Peeta pulls me aside into the empty back office as soon as I arrive to work the next morning.

"I'm sorry for being a jerk yesterday," he says sincerely. "I know you were just trying to help."

"It's fine," I tell him. Even if it wasn't, what else could I say? Peeta – and Brody, I suppose, in a weird way – are the only friends I've got at this point, if you can even call them that.

"You sure?" He looks genuinely worried, so I smile, patting his hand awkwardly to reassure him.

"Yeah. It's okay." His eyes flood with relief, but the tension in his jaw doesn't relax. "Are you okay?" I ask, unsure.

The look that washes over his face is nothing short of miserable. Peeta presses the heels of his hands over his eyes, and sighs. His hands fall away and he meets my gaze. "It's just – we never get to do something like that cake. That was a once-in-a-lifetime cake. And I just…fucked it up."

"What happened?" I whisper. A thousand horrifying possibilities run through my head: Peeta dropping the cake, Peeta breaking the cake in half, Peeta spilling food coloring all over the cake…my heart nearly stops when it occurs to me that I could've fucked it up, too. What if I'd used salt in the buttercream instead of sugar? Or cracked an egg in there while I wasn't paying attention?

"I mean…nothing, really," he says, quelling my fears. "I woke up late, I rushed through it, and it looked…fine."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I say, not quite understanding why he's still upset. "Did Mrs. Loggins like it?"

He shrugs, looking down at his hands. "I don't know. Her son came to pick it up without her. But it could've been so much more, you know? It wasn't what I pictured at all." He looks back up at me. "I just had this whole thing planned out in my head…I wanted it to look like waves crashing, like in the book they gave me. All those colors."

I think of the picture book: the blue-green swirl of the sea, the white foam gathered at the crest of the wave. A shiver runs through me at the thought of it. My father taught me how to swim in a lake that's out in the woods, about an hour's walk from the fence, but the ocean is…it's almost unfathomable.

"That sounds beautiful," I say quietly.

"Yeah," Peeta agrees sadly, and I realize for the first time that for Peeta, his work in the bakery isn't just something he's inherited from his family. Decorating the cakes isn't just a fun way to pass the time. It matters to him. That's not something many people in District 12 can say about their livelihood.

"Next time," I say, trying to sound encouraging.

He snorts. "There won't be one. Not while I'm here, at least."

The way he says it implies something odd. "What do you mean?"

Peeta shrugs. "I'm not going to work here forever."

"Like…you're going to get another job?" I ask, confused. "Why would you do that?"

"The bakery isn't mine," Peeta says seriously. "It's Brody's, if he wants it. Really it was Ned's first, but he decided to work at the Justice Building."

It had never occurred to me that Peeta Mellark wouldn't grow up to spend the rest of his life working in his family's bakery. But now that he's said it aloud, I'm not sure how it didn't occur to me before. Supporting their family of five is one thing, but if Brody and Peeta both marry and have children, there's likely not enough business to sustain them all.

"Does Brody want it?" He must; he's old enough that if he wanted a change of career, he would've done it by now.

Peeta shrugs. "I guess. We don't really talk about it." He pauses. "My parents say nothing's official until he 'settles down with a nice girl,' anyway. And he hasn't even looked at another girl since Ava, so…who knows."

He looks down at his feet, wrapping his arms around his torso as though he were fending off a chill. A deep sympathy wells in my chest. For someone who gives so much of himself, Peeta doesn't get much in return.

"But you want it," I say softly.

His lips press together tightly before he answers, "More than anything."

I search for something to say, but in a way it's even harder to comfort Peeta than it was to comfort Prim – because he hasn't really lost anything. Not yet, anyway. "I'm sorry," I tell him.

Peeta looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, blinking rapidly. In the faint light I think I see the shine of tears in his eyes, but it's gone when he looks back down. "Thanks."

Before I can second-guess myself, I slip my arms around his waist in a hug. His arms wrap around me immediately, pulling me into his chest, and I can feel the thrumming of his heartbeat where my cheek rests against the crook of his neck.

He's solid, and incredibly warm. We stand like that, silent, for long seconds. I think back to the time he'd clumsily hugged me in the square, during the Hunger Games, and have to fight back a smile. This is a much better hug.

Peeta shifts eventually, sliding one hand just slightly up my back, and pulls his head back to look at me. He clears his throat lightly. "Hey. Katniss…"

And suddenly, the moment feels too intimate. Our faces are just inches apart; our bodies still pressed tightly together. I have the distinct sense that Peeta hasn't actually shared his feelings about the bakery with anyone else before, and I'm not sure why he'd choose to share them with me. So I panic, and abruptly untangle myself from his arms.

"Um, I think we'd better get out there," I say, brushing nonexistent dust from my shirt, avoiding his eyes.

He makes a weak attempt at a smile. "Yeah. Thanks again, Katniss."

Peeta's admission bothers me all through my shift. If Brody does assume ownership of the bakery one day, where will that leave Peeta? I don't think Brody would ever leave his brother out on the street, but if they both had wives and children to support, would he have any other choice?

Although it's probably unfair, this new information alters my perception of Brody. It seems cruel, almost, to string Peeta along with the hope that Brody will bow out and take a different job like their eldest brother did. So when Brody blocks my exit at the end of the day, I'm not exactly in a mood to put up with it.

"Can you move?" I say sharply, crossing my arms over my chest.

Brody just raises an eyebrow in surprise, folding his own arms over his chest to mimic my own stance. "What are you doing Saturday night?" he asks casually.

Sitting in awkward silence with my mother and Prim. Skinning rabbits. Sleeping. That would be the honest answer. But it's also an embarrassing answer, and I'm too tired to come up with a lie, so I just tell him, "Nothing."

"Perfect. It's my birthday, and I'm having a party. You should come."

I freeze. That's not what I was expecting. "Oh…I…can't," I say, trying to sound genuinely sorry as I attempt to edge around him towards the door.

Brody doesn't budge an inch. "Why not? You just said you're free."

It's times like these that I hate being such a bad liar. I definitely don't have plans Saturday night, especially now that hanging out with Gale is no longer an option. "I just…look, I don't know any of your friends. I wouldn't know anyone. It would be weird," I tell him honestly.

"I'll be there," Peeta pipes up from behind me. I turn to look at him, and he smiles brightly. I think again of this morning, how he'd been so close, and my stomach tightens for one brief, strange moment.

"I don't know your friends, either," I point out. It's not entirely true – I know who they are, having spent twelve years in school together – but I've never spoken a word to most of them.

"They won't be there," Brody says, very matter-of-fact. "They're all mad at him for breaking Violet Plumwell's heart."

"Shut up, Brody," Peeta snaps. He softens a little as he turns his attention back to me. "He never invites my friends, anyway. So I kind of need you to keep me company."

I look back at Brody, narrowing my eyes. "I feel like you're tricking me or something," I tell him suspiciously.

He lays a hand over his chest, as though he's been wounded. "Katniss. Come on. You don't consider me a friend? After all this time?" I don't answer, and the longer I'm silent the more dramatically he staggers, finally falling back against the door.

I roll my eyes. "Alright. Fine. If I say yes, will you let me go home now?"

"Only if you promise."

"Okay, sure. I promise."

Brody steps aside, sweeping his arm before the doorway. I brush past him with a glare.

I actually forget about Brody's invitation until the end of my shift that Saturday, when Peeta says, "See you tonight, Katniss."

I stop in my tracks. "Hmm?"

"Brody's birthday? You're still coming, right?"

Well…damn. "Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I am."

He smiles. "Glad I reminded you."

After that, the dread builds in my stomach all evening until I've nearly convinced myself that I'm too sick to go. But I have no way of telling the boys that I'd suddenly fallen ill in the few hours between work and their party – and I promised to come, after all.

I've never been to a Merchant party – never been invited to one, even. The only parties I've ever really attended were celebrations in the Seam: big, family gatherings where everyone brought a dish to share, and the mothers gathered and gossiped, and the fathers passed around a bottle of white liquor and cracked jokes, and the children ran and screamed and played tag while the teenagers tried to sneak a swig of the liquor on the sly.

I have no idea what to expect out of Brody's party…but definitely not that.

Prim mostly ignores me that evening, her nose buried in some old medical book as I make dinner and pull on clean clothes. I try braiding my hair in a fancier plait than usual, the way my mother does for special occasions, but I give up in frustration after an hour and too many pulled hairs to count. Whatever. It's not like anyone there is going to care how I look.

It's not until I'm lacing up my boots by the front door that night, about to leave, that Prim wanders to my side. "Where are you going?"

"Just some dumb party for Brody," I mumble, double-knotting the laces.

"A party for Brody?" she repeats. "So like…a party with Merchant kids?"

I straighten up and shrug, acting more casual than I feel. "Yeah."

She eyes my outfit critically. "You probably shouldn't wear that."

I follow her gaze down my front, from my black t-shirt to the loose brown pants tucked into my hunting boots. It's a comfortable outfit, and clean – but I suppose I can see how it might not be the most appropriate for a party with people who haven't spent the last decade on the edge of poverty. "Well, it's not like I have a whole wardrobe to choose from," I point out, a little testy.

Prim stares at my boots for a moment, lost in thought, then shakes her head. "Why don't you just borrow one of Mother's dresses?"

I make a face. "It's not the Reaping, Prim."

"She has plenty of dresses you could wear. Come on."

Normally I'd just brush her off and leave dressed as I am. It's not like I'm trying to impress anyone. But this Prim is much more pleasantthan the sullen version of her that's been moping around lately, so I follow her obediently into our mother's room.

Prim slides open the bottom drawer of Mother's dresser and rummages through without hesitation. I shift impatiently behind her until she straightens up, a bundle of cloth in hand.

"Try this one," she says, thrusting it at me.

I shake out the dress, holding it in front of me by the shoulders. The sleeves are about elbow-length, and the skirt looks like it will fall just above my knees. It's a faded orange color, the fabric soft and worn from years of use.

"I'll be cold," I say in half-hearted protest.

Prim rolls her eyes. "Then wear your jacket over it."

I don't like the harsh edge to her tone, but I decide to let it go. "Okay. Thanks, Prim."

"Sure." She shrugs, leaving the room so I can change in privacy. "Have a good time."

The weather is a little warmer than I'd expected, so I leave my hunting jacket on its hook by the door and head towards the park, my skirt fluttering around my knees in the light breeze.

I see the bonfire before I see Brody or any of his guests. I knew there was a fire pit in the park, but until now I'd only seen it lit during the Victory Tour "celebration" they throw each year for the latest Hunger Games victor. I wonder where Brody got the firewood to light it.

At the edge of the park, I stop. There are about two dozen people gathered, broken out into little groups around the bonfire, and none of them have noticed me yet. I could leave right now, and just tell Peeta and Brody that I'd fallen sick. They probably won't even notice that I didn't show up.

Just as I start to turn away, a voice rings out from the darkness. "Katniss!"

It's Peeta. He strides towards me, his face stretched into a big smile. He looks handsome in a blue sweater, the color setting off his eyes even in the fading light.

"Hey," he says loudly, slowing to a stop before me. "I'm so glad you came."

His hands are empty, but I can tell from the swing in his step and the goofy grin on his face that he's had at least a drink or two already. Nothing near Haymitch Abernathy territory, but enough that he's a little looser than usual. "Well, I'd hate to disappoint Brody."

"Hah. Yeah." His eyes drift down to my outfit. "You look great," he says simply.

I look away, feeling self-conscious. "I thought I'd be overdressed," I admit.

"Nah. Brody's friends love any excuse to get dressed up that doesn't also involve their names in a bowl."

I don't laugh at the joke. I know that for most people who age out of the Reaping, it's natural to make light of the Games – a way to cope with the fact that for seven years you spend every day knowing it might be the year you die…and then suddenly, you don't anymore. But I can't do it – especially not with Prim still in the Reaping. To his credit, Peeta seems to realize this and quickly changes the subject.

"I'm glad you came," he says again. "Brody's friends still all act like I'm a little kid."

I scan the small clusters of people around Brody, recognizing only a few faces. "See, I don't know anyone," I tell him.

"Well, I'll introduce you." When I don't follow him, Peeta takes my hand and tugs me after him. "Come on."

I'm too surprised to pull away, and I let him lead me towards the group. "Did you know orange is my favorite color?" he asks, nodding towards my dress.

"No," I say, but he just flashes me a grin. I feel my face grow hot, and he gives my hand a quick squeeze before pulling away just as we reach Brody and his friends.

"Katniss!" Brody bursts out, and it's all he needs to say for me to see that he's drunk. A few of the friends gathered around him turn to look at me, curious. It's his twenty-first birthday, so they're all a few years older than me, though some of them look vaguely familiar.

"Happy birthday, Brody," I say, waving awkwardly.

"Thank you!" he exclaims. "Do you have a drink? Someone get this girl a drink. She deserves it. You deserve it, Katniss."

A large paper cup seems to appear in my hand out of nowhere, though it's probably from the curly-haired blonde girl smiling brightly at me from Brody's side. I exchange a wide-eyed look with Peeta, and it takes everything in me not to burst into laughter. "You heard him. You deserve it, Katniss," Peeta repeats, faux-serious, trying to suppress a grin.

I take a tentative sip of the drink, pleased to find that it's sweeter than I expected, and nothing like the beer I'd tried at Gale's insistence last summer during a Seam party. He was always one of the kids trying to sneak a sip of white liquor, and I was always one of the ones refusing to touch a drop. But that night I'd been so exhilarated from dancing that I'd grabbed a bottle of ale right out of his hands and taken a big swig – much to the disappointment of my taste buds.

My next drink is longer, and I shiver in pleasure at the warm, full feeling that the liquid leaves in my stomach. No one is looking at me anymore, except for Peeta, so I turn to him and shrug. "Well?"

He shrugs back. "What?"

"What do you do at these things?"

"At a party, you mean? Get drunk, mostly." He laughs when I wrinkle my nose.

Peeta leads me away to a picnic table near the rose bushes, where bottles of liquids I don't recognize are tucked beneath the wooden bench in a sloppy attempt at discretion. "Isn't this a little…obvious?" I say, gesturing towards the stash.

Peeta chuckles knowingly as he bends down to grab a bottle of beer. "Yeah. You know that red-headed Peacekeeper, the young one? He patrols this area on the weekends and he'll turn a blind eye, long as you bring a bottle of liquor for him."

I do know the man he's describing – his name is Darius, and he's one of the only Peacekeepers whose mere presence doesn't make my skin crawl. He's a familiar face around the Hob, and I'm not all that surprised to learn that he's willing to break the rules for a drink or two.

"Where'd you all even get this from?" I ask, genuinely curious. The only place I know of where you can buy alcohol is the Hob, and there's no way the Mellark boys do their shopping at the Hob.

"The Hob," Peeta says casually. I eye him skeptically.

"Really?"

"What, you think I'm too chicken to go to the Hob?" he says, dangling his bottle by its neck between his fingers.

I'm not convinced. "I didn't say that. But…really?"

"Okay, maybe Brody's friend Wyatt bought the beer," he admits. "But I've been to the Hob." Peeta takes a sip of his drink, averting his eyes. "When I was fifteen. On a dare."

I laugh loudly at his confession, surprising even myself, and Peeta rests his fingers on the side of my cup, peering over the edge. "How much have you got in there?"

I pull back. "Enough."

"Too much," he says with a laugh, and before I can protest he tips my drink, emptying half of the contents onto the ground. "I don't want you getting drunk tonight."

It's not that I particularly want to get drunk, but why would Peeta care? I narrow my eyes, clutching the cup to my chest. "Why not?"

He shrugs, taking another swig. "I have my reasons."

"How mysterious," I say drily, but Peeta just laughs again. "I guess you don't care if you get drunk."

His lips quirk down as though he's trying to contain his smile. "No. I might need to, actually."

Whatever that means. "You're weird," I tell him pointedly.

He laughs shortly. "Yeah, maybe. You want to go sit down?"

I shrug, but follow him to a bench all the way on the other side of the park, where it's quiet.

For a few minutes we sit in silence, watching Brody's friends chatter and laugh and tease one another at the other side of the park. Watching them together, a pang of loneliness strikes me; I've never been part of a group like that. I never thought I even wanted to be. But the truth is, I miss Gale. I miss Madge. I miss Prim, the way she used to be, before she turned sad and sullen.

Part of me wonders if that's why I've grown to feel more comfortable with Peeta in such a short amount of time. Without him, I'd be completely, utterly alone.

But another part of me says that that's wrong – that it's not just that Peeta has been here for me during a time when no one else was. I really, genuinely like him. Maybe this friendship we've struck up would have happened all along.

I sneak a glance at him, only to find him looking right back at me. His eyes are steady on mine, and serious.

A tiny shiver runs through me, and I force my eyes away, looking down to pick at a stray thread on my dress. "Something wrong?"

"No," he says, and when I glance back at him again he's turned his attention to his beer, which is nearly empty. He's acting strangely. Maybe he had more to drink before I arrived than I'd originally thought.

"So…when's your birthday?" I ask, not entirely comfortable with the odd silence that's settled over us. I lift my cup to my mouth and pretend to take a long sip, hiding my embarrassment. This is why I don't initiate conversations. I have no idea what to say.

"November 9th."

"That's kind of soon," I point out. "Are you going to have a party like this?"

Peeta scrunches his face up thoughtfully. "Mm, nah. Probably not." He bumps my shoulder with his own. "When's your birthday?"

"May 8th," I reply. "Why no party?"

He sighs, tipping the last of his drink into his mouth. "I mean, what Brody said about my friends wasn't…totally untrue."

"They're mad at you?"

Peeta shrugs, noncommittal. "Yeah, kind of. I wasn't really the greatest boyfriend in the world to Violet."

I feel very hot all of a sudden. The natural question – why? – is on the tip of my tongue, but I catch myself just in time. I know why he wasn't the greatest boyfriend. It's because he still liked me when he was dating Violet.

"That seems silly," I mumble. "You didn't do anything to them."

"They're just being good friends," he says. "I'd probably feel the same way if it had been someone else."

"Well. I'll come to your party," I blurt out. Instantly I flush. I guess the half-cup of whatever it is I've been nursing loosened my lips a little more than I thought.

But Peeta just grins. "Yeah? Maybe I'll have to have one, then."

The bench creaks as I stand. My legs are a little wobbly, though I'm not positive that it's an effect of the alcohol alone. "Thirsty," I tell Peeta, waving my cup side to side before I turn and practically power walk back to the picnic table where all the drinks are stashed.

"Wait." Peeta jogs after me a few steps, and I slow, letting him catch up. He falls into pace beside me, but says nothing.

There's a game going on now by the picnic table, something I don't understand involving a deck of cards and a coin Brody's constantly flipping. All I know is that Peeta and I get sucked into it, too, and before long I've indulged in a beer of my own.

I'm not drunk, I don't think; I'm not dizzy or stumbling around. I just feel good. Light, happy, carefree…the way an eighteen-year-old who has a whole life ahead of her should feel. I'm not thinking about my family, or Gale, or whether there's enough money to buy Prim the shoes she needs to start school next week. I'm just thinking about this moment – these people, this park – and how wonderful it is to be in it.

At some point I walk away and settle onto the ground next to the dying embers of the bonfire, content to watch the party go on, instead of partaking in it myself. The grass is cool and prickles against my skin, but I feel warm all over. I tip my head back, staring up at the sky, where stars shine against the deep blackness like snowflakes on coal dust.

I don't know how much time passes, but eventually someone joins me, dropping heavily to my right. Peeta. He flops backwards with a sigh, his arm flung out behind me.

I turn my head and tuck my chin against my shoulder, eyeing him. "Someone had too much to drink," I say, surprised by the teasing lilt in my own voice.

"Me? Nah." He brushes the accusation away with a wave of his hand. He reaches up and tugs gently at the end of my braid. "C'mere. It's nice down here."

I settle back further, propped up on my elbows, but they start to ache against the hard ground and lay back. My head bumps against his forearm. "Sorry," I mutter, but he edges closer so that my head is resting on the taut muscle of his bicep.

"S'okay," he says. His fingers brush gently down my shoulder before coming to rest in the grass beside me.

Although there's laughter and shouting in the distance, the night feels suddenly, intensely quiet. The heat radiating off of Peeta is almost stronger than that of the charred wood gradually cooling beside us in the fire pit. My heart is racing, though I'm not sure why.

"I'm really glad you came tonight," he says, turning his head to face me.

"You already said that," I tease, laughing a little. A smile flickers across his face, but his expression is one of intent focus – the way he'd looked when he was working on the ocean cake.

"Because it's true," he says.

I turn away, embarrassed. "It's probably really late," I say after a pause. I should be getting home.

Peeta doesn't answer. Instead he reaches over with his free arm and grasps my hand, tugging me in towards him.

I let him pull me in. My feet bump against the toes of his shoes; his arm curves gently around my waist, his hand resting lightly between my shoulder blades. Our faces are tilted together so close I can feel his breath on my forehead.

Peeta nudges at my forehead with his chin, and I raise my head, meeting his gaze. He just smiles at me softly, his eyes running over my face, my hair. His hands follow: first the left, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then the right, coming up to cradle my face gently.

I know what he's doing. I just can't quite believe it's happening.

Peeta leans forward, and kisses me.

It's soft, but firm, and over so quickly that when he pulls back I'm not positive it even happened. He looks down at me, his fingers flexing slightly where they're buried in my hair, his eyes unfocused and unsure.

He's waiting for me to say something, I can tell. Kiss me, Peeta, or Back off, asshole. But forming the words is too great a challenge for my mind right now, let alone my lips.

So I do the only thing I can. I lean in and kiss him back.