Author's notes: I know it's been a while, but writing this story probably took its toll on me this last month and I felt kind of blocked. HUGE thanks to papofglencoe for betaing and for being freaking awesome!


I don't know how long we sit there, me leaning on his shoulder and his head lightly resting on mine. His voice hasn't broken once, and he seems surprisingly composed, considering what he's told me. I don't know how to respond. I've never been good with words, but right now I'm at a complete loss. What do you say to someone who has lost everything? To be honest, I'm surprised that he's still functioning at all. How do you not let the darkness consume you after something like that? But now is not the time for questions; he's already told me more than enough.

"I'm so tired, Katniss."

I grab his hand, bringing it to my lips and kissing his knuckles. His eyes have been locked to the floor the entire time, but now he looks at me. His voice may have been steady, but the tears on his cheeks and the redness in his eyes tell a different story; the sight is almost enough to break me too. But I have to stay strong for him. I stand up, not letting go of his hand, and start walking to the bedroom. He follows easily, and as soon as we're inside he sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. It's dark outside; the only light is coming from the street lights. I quickly check my phone for the time. Almost midnight.

I've always seen Peeta as strength personified, physically and mentally, but watching him like this makes me see him in a new perspective. I don't think less of him, instead I find it extremely courageous to show me this side of him, and it makes me love him even more. Wait, love? No, I can't afford to think about that right now, when this is about Peeta.

I settle on my knees behind him, bringing my hands to the front of his shirt and unbuttoning it. After the last button, I glide my hands from his neck and slide the shirt off his arms. He doesn't say anything, but he makes no effort to stop me either. I take it as a silent cue to continue.

"Lie back," I instruct, and he complies. When he rests his head on the pillow I get a glimpse of his eyes again, and I can't stop myself from moving my hands to both sides of his face and stroking his cheeks with my thumbs, removing some of his tears. I wish removing his suffering was as easy. He closes his eyes, and I lean forward to kiss his eyelids, trying to kiss his pain away. I pull away and start unbuttoning his pants, and he lifts his hips to help me slide them off. I swiftly remove my own jeans and sweater, leaving only my underwear and a T-shirt. When I lie next to him, Peeta pulls up the covers, cocooning us both, and I rest my head on his shoulder with my hand on his chest. But he motions for me to move on top of him. At this point, he could've asked me for anything and I would've gladly given it to him. He puts his hands on my waist, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so fucked up, Katniss." And for the first time today, his voice breaks.

"None of this is your fault," I try to console him, but I know it's just a platitude. I drag my fingers through his hair. "Let's just rest, okay? You don't have to say anything."

"Okay."


I'm stirred awake by the sun lighting up the room; I forgot to close the blinds. Next to me, Peeta's still sleeping. During the night we've shifted so he's hugging me, pressing his chest against my back and his arm protectively looped around my waist. I'm glad it's Sunday, allowing us to sleep in. I carefully remove the covers to get up and shut the blinds, trying my best not wake up Peeta.

"Where are you going?" he rasps. I can hear he just woke up.

"I'll be right back," I respond, swiftly closing the curtain before returning to Peeta's waiting embrace. I place my head on his shoulder and my arm around his neck. He gives me a tight hug and only lets go enough to still hold me close, his hand on my back. He kisses my hair, and I let out a contented sigh when I feel his lips on me. The proximity of our bodies makes my heart speed up, and I feel the blood pumping through my veins. I curse myself for how my body reacts to his touch, knowing that this is not the time.

"I'm sorry for being such a mess," he croaks. Why does he keep apologizing for something he doesn't have any control over?

"None of this is your fault," I repeat my words from last night. Maybe this time they'll stick. He doesn't respond. "This is not on you. It's on her."

He moves his hand to the side of my face, gently stroking the shell of my ear. "Thank you," he breathes.

"Is Cashmere even her real name?" The words are out before I can stop them. How can I ask such a stupid question in this delicate situation? "I'm sorry, that was inappr..." Peeta puts two of his fingers on my lips, stopping me.

"It's okay. I don't mind." He pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up a little. "No, it's not. Her first name is Cassandra, but she thought it was too ordinary in high school. So she took the first part and combined it with the first part of her middle name, Meredith."

"Hm. Clever."

"Yeah," he says, turning his head away. I put my hand on his cheek, gently pulling it back so that I can look into his eyes. They're not red-rimmed anymore, but it seems like he's somewhere else. My heart goes out to him, wishing there was something I could say or do to make him feel better. It couldn't have been easy bringing all those memories back to the surface.

"Is there something I can do?"

"No. Just stay here with me."

"I'm not planning on leaving." I don't know if I'm talking about this particular situation or in general, but he doesn't say anything. I instinctively raise my head and give him a peck on the mouth, our lips barely touching, but there's so much emotion in that small gesture. There's something comforting about him always being so warm, like a fireplace. It makes me feel like I'm exactly where I should be.

I continue giving him light kisses down his cheeks and the side of his neck. When I reach his arm I notice his tattoo and kiss it too. Cor Coriolis. Charles' heart. Why didn't I make the connection sooner?

"Can I ask you a question?" I whisper.

"Anything."

"Was she…?" I hesitate, not knowing if it's my place to ask. "Was she named after you?"

He exhales. "I don't know. I haven't spoken to Cashmere since..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but I know what he means.

"Okay." I don't want to pry anymore than I already have, so I just let my head rest on his arm and we both fall silent. After a while Peeta starts breathing heavily, having fallen back asleep. I can't help but feel like he's avoiding the topic, but knowing what a big step it was for him last night, I let him have this one. Maybe he'll be more comfortable talking about it later. I probably won't be able to fall asleep again; I usually can't, but Peeta's light snores are kind of relaxing, and soon I'm feeling drowsy again.


I'm surprised that I managed to fall back asleep, but this has been no ordinary weekend. When I wake up, someone is staring at me. I turn my head to meet Peeta's gaze.

"Hey," I greet him with a smile.

"Hey." I check the time on my phone, 8.32 am, and when I turn back to Peeta he quickly moves so that he's on top of me. I'm unprepared and let out a yelp at his sudden motion. "Didn't I tell you? I was a wrestler in high school."

"No. But that explains your flexibility." Feeling his body pressing me into the mattress makes me all fuzzy inside. "Why don't you put that to good use?"

A mischievous grin spreads across his face, and I raise my head to meet his lips. I put my hands around his neck and drag him toward me. "Do you have… any… condoms?" I manage to ask between kisses.

He pulls back, a look of concern on his face. "Yeah. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I promise," I say, planting a kiss on his mouth for good measure.

"Okay."

He pulls out a condom from his drawer, and I'm amazed at how quickly he puts in on. "You're fast."

"I'm glad speed impresses you," he winks.

"So fucking sexy," I let out, ignoring his comment and guiding him to my entrance. "I want you, Peeta. I need you." It's the truth; I need him like I need air. How can I have lived so long without him in my life?

Without hesitation, he pushes into me and his cock feels incredible, filling me up. I meet his thrusts, urging him to go faster. He understands my meaning and pushes into me deeper and harder, driving me closer to the brink.

Peeta comes first, and after he's stopped shuddering he finishes me off with his fingers. I feel privileged that he thinks my orgasm is just as, or even more, important as his own. And I love him for it. I can't deny it any longer. The way he has lit up my world, showing me that even if you've been through hell, things can be good again. There's is no question about it. I love Peeta Mellark.


I can't decide. Should I wear my hair in the usual braid or down? Normally, I wouldn't care, but I'm nervous about meeting Peeta's parents. Peeta's assured me that I have nothing to be nervous about, but I can't help it. He's in the bathroom, taking a shower. I would've joined him, but my nerves are keeping me from doing anything productive in there. Besides, this past week we've christened every surface both here in his apartment and at my house. I'm certainly not complaining, but I can't help but think that he's avoiding what we talked about last weekend. I know it was a big step for him, so I haven't mentioned it again. Yet.

The Marimba tone from my phone breaks my reverie, and the screen shows a number I don't recognize. Normally I don't answer those calls, but I'm waiting for the hotel in D.C. to confirm our reservation.

"Hello?"

No one answers, but the line is open. I can hear there's someone on the other end.

"Hello?" I say again.

"Katniss?" I know that voice.

"Delly?"

"Hi," she says tentatively. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

I'm not sure how I should respond. She's not on the list of my favorite people, and I have no desire to talk to her. "It's okay."

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for what I said. About me and Peeta, I mean." Her voice is shaky; I don't know if she's on the verge of crying or only nervous. Maybe both.

"Exactly what are you sorry about?" I may sound cynical, but I need to know if she's sorry for what she said or for Peeta finding out.

I hear her inhale and exhale. "I know that what I said sounded like there was more between Peeta and me then there was. And I'm sorry for making you believe that." She sounds sincere. Maybe I should let her off the hook. She sounds genuinely sorry, at least.

"Have you talked to Peeta?" He hasn't mentioned it, so I assume she hasn't.

"Not really. He's constantly giving me the cold shoulder. He won't even look at me." She sounds dispirited. For good reason.

"Yeah, he was pretty hurt, I'm not gonna lie." I know she probably doesn't want to hear it, but I think she needs to know that he wasn't only angry, but hurt too.

"Do you think… Do you think you could talk to him?"

"I don't know. I don't want to get stuck in the middle of this." I don't want to be the mediator here. If Peeta doesn't want to forgive her that's his prerogative. He's been betrayed more than once, and if he doesn't want to risk getting hurt by her again, I wouldn't blame him.

"Could you at least wish him a happy birthday from me?"

I don't hear the water running anymore, and I don't want Peeta walking in here and getting the wrong idea. "Yeah, I have to go." I end the call before she has a chance to respond.

"Who were you talking to?" I whip my head around and see Peeta entering the bedroom, a towel hanging low on his hips. I consider shrugging his question off, but I have to be honest with him.

"It was… Delly." He stops dead in his tracks on his way to the drawer.

"What did she want?" He tries to sound indifferent, but the way his shoulders tense up gives him away.

"She apologized."

He straightens his back and seems to ponder it over. "Good." Then he starts going through his drawers.

I walk over to him, hugging him from behind and resting my head on his back. He's still wet from his shower, and the water is probably washing away my make-up, but I don't care. I can reapply it later.

"She wished you a happy birthday," I say against his skin. He scoffs and continues going through his clothes. "She seemed remorseful."

"Yeah? She should have thought about that before she started spreading lies," he says in mild annoyance, walking to the bed where his shirt lies. He slumps down next to it, and I approach him, putting my hands in his hair and pressing his forehead gently to my stomach.

"I'm not telling you what to do, Peeta. But I don't think you should hold on to that anger."

"You sound experienced," he states.

"Yeah. Do you know how long I hated my mother?" He doesn't answer, only raises his head to look me in the eyes, giving me a quizzical look. "After Prim died, she blamed me for her death, thinking that since she couldn't be there to emotionally support us, that task fell on me. And I failed."

"And now?"

"I haven't forgiven her, but everyone copes differently with loss. Our relationship is down the drain, but I don't want to spend more energy on her than I have to. Especially when I can spend it on someone else." I try to give him a reassuring smile. "Hear her out, then decide how to handle it? Not for her sake, but for your own."

"Maybe you're right." He stands up to give me a kiss on the lips. "I'll think about it okay?"

"That's all I ask."

"But let's not focus on Delly right now. It is my birthday after all," he says with a playful grin, leaning in for another kiss.

But I pull my head back, denying him the kiss. "You mean to tell me that your birthday blowjob this morning wasn't enough for you?" I try to sound offended, but I'm probably returning his wicked smile.

"Oh, it was good, alright." He nibbles my earlobe, sending a heat wave through my entire body. "But you've worked up my appetite." It takes every ounce of willpower in me to back away from him. "We have to leave like..." I check my wristwatch. "Like now, if we're not going to be late." If we had the time I would gladly let him take me right here, right now.

Peeta takes my arm and looks at my watch, letting out a disappointed sigh. "You're right."

"Are you sure it's okay to bring Sanders?" I've already asked a dozen times, but it feels weird bringing a dog the first time you're at someone's house.

"Yes. Aaron and Rye have already met him, and Dad loves dogs."

"And your Mom?"

"She'll cope." He plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. "I'll handle it. I promise."

Peeta's parents live in the suburbs in a wealthy community, and the drive there takes about twenty minutes. We take my car, but since Peeta knows the way to their place, he drives. When we're almost there, Peeta turns down the volume on the radio.

"Listen. Mom doesn't know about… about what happened," he almost whispers. I wasn't planning to talk about it, but I'm glad he gave me a heads-up.

"Okay. But the rest of your family does?"

"Yes."

"How come you didn't tell her?" I hope he doesn't think I'm snooping.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, turning his knuckles white. "She's not the most... approachable person. She really liked Cashmere, so when we broke up she assumed I had done something wrong. And if she found out about this, I know she'd find a way to blame me for it."

"She doesn't seem very supportive."

"She's not," he deadpans, like he's accepted it a long time ago.

"Why?"

He lets out a humorless laugh. "Rye is one year older than me. Do you really think I was planned?" He looks at me briefly, then back to the road. "I'm a missed pill, a broken condom, whatever they were using. I'm an accident, an inconvenience at best."

How can he think of himself like that? How has his mother managed to destroy the self-worth of a person who can light up the entire room simply by being there? I already don't like the woman.

"It doesn't matter whether you were planned. A parent should always love and protect their children, no matter what." I don't realize what I said until the words are out. Peeta doesn't say anything at first, keeping his eyes on the road, but I know I hit a sensitive spot. He already thinks he failed as a parent by not being able to protect Charlie, and now I just implied that I think so too. Smooth. I don't know how to follow up on that without making it worse so I stay silent.

After a couple of seconds Peeta breaks the awkward silence.

"I think she loves me. I just don't think she likes me very much." His tone is dejected, like he's convinced himself that he doesn't care. But I guess it's ingrained in us to want our parents' approval. "We're here," he announces before I have the chance to respond. We pull up the driveway to an enormous house; it could easily accommodate four of my own. The walls are made some dark brown wood with the boards running vertically, and some of the windows go all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

I stare at it in awe as Peeta exits the car and walks around the back to let Sanders out. He opens the passenger door. "You wanna go inside or…?" He extends his hand for me to take, and he holds it as we enter the house, Sanders trailing behind us.

"Peeta!" A man somewhere in his fifties pokes his head through a door opening, and there's no question that it's Peeta's dad. They have the exact same jaw and nose. "Hold on."

Peeta offers to take my coat, and I don't miss how his fingers trace my arms as he slides it off me. His dad returns with a woman by her side, which I assume must be his mother. The resemblance isn't as striking as it is with his dad, but I can see similarities he shares with her too; her eyes are practically identical to Peeta's.

"Katniss, I presume?" Mr. Mellark asks with a heart-warming smile I recognize. I've seen the same one on Peeta so many times.

I hold out my hand. "Yes, it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Mellark." Fuck. Can I sound anymore generic?

He takes it and gives me a firm shake. "Please. Mr. Mellark is my father," he jokes. "I'm Marcus. And this is my wife Connie."

"It's very nice to meet you too, Mrs. Mellark."

"Yes, it is," she responds curtly, and I feel like she's assessing me, scrutinizing every inch. It's a little uncomfortable, to say the least.

"I know Katniss is hard to take your eyes off, but I can't help feeling a little left out here," Peeta says, managing to shift his mother's attention from me to him. Thank you.

"I'm sorry, son. But you've got such a lovely girl here, that you kind of fade in comparison," Marcus winks, but immediately embraces Peeta. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks, Dad."

When they part, Mrs. Mellark gives Peeta a kiss on the cheek and also wishes him a happy birthday. No one seems to have noticed Sanders sitting by the door behind me.

"This is Sanders," I announce, moving aside. At the sound of his name his head perks up, and he starts wagging his tail. "He's very calm, so you'll hardly notice him," I try to to assure them, still feeling a little awkward bringing him here, despite Peeta's assurances.

Mr. Mellark drops down to greet Sanders, and I immediately notice his uncanny resemblance to his son. Peeta's appearance is a mixture of both his parents, but his mannerisms and posture are solely his dad's. I'm not sure how long we stand there, but suddenly the door opens behind us, revealing Peeta's brothers.

"You are aware that this is a pretty big house, right?" Rye says. "Everyone doesn't have to stand right inside the door."

"Johanna isn't coming?" Peeta asks Aaron, ignoring Rye's comment.

"No, she had to work," Aaron replies quietly. He keeps his eyes downcast, making me doubt he's telling the whole truth.

"Okay." Peeta looks disappointed, but Mrs. Mellark seems pleased. I haven't met either of them for an extended period of time, but I doubt Johanna and Peeta's mom would get along.

The dinner runs fairly smoothly. Apparently Peeta's baking skills come from his father, but his talent for cooking is his mother's doing.

"So." Aaron begins. "Is there a reason that Sanders is following Peeta's every move?"

I try to stifle a laugh, remembering the conversation Peeta and I had about this."Yeah. Apparently Peeta 'drops' a lot of food while he cooks."

"I figured it was something like that," Aaron smirks, throwing Peeta a look.

"Hey. Give me some credit," Peeta defends himself.

Mrs. Mellark has been very quiet during the meal. I don't know her, so maybe she's always that way. "If you ever have kids, Peeta, you're gonna spoil them rotten."

Her comment is innocent, considering that she doesn't know, but to Peeta, it's venom.

"Probably," he mutters. It seems like neither of us knows what to say or do, but Mrs. Mellark doesn't notice her son's inner turmoil.

"I think we're ready for some cake," Mr. Mellark announces, clumsily trying to smooth things over.

"I'll get it," Peeta offers, quickly standing up.

I grab his hand before he leaves. "Let me help you."

He nods, and we grab the plates from the table, walking to the kitchen. It's the longest walk I've ever taken, but fortunately, the kitchen is in another part of the house, so they can't see or hear us from the dining room. As soon as I've dropped the plates in the sink I walk up to Peeta. He's standing with his back to me, clutching the backside of a chair.

I don't know how to handle this, so I don't say anything. I just hold him, hugging him, trying to convey with my embrace that I'll always be here for him when he needs it. We stand like that for a while, and his grip on the chair loosens as he lets out a long breath.

"Thank you," he says, turning around and putting his hands on my face.

"For what?"

"For being here," he whispers, bringing our lips together. I put my hands on his arms, eagerly returning the kiss as his tongue brushes against mine. Reluctantly, I pull away before it gets too heated.

"I think we have to go back before they start to think we're doing something else in here."

At this, the corners of his mouth turn up a little. "You're right. Rye would never let me live that one down."

When we return with the cake, everyone except Mrs. Mellark looks tentatively to Peeta, like he's a ticking bomb. He doesn't seem to notice, putting the cake in the middle of the table.

"Looks good, Dad."

"Thank you." A look of relief settles on his face. "Still not as good as yours, though."

"I know," Peeta winks.

"Peeta, don't brag," Mrs. Mellark scolds him. I want to give her a piece of my mind, but I don't want to make a scene here, so I settle for a glare her way. Unfortunately, I don't think she notices.

"It's a joke, Mom," Rye responds. "You know—humor? You should try it sometime."

Instead of answering, Mrs. Mellark purses her lips, and I don't miss the subtle nod that Peeta gives Rye. After that the mood around the table feels a little lighter, but Mrs. Mellark occasionally throws crude and unnecessary remarks—I don't think painting is a real career choice or why don't you get car of your own, Peeta? But everyone seems used to it, and no one calls her out on it.

"Katniss, when will you finish your degree?" Mr. Mellark asks.

"I'll defend my licentiate thesis in a couple of months, and after that it's probably about another two more years."

"Katniss is really smart," Peeta says, squeezing my hand under the table, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck.

"Peeta, do you know what Cashmere does nowadays?" Mrs. Mellark chimes in. His hand, still over mine, goes still at her question.

"No."

"Why not?" she questions.

"It's been a while since we broke up, Mom," he sighs, not raising his eyes from the plate in front of him.

She slowly shakes her head. "I don't understand why you let her go."

Peeta sighs again, loudly, as if to make a point. It's obvious that it's not the first time she's made this comment. To be honest, I can't really blame her; Cashmere is probably a way better catch than I am, and Mrs. Mellark doesn't know what transpired between her and Peeta.

"Connie," Mr. Mellark says, putting his hand over hers and giving her a knowing look.

"Fine," she says, sounding exasperated. "I just don't understand."

"Do you really want to know?" Peeta erupts. "Do you really want to know why?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Okay, here's the truth." He stands up, as if getting ready to leave. "She's a lying, manipulative bitch. That's why I don't talk to her anymore."

Peeta's mom just stares at him, apparently in shock.

But Peeta continues. "And I don't appreciate you talking like Cashmere is the best thing that ever happened to me when Katniss is here, proving you wrong."

Everyone around the table is silent; not even Rye says anything.

"Peeta, I only have your best interests at heart."

At this, I cannot sit idle anymore. "You do?" I challenge her.

"I don't think this is any of your business, Katniss." She says my name with disdain in her voice.

"I think it is," I counter. "I'm sorry, but how can you put down your own son like that?" All eyes are on me, which was not what I had intended. But the insults she's thrown Peeta's way this entire evening put me completely off, and I can't help myself. "He's the most kindhearted man I have ever met, and everything that's come out of your mouth tonight has been nothing but veiled insults. It's his birthday, for fuck's sake." I probably should have left the cursing out, but this woman infuriates me.

Peeta grabs my hand and pulls me to the front door.

"I'm sorry, Peeta. I didn't mean to ruin your birthday like this," I say to him, but I don't know if it helps. His look is fierce, and I think I see anger behind those stunning blue eyes. I have accused his mother of ruining his birthday, but I think I had equal part in it.

"Let's just leave," he says. "Come on, Sanders."

The ride back is strained. I don't even know if he's planning on dropping me off at home, or if we're going back to his place instead. He grips the wheel like his life depends on it, and he doesn't speak until he's parked the car.

"I'm sorry. I'm not angry. It's just… It's so hard to talk about, and I almost told her the truth back there. I needed to leave."

I put my hand on one of his. "It's okay." I can't imagine what he's going through, not wanting to tell his mother the truth but still wanting to shut her up.

"No, it's not. You deserve more than this. You deserve more than me."

"That's not true, Peeta, and you know it. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want to."

"Maybe you're right," he whispers, laying his head against the headrest for a second before exiting the car.

We walk silently up to his apartment, and as soon as we step inside, closing the door behind us, he gives me a long, searing kiss.

"I, ah..." he hesitates. "You can go to bed. I just need some time. Is that okay?" he asks carefully.

"Do you want to be alone? I can leave if..."

"No, I want you to stay," he interrupts me, sliding his thumb across my cheek.

"Okay, I'll stay."

"Thank you." He takes off his coat, hanging it on one of the hangers by the door. "No one has ever stood up for me like that." He turns around, facing me. "I just want you to know how much I appreciate that," he says sincerely.

Instead of answering I plant a kiss on his lips, hoping it will convey the depth of my feelings. Feelings I can't voice just yet.


I can't sleep. I'm tossing and turning in a lame attempt to cool down. But I know that the only thing that will help me sleep is Peeta. He's still in his studio; he locked himself in there not long after we came back. It's no use trying to sleep, so I decide to join him—if he'll allow it.

There's some light shining through beneath the door, so I gently knock.

"Peeta?" He doesn't answer, so I open it. He's apparently lost in thought, because he doesn't notice me at first. "Peeta?" I repeat. This catches his attention. He's wearing his glasses and they frame his face perfectly.

"Hey. Can't sleep?"

"No, I'm lonely."

The corners of his mouth reveal the hint of a smile, but that's it.

"What are you painting?"

"Nothing in particular. I'm just doodling, really." I don't believe that for a second. Peeta's idea of 'doodling' is probably the same as anyone else's best work.

"Can you… Can you teach me?" I ask, hoping I'm not intruding on his privacy.

"Yeah, sure. Come here." I instantly make my way to him, sitting on his lap. He puts a blank canvas on the easel and hands me the brush, holding my hand in his.

"Okay, how do I do this?"

"Close your eyes. Just feel. And let your hands do the talking."

This is such an intimate moment. Peeta's letting me in his most personal space, the medium in which he expresses himself, and I feel privileged that he's showing this to me.

I do as he says, and he guides my hand up and down, round in circles and abrupt edges. The warmth of his hands and body spreads through me and at this moment, right now, I'm completely content.

"Okay. Open your eyes," he says tentatively.

What I see on the canvas would have caused me to bolt for the door immediately if it hadn't been drawn by Peeta's hand. It's the most romantic display of emotion I've ever seen. I don't know how I'm supposed to respond, but I know he wouldn't have done this if he didn't mean it.

There's no picture. Only words:

I love you.


Author's notes: As always, I appreciate your feedback so please leave a review or drop me a line on tumblr. I'm maxwellandlovelace.