peeta asks with a teasing glint in his eye.

"Well at least this is more comfortable than the last time you carried me," I concede as the breeze finds the openings in my coat and sends a chill through me. I snuggle closer to Peeta's warmth, somehow still just as strong and steady despite the fact that he wears no coat.

He uses his elbow to call the elevator. When it arrives, he leans back against the back wall with me still in his arms and smiles at me.

"What's that look for?" he asks, his voice hushed in the small space. I shrug and try to change my expression, but I think I've finally figured out the source of the ache inside me as we ascend to our floor. Insatiable hunger.

"You can put me down now," I whisper. Peeta carefully sets me down with my toes on top of his, my shoes still clutched in my right hand prevent me from touching him the way that I want to, so I settle for weaving the fingers of my left hand through his hair and tugging until he kisses me, softly at first with our eyes still open. My chest constricts with need and I am the one to snap, nails digging into his scalp as I pull him down further and his arms wrap around me, holding me close to him as the kiss flares out of control.

I hear the bell announce our arrival at the fourth floor but neither of us moves, too caught up in each other's lips and arching bodies. The rumble of the door closing snaps Peeta out of the trance and our mouths slant awkwardly as his arm shoots out behind me to stop the door while never once breaking the kiss. We stumble through as it opens again, my free hand yanking on his tie as his hands roam over my hips, lifting my skirt small amounts. We stagger down the hallway, smashing back into my door as I finally get his tie undone, my hands dropping my shoes and grasping at buttons in a frenzy.

"Shouldn't we get inside first?" he asks between kisses and I nod but keep unbuttoning his shirt. "Katniss, keys."

I growl at the reminder but leave his shirt half unbuttoned to dig my keys out of my coat pocket. His lips skim over my neck and ears, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the hallway. When I finally get the door open, we peel away his clothes, leaving a trail from the door into my bedroom. In my haste to get him naked, I ignore my own clothes, and Peeta only manages to get my coat off of me before his knees hit the bed. He sits naked on the edge and pulls me between his spread knees, his hands slowing mine, pinning them at my sides.

"What has gotten into you?" he pants the question, his eyes glazed and his body flushed.

"I want you to fuck me senseless," I tell him, wriggling in his grasp so I can strip the rest of my clothes, needing to keep emotion out of it because I don't understand this response to him. This need.

"In a minute," he says with a smile. "First…"

Slowly, he stands and runs his hands up my arms, I quiver at the caress, impatient to feel the movement of our bodies in the dark. He removes one piece of my clothing at a time, each brush of his fingers on my bare skin a torment. I need the full heat of his palms grasping and clutching. Instead, each delicate touch only makes my need stronger.

But the look in his eyes keeps me from demanding the speed that I want. I've seen a watered down version of this look before, so many times when we sat curled on the couch in silence or quiet conversation, at a baseball game while his teammate dragged him back away from me, on one of our dates while I talked about why one painting in particular had snared my attention. When he thinks I'm not paying attention as we cook dinner side by side. I know this expression and yet the name for it is not something I want said aloud. It's too soon for that, but its effect is no less potent for me wanting to suppress the name of the thing.

As slow as he's moving, my pulse thunders as rapidly. I'm sure he must see it beneath the skin of my neck. Surely he must hear it in the hush of my bedroom. Still, Peeta savors undressing me until I'm down to panties and my thigh high stockings.

"So fucking perfect," he murmurs as his fingertips skim from the lace tops of my stockings up over my hips to my breasts.

"I'm not perfect," I protest, my voice throaty and yet somehow vulnerable. His cock jumps in answer and he smiles, shaking his head at me.

"For me, you are perfect," he says and finally cups one of my breasts, bending to kiss the swell of flesh, slowly work his way in a spiral towards my rapidly puckering nipple. I let my head fall back and enjoy his attentions. Moaning loudly and spearing my fingers in his hair when he finally sucks my areola into his mouth. I shift my legs, feeling the slick arousal coating me, thick enough to start soaking through the satin of my panties.

My knees are weakening and I must sway because Peeta flattens his free hand on my back and presses into my spine so that I am arched and essentially resting on his palm. He trails wet kisses across my chest to the other side, and by the time he's done with that breast, I am a quivering mass of need.

Peeta sets me on the edge of the bed, releasing me to lean back on my palms and watch as he kisses a path down my body, until he's kneeling between my legs and lavishing my thighs with tongue and lips.

"Peeta, please," I whisper and he glances up at me, blue eyes intense and dark with need equal to mine.

"What do you want, Katniss?" he taunts, but his hands tug on my panties until I lift my hips enough for him to slide them off. He leaves the stockings on.

"I want," I say and have to lick my parched lips and swallow heavily before I can finish my request. "Your mouth."

"It's all yours, Katniss," he says with a quirk of his lips and one eyebrow. "Where do you want it?"

I lift my hips, thrusting my groin towards his face and he laughs, splaying his hands on my hips and pushing me back into the bed.

"Explain it to me, Katniss," he says, his palms caressing down to the stockings and all the way to my knees before slowly returning up high. "Explain it to me like I'm one of your students and I need...extra instruction. Be explicit."

My breath hitches at this, and I wonder if Peeta's been having naughty fantasies about having sex on my desk. A teacher's desk. I know I have, but this role play is new to me and I'm not sure how to start.

"Just be honest," Peeta whispers in a much softer tone than the last one he used. It's enough to give me the courage. I spread my legs a little wider and point to the juncture of my thighs.

"I want your mouth there," I say, my voice commanding.

"On your pussy?" he asks, his lips puckering on the p and hissing around the last syllable.

"Yes," I groan, squirming beneath his hands on my thighs, his thumbs rubbing in a slow pendulation. He grins and nuzzles my leg next to his hand. I try to move to get his mouth closer but he pulls back.

"Shall I describe your pussy to you, Katniss?"

"Yes," I beg again.

"What if I don't? How will you punish me?" he asks.

I'm not sure what comes over me, what new boldness this is that sweeps through me and gives flight to the words I say to him next. "I will stand in front of my class without panties every day for a week. And you'll know about it because instead of wearing them, I'll leave the panties in the pocket of your uniform."

"Fuck that'd be so hot," Peeta says, but his mouth finally latches to my folds and I sigh in relief at the feel of his lips on me, of his warm and wet tongue drinking everything I give him. I try to hold still and watch the top of his head, listen to the sloppy sounds of suction as he works my lips with his, to pay attention to the fragmented sentences he uses to describe my taste and how much he loves pleasuring me like this, but there's a low humming in my soul demanding to be answered.

It's when his fingers join the play that the ache begins to coil in my middle. Making me pant and moan. My body undulating slightly as I try to inhibit my motions, but it doesn't matter. This feeling refuses to be contained. Peeta glances up at me and even in the faint light from the moon filtering through my curtains, the blatant passion in his eyes sends me hurtling towards the stars with a shudder and a quick burst of liquid. Peeta moans and I answer with one of my own. He laps at me until I have to push him away, too sensitive to take anymore of his tongue on me.

I scoot back on the bed to make room for him, still quaking with release as he kneels low on his shins and lifts me, settling me on his lap. Our hands work together as we kiss and my eyes roll back in my head at the taste of myself on his lips. His cock parts my folds and I relax my legs so he can lower me onto him.

Bracing my feet behind him on the bed, I intend to help, but he wraps one arm securely around me and grips my ass with the other. Then he lifts me off of him before lowering me back down. Slow and gentle, but with our faces this close, peppering one another with kisses and heated looks, I feel more connected to him than ever before. I feel every inch of him as he slides me over him, hear every hitch of his breath and quiet moan of desire, feel them puffed in warm air over my lips, my neck, my cheek. Taste them on my tongue when we're kissing. I see every flicker of feeling in his blue eyes that rarely stray from my face or waver in their intensity.

This closeness brings that same ache throbbing back to life, to new heights as I grip his hair and pant his name as it coils with each stroke of his cock into me, releases with every retreat. I squeeze my eyes shut as it washes through me, wave after wave of fluttering flames that make my toes curl into the sheets and drag a stuttering moan from deep in my throat.

My back hits the cool sheets as Peeta lays on top of me, his hips still moving, our bellies slick with sweat and sliding against one another with each of his frantic thrusts. I use my hold on his hair to keep his face close to mine so I can kiss him and see it in his eyes when he shatters. He shakes with his own release, hips jerking when I dig my nails into his scalp and chest, leaving crescent marks to claim him as mine. And watching the shift in his blue eyes from desperation to satisfaction and something deeper fills my chest with warmth.

"Katniss, oh," he moans, his eyes sliding shut as he revels in bliss for a moment. Slowly, he sinks into me, caressing lips and nose over my cheek as I let my legs and clenched feet relax. "I love being with you. Every last moment of it."

His whispered words curl through me and I smile stupidly, returning his fervent kisses and enjoying the feel of his weight and warmth on me.

"Why is the virgin always safe in these movies? It's so predictable," Prim complains and I scowl at the smear of color on the flesh of my toe. Since we missed our movie date the weekend of Halloween and the next weekend as well, Prim insisted that we watch a horror movie today.

"Internalized, subliminal misogyny at it's finest," I mutter and dip a q-tip in the polish remover to fix my error and start over. I've never been good at this to begin with, but painting nails while balancing my phone between my shoulder and cheek is a whole new level of girly abilities that I just never mastered. But since my flats bit the dust last night, I'll have to wear the one pair of nice heels that I own tonight, and they happen to be peep toe shoes. So not only will my feet be aching by the end of the night, but I'll be showcasing my gnarly toenails unless I get this stupid polish on.

"It's such bullshit," she says and I smile a little at her annoyance.

"You picked it," I remind her and she scoffs.

"And I'm sure you'll make me pay for it. I think the sun still being up ruins the ambiance. We should've tried this at night."

"I've got the school play," I remind her.

"I know, I'm just being a pain," Prim teases as movement across the room catches my eye. I smile at sleep disheveled Peeta as he emerges from our bedroom, rakes a hand through his hair and smiles back at me with still bleary eyes. Without a word of interruption, he sits on the couch next to me. While Prim continues to chat about the predictability of the plotlines and compares it to the monotony of certain wards at the clinic, Peeta snatches the bottle of polish from my hands and tugs my foot into his lap, propping it on his thigh.

His head bent over my foot, Peeta's face takes on a look of intense concentration, the one it usually adopts when he's sketching. I watch his hands as he swipes the deep red lacquer precisely over my toenail. When all five are covered, he blows gently to dry them a little and then motions for me to give him my other foot. He repeats the process and I melt into the couch cushions. It's oddly relaxing being pampered like this.

"Katniss?" Prim asks and I shake myself free from the trance Peeta's attention has placed me in. "I asked if it's just gonna be you, me, and Mom for Thanksgiving."

Thanksgiving. It's in a few weeks and I'm still a little apprehensive about it. "Probably."

"Thought I'd ask, but I guess Gale will be back here with his family," Prim says. The mention of Gale surprises me, although I suppose it shouldn't. He lives here in the city, too, although we haven't seen much of one another in the past few weeks. I should probably call him today and see if he wants to go out to the woods again here soon.

"What about the guy you've been seeing? Or is it still too soon for meeting the fam?"

"I don't know," I say as my cheeks heat and I glance nervously at Peeta. He continues painting my toes, unaware that he's become the topic of discussion. I have no idea if he's got plans with the other firefighters or if he'd even want to meet my family.

"Oh my gosh is it really that serious?" Prim asks, excitement in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that usually you'd shut that idea down fast enough to make my head spin. So there's a chance of my actually meeting this one?"

"Maybe," I admit reluctantly.

"Ooooooo, I'm telling Mom that you're in loooooove," Prim sing songs and I twitch nervously and press the phone more tightly to my ear. Peeta scowls playfully at me and tugs on my foot, letting me know that my sudden movements are not appreciated before he returns to his task.

"Stop it, you brat," I say to my sister. Thankfully, she takes the hint to drop it.

While Prim and I chat, the movie plays on, and Peeta adds a second coat to my toes. When he's done, he lounges back against the arm of the couch, fingers absently rubbing the soles of my feet while he silently watches the terror on screen as well.

When the movie ends and I've hung up with Prim, he checks the polish on my toes. "Looks like it's mostly dry. Anything you want to do before we grab lunch?"

"Yes, there is," I say, and before he can ask me what, I yank on his shirt and lay back until he settles between my thighs.

"Don't make all my hard work be in vain," he teases as he slides my shorts and panties aside enough to finger me. "Let's see if we can make your toes curl without causing damage. Think you're up to the challenge, Everdeen?"

I wrap my legs around him and wriggle my toes. "More than you know, Mr. May."

Only the real danger turns out not to be protecting my toes but trying not to snort in laughter as Peeta cracks foot fetish jokes while he's balls deep and I'm hanging off the edge of a toe-numbing orgasm while he pauses to make sure my polish is still good then tickles my arches as I come apart, laughing in ecstasy.

An annoyingly shrill ringing pulls me from my sleep. I grumble my complaints and try to burrow further into Peeta's warmth, but he's rolling away from me.

"'Ello?" he mumbles when the racket finally stops. He makes a few more noises, but he's standing from my bed and tugging his shorts back on. I try to rub sleep from my eyes and sit up, but it's a struggle I lose and flop back onto the bed. "Be there in five minutes."

"Where are you going?" I protest when he ends the call. He gathers his clothes into his arms and leans over me.

"Into work. They need another crew for a fire downtown," he says and kisses me. "I'm sorry; I probably won't make it to the play tonight."

"It's okay," I mumble and grab his shirt to steal another kiss before he slips away.

"Thanks for understanding," he murmurs and then heads out the door. A minute later, I hear him shutting his own apartment door and leaving the building. I try for a few minutes to get some sleep, but the bed feels so empty without him in it and the sun's bright light fills the room with the faded warmth of late autumn afternoons. I should get up and eat something anyways, and my growling stomach agrees.

After fixing myself a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and tossing together a small salad with what I've got in my fridge, I sit at the table. I have to nudge aside Peeta's sketchbook and a stack of his pencils, glancing briefly and smiling at his current work. It's a picture of a few of his fellow firefighters, hard at work, although you wouldn't guess that based on the smiles on their faces. Their expressions of joy and togetherness defy the sweat and soot that mars their features.

I chew and swallow and repeat, and despite the fact that my meal is delicious, I find myself restless and shifty. The quiet of the apartment sinks into my bones and whispers of fear. I stand abruptly and turn on some music, if only so I don't hear my own vague thoughts.

Eventually, I shower and dress for the play, heading in early if only to get out of the stifling silence of my apartment. The wind sweeps through the channels created in the spaces between towering buildings. Litter dances forth from the gutters and scatters, eerily illuminated in the orange streetlights. It howls even above the sounds of my engine and the surrounding traffic, pushing my car and making me grip the steering wheel. It's an awful night to be out of doors and I suddenly wish that instead of driving alone to the school play, I was spending it curled up on the couch with Peeta and a couple mugs of hot cocoa.

The chaos of the theater distracts me from my misgivings. They're a vague sort of fear that I can't pinpoint so I channel my energy and focus into getting the kids' vocal chords warmed up, practicing with the small choir for a few minutes, assisting with scene and costume changes, making sure the actors hit their marks on time. Other than a prop being set in the wrong spot, the performance goes well. Even then, the young actress doesn't miss her stride, grabbing a vase filled with silk flowers and tossing the contents aside before threatening her stage husband with it rather than the rubber knife that should have been in place for her.

As I leave the school for the night, I check my phone, surprised to see nothing from Peeta. While I know he's had to respond to a few real fires on his shifts, this is the first he's been called in while technically off duty. Since I don't know what that means, I try not to worry about it, but the choice to not worry only seems to heighten my anxiety. The howling wind that still hasn't died down as I drive home adds to the feelings of unease.

When I get back to the apartment building, I call his phone, just to be certain, but of course, it goes straight to his voicemail. At first, I decide that this is ridiculous and settle on the couch with a book. My mother texts me to verify some detail about Thanksgiving. After I answer and chat with her about a few other things, I can't get back into my book and turn on the TV to mindlessly channel surf for a little bit before I go to bed.

It's a mistake.

Every local news channel is broadcasting the same story. Harried reporters with their hair windblown hold clipboards beside their face or grip hoods to keep them in place in a futile effort to block the wind which fills the microphones with its low scratching tones and drowns out the sounds of their voices so that I can only catch fragments.

Behind them, red and blue lights dance in the night in a frightening rhythm with the twisting and curling fingers of flames that rise from the massive building complex. Violent, deadly, and mesmerizing.

...spreading to neighboring…

...PFD wor... build a fire break…

...attempts to … the blaze…

...six stations have responded…

….trapped…

….weather not cooperating...

It takes me five channels and half an hour of impatient flipping between them before I finally catch one of the anchors in the studio repeating the information given.

"We apologize for the sound quality at this time. If we're understanding Cressida correctly here, it appears that the wind has exacerbated the situation and in an attempt to contain the blaze and keep it from spreading to neighboring buildings, PFD is hard at work building a fire break and wetting the buildings down. However, their efforts are split as we've received reports that three firefighters who were inside evacuating Snow Industry employees are now trapped behind a fallen beam of some kind.

"The firefighters outside the building have radio contact with those inside for now, but as you can imagine, time is critical-"

I mute the damn thing and switch to another station, frantically searching the background for any sign of Peeta. I spot several firefighters conferring near one of the massive PFD trucks and read what names I can, the reflective letters printed on the backs of their jackets glowing in the bright spotlights of the news vans. I catch a few that I recognize - Mason, Dalton, Gloss. I even spot a truck with the number 12 emblazoned in gold over the PFD crest, but no Mellark. He's there somewhere, I know that he is, but as the minutes tick by with no sign of him, helplessness threatens to overwhelm me.

Eventually, I must fall asleep on the couch because I wake with itching eyes and the same story still playing on the screen. Tears burn me and I unmute the television just long enough to hear that they've gotten the fire under control in one section of the complex, but the fire now threatens a building with highly flammable materials inside. Still no luck with retrieving the trapped firefighters and now their oxygen supply is at risk of running out.

I drift between nightmares, unable to discern memory from present. I am waiting at the mines for word of my father, my mother already a distant shell of her former self, as if she somehow knew the man she loved had left this world, blown to pieces. Then I am staring into the fire, it's heat intense on my face, every fiber of my being willing Peeta to survive it, clinging to the insane and illogical belief that since he survived it before, he's somehow impervious to it now. I try to reach across the city blocks, to send him thoughts of cool evenings on rooftops and chilled lips kisses, fresh air gasps to get him through. And I wonder how my mother knew that my father was dead. Does that kind of love link your souls together in a way that defies explanation? Is this stone sinking in my gut and the numbness in my limbs a sign that Peeta's in peril? Already gone? Or am I letting my imagination run wild enough to make mountains of air?

I wander into the hallway, startling when Rowdy barks inside Mags' apartment and then seems to catch my scent. The barks turn to whines and scratches on the door. I hug myself and lean against my door. It was only a day ago that Peeta and I stood right here, frantically kissing and unable to keep from undressing each other before we made it to the privacy of my apartment.

Waiting in the hallway does me no good, so I wipe my nose and return to my couch. On impulse, I call the non-emergency number Peeta gave me for his station, but no one answers. An awful thought occurs to me then. Would anyone tell me if something happened to him? Would they even think to do that? Or will I sit here waiting, like Rowdy does now, day after day, clinging to hope that he'll return? A void opens up in front of me and to keep from plunging head first into it, I force myself to stand, turn off the TV, and do something productive. I take a shower, grade papers and finalize lesson plans for the rest of the semester. I try to sleep but there is no relief in dreams where my father and Peeta burn side by side.

Somewhere in the midst of a nightmare, a dog barks and I drag myself to the surface. Only lucid enough to recognize the sound as belonging to Rowdy, I stumble to the door and fling it open.

For a moment, I believe that I must be looking at a ghost, exhaustion and grief making my eyes burn unbearably. He's kneeling in front of Mags' apartment, his keys and black bag tossed on the ground as Rowdy paws at him and licks his face. Sweat darkens his hair, leaving it gnarled and matted to his head, as though he came straight home and didn't bother to shower before leaving the station.

"Hey," he manages to greet me between slobber filled kisses. "I didn't wake you, did I? He gets upset if I don't greet him when I get back."

I glance back at the late morning sunlight streaming in through the windows to my apartment and cross my arms over my chest. "You greet the dog first?"

"He's more likely to annoy the neighbors with his barking," Peeta says as he stands slowly, bracing one hand on his thigh and wavering a little. He must be exhausted.

"I am the neighbors," I gripe, but Peeta doesn't seem to hear the tense notes in my voice. He snaps his fingers and points through Mags' door. Rowdy obediently goes with wagging tail, having gotten the attention he desired. Peeta shuts and locks the door with the key Mags gave him so that he could help look after her, take Rowdy whenever needed, and apparently share in dog smooches at all hours of the night instead of telling his girlfriend that he's safe and not dead.

Peeta then grabs his bag and walks over to me. "I'd hug you but I'm pretty sure the stench isn't something you want to experience."

I wrinkle my nose as he gets closer and I catch a whiff of rank sweat and something more metallic along with the undeniable, acrid smell of smoke, an olfactory reminder of the danger he was in last night and into this morning. He gazes down at me, his smile faltering the longer we stand there unmoving. He fiddles with the strap of his bag and lifts a hand to run through his hair but seems to think better of it.

"Should I take a shower in my place?" he asks. I can hear the uncertainty in his voice and my better judgment wars with my desires before desire finally wins and I open the door. Nothing happened to him. He's fine. All my worrying and the nightmares amounted to nothing. He waits awkwardly by the door until I start the shower water and sit on the toilet while he peels off each filthy piece of his uniform. While he tests the water, I surreptitiously scan his body for new burn scars, biting my lip when I find none. I don't know what I was expecting. It's not like he ran into the fire unprotected.

"Care to join me?" he asks and I shrug, then strip naked. Usually he would watch, but today he climbs into the shower first. By the time I join him, he's already scrubbed his hair, his head tipped back into the stream and hands working the suds out to wash down the drain. We're silent as we clean ourselves, barely touching as we complete the task. Several times, Peeta opens his mouth, looks as though he wants to say something but then he shakes his head and clamps his lips together.

When we're dried and dressed in clean clothes, he climbs beneath my sheets and closes his eyes with a sigh. Since I barely slept last night, I slide in beside him. We're both out in seconds, but the nightmares don't leave me alone. I keep waking, expecting him to be gone. And somewhere in the midst of sleep, I tell myself that I should just get used to that. To the knowledge that I will lose him.

Eventually, Peeta must feel rested enough because I wake to his kisses on the back of my neck and his hands roaming beneath my shirt. I lay there and let him touch me, detached from the slickness coating my panties. I help him remove the shirt I wear, the one that ironically says Feel Safe at Night...Sleep with a Firefighter. I confiscated it from him after our first date. My body arches into his mouth on my back but it's as though I'm standing in the night, gripping onto a barricade and watching the events unfurl, separated from my body as he peels away my shorts and lifts my leg just enough while I grip his cock and guide him to me.

He moans my name as he enters me. I hold his hand low on my body as he spoons me and fucks me at the same time. And while I feel the build and then the intense release of pressure, I don't associate it with reality. Not until we've caught our breaths and Peeta combs his fingers through my hair, his lips gentle on my neck, my ears, my cheeks, and his semen leaking from inside of me.

"I love you, Katniss," he murmurs sleepily. And I wish he hadn't said it.

"Good afternoon," Peeta says cheerfully as I walk through the front door. He looks clean and mostly rested while I am still drained. "Made you some early dinner."

I stare at the food as it steams on the plates and Peeta pulls out a chair for me with half a smile. "You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to. I'm just sorry I crashed so hard that I missed the last show," he says and jiggles the chair a little in a clear invitation to sit and eat. I flop in the chair because I am hungry. I've barely eaten since my dinner yesterday, too wrapped in worry about him and then waking with barely enough time to dress and race to the school in time for curtain call. Peeta slept through my mad dash so I didn't bother waking him. He must not have slept too long, though, since purple bags still linger beneath his eyes.

"You think you can get by with food bribes?" I mutter as I cut through the creamy pasta with my fork.

"I like to think of it as payment for the stress and shitty sleep schedules. I never really cared for sleeping at the station but the past few months have made it even more of a challenge. I miss sleeping with you those nights. Plus it's not fair to you for me to be stomping in and out at all hours."

My fork scrapes across the plate as I glance up and the stone that's been sitting in my gut since last night claims my attention again. He still hasn't told me a thing about the fire last night. I don't know if he was one of the three who got trapped. I still don't even know if they got out or if they're dead. Maybe he's grieving the loss of friends and hiding it by not talking to me about it. Or maybe he doesn't believe I can handle the stress of his job and worrying about him.

"Anyways, the food's not that great. I had to improvise with what ingredients we had," he says with a smile, but there's something like worry in his eyes and his comment strikes a fuse in me. Improvisation is my primary cooking technique, something I learned when my mother was lost in grief and left her children to fend for themselves. I had to make do with what I had, but it wasn't a joke then and I can't take it as one now.

"I'm sorry my culinary skills leave something to be desired," I snarl and Peeta recoils a little.

"That's not what I meant," he whispers. I search about for something else to be angry at and keep tearing at my food when I find nothing. After a tense silence, Peeta gives it to me. "I know your mom and Prim are coming for Thanksgiving. We're working the soup kitchen that day and I was wondering if the three of you wanted to lend a hand or-."

"Right because nothing says the holidays like publicity stunts," I say and shovel more food in my mouth so I don't have to look at him. I can't pinpoint the source of my anger but I don't try to stop it either. As I left for the play, I vaguely noticed the neglect of my apartment. Dishes in the sink, clutter in the living room, a trail of dirty clothes that never got placed in the hamper. Shades of my childhood brought all the old fears and resentments to the surface.

"Okay," he says softly. "Never mind then, I guess I'll just join you afterwards."

"Who says you're even invited?" I say as I drop my hands so my fork clatters on the plate. Peeta stares at me, wide eyed until his phone dings with a text message. He ignores it, but I can't handle the hurt in his eyes, so I pick up his phone and glance at the text message from his chief, reminding him that he's on shift tonight.

"You just finished an unscheduled shift," I say, my voice dull as I toss the phone in his direction.

"Yeah, but I've been scheduled for this shift for days."

"Can't they find someone else?"

"My whole crew was at that fire. We're all exhausted, but that doesn't change the shift schedule."

"Maybe it should," I mutter. "Call in sick."

"I'll be fine. I'll sleep in between calls," Peeta says carefully.

"I'm not hungry anymore," I say and stand abruptly, but my hand accidentally sends his sketchbook fluttering then crashing to the ground, the pencils clank and scatter, rolling under the table while I turn back to the kitchen to dump my plate in the sink. Which is when I notice that he must've washed dishes while I was gone because it's empty. The small act of kindness pokes my ire further, as though it's a statement on the useless wreck I became overnight. All because of him.

"Are you okay, Katniss?"

The simple question infuriates me. "I'm tired of your shit cluttering up my apartment."

Face wrinkled in confusion, Peeta bends over to pick up the sketchbook and pencils. "I'm sorry. I'll try to clean up after myself a little more. I didn't realize it upset you this much."

"Or you could not leave things here," I say. "I'm not some kind of Suzie Housekeeper here to clean up your socks and make your meals for you."

"I never once expected you to be," Peeta says and I can tell that he's getting angry too.

"Maybe it's my grocery shopping skills you've got a problem with then. I'm sure that girl last week would be happy to keep your pantry stocked," I snarl.

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?" he asks.

"There's no need to swear at me," I hiss and stomp towards the bedroom. His phone starts ringing then and I wave towards it. "Go on, then. Run off to play hero and never mind the shit you leave in your wake."

"Katniss, I don't understand what's going on," he says, silencing the ringtone I know he has assigned to his chief and tossing aside his phone. His eyes are exhausted and red but that fact only angers me further.

"It's called a fight, Peeta," I snap.

"I can see that. I just don't know what it's about."

"It's about your things covering my space!"

"I'll take them out if it bothers you that much!"

"And that girl last-"

"What girl?" he yells, and for a moment I cower because I've never seen Peeta lose his temper before.

"The one who begged you to take a picture with you while we were on a date, Peeta," I say and he runs his hands through his hair.

"Are we seriously fighting over that? It didn't seem to bother you this last week!"

I bite back a retort because I know I have no grounds where that girl is concerned. Peeta had politely declined her request and held my hand as we'd walked away. When we'd gotten back here, I'd pounced on him, riding him until we'd both come undone and collapsed, naked, spent, and disheveled from our sex.

"Well I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to introduce you to my mother and my baby sister when half of Panem has naked pictures of you on their walls and you're the star in their masturbatory fantasies."

"Jesus. If you didn't want me to meet your family yet, then just say that, Katniss. You don't have to pick a fight."

"You assumed that I would want you to meet them!"

"I'm sorry! We've been talking menus and sleeping arrangements the past few days and I thought we..." he shouts back, but there's no bite to it as his words trail off. We stand there, breathing hard.

"Is this about what I said this morning?" he whispers and I shiver. I never said it back to him. I cross my arms and scowl at the floor, willing him to leave this alone. I am picked raw and left open to the burning winds. His phone rings again and I squeeze my eyes shut while he ignores it and the sound drives a wedge between us that he will probably never understand.

"Katniss? Do you even want me around anymore?"

"I think that's pretty obvious," I whisper and shake my head to rid it of the sound of pain in his voice. I am still shaking it when two doors slam between us. First mine. Then his. At least I can't hear his phone ringing anymore.