I'm off the deep end, watch as I dive in

I'll never meet the ground

Crash through the surface, where they can't hurt us

We're far from the shallow now

Days turn into weeks and I find myself thinking about his fingers, the feel of his back beneath my hands, the breathy sounds he makes when I weave my fingers into his hair, the impossible blue of his eyes whenever they meet mine. We steal time where and when we can, escaping into our own world unseen by the rest of the village. The cove becomes a nightly secret where talking and laughing lead to the touching of lips and hands until we both leave heated and breathless.

One morning we almost get caught after I stop by the butchers to deliver my hunting haul and slip out of the back door only to feel a warm, flour-dusted hand grip my wrist to stop me. The next second, he is there pressing me against the building's outer wall, our panting breaths mingling in the warm morning air until the sounds of pans falling and the butcher calling Peeta's name have us springing apart.

Peeta never pushes for anything beyond the kissing and the touching. His hands never stray past clothing or my arms, back, head, neck, or hips. Even though I know he wants to. Even though I understand why he doesn't. I can see it in the way his eyes burn and in the brief glances at my body that he thinks I don't see. But he doesn't try to move further and neither do I. It's not because I don't want to. All I can think about is him. I'm so consumed with the constant need to be near him that I don't know how I haven't seriously injured myself during my daily morning hunts.

Prim gives me a knowing smirk every morning as I yawn while helping her braid her now blonde hair. Even as she tries to use the smirk to tease me, her eyes sparkle with happiness. She loves me, and she loves Peeta and even though I know she won't say it, she has already planned our future together in her head. Knowing her, the future is romantic and girly and frilly. It is full of all the things that always used to make Prim smile. My heart constricts in my chest knowing that part of her didn't disappear.

Six weeks after their wedding, Annie pulls me into the hut she shares with Finnick and tearfully confides that she thinks she is pregnant. The island is lucky to be graced with two Capitol-trained doctors – although their supplies are limited – and they both confirm Annie's suspicions. Finnick seems to float on air like his joy has sprouted wings that keep his feet from ever touching the ground. I didn't know that happiness like that could even exist.

However, something curls in my gut at the announcement, a fear and worry that was woven into me at birth when the thought of every new life meant the possibility of being reaped.

"I never wanted to have children," I blurt out with a wince. I should be happy for her. I should be offering my congratulations.

Annie looks past me, focusing on the wall behind my back. A weariness blanketing her lovely face for a moment. She blinks and brings her eyes back to my mine, a small, knowing smile forming. "Me either, but...it's safe now and I can love him. We can love each other." She pauses and squeezes my finger gently, her face now full of a calm sort of bliss. "I never thought a child could be brought into the world without fear."

I force myself to smile back at her. I don't have the heart to ruin her joy by voicing the dark thoughts that always lurk in my mind when I look at Prim. How I always worry about her. How there is always fear. How I don't think that would ever go away. I can't imagine how magnified that fear would be as I held my own child in my arms. And as much as I don't want to admit it, as much as I still don't want to ever have a child, the image of a baby flashes in my mind bundled tightly with a tuft of dark Seam hair and sapphire blue eyes.

On the morning that the calendar at the community building - the village's version of a Justice Building - reads May eighth, I wake up in the hut alone. I peek over at Prim's empty pallet. She had asked for her own a couple of weeks ago stating that I tossed and turned too much for her to get decent sleep and that she was tired when she attended the classes that Paylor has created for the small number of school-aged children on the island. But I know the truth. She is aware of my nightly trips to the cove with Peeta and she's trying to spare me the guilt of leaving her sleeping alone. She's told me countless times that she's better, that the nightmares no longer plague her the way they do me, that she's happy and safe. She spends a lot of her time with Poplin and a girl close to her age named Emery. But it's still hard for me to wrap my head around. The thought of safety, security, and an easy, happy life seem so foreign and fragile, like a bubble ready to burst. Still, Prim looks at me with knowing eyes and a knowing smile too wise for her fourteen years and she gives me the space I need to find happiness.

The sun is already too high in the sky to go hunting. Peeta and I had fallen asleep in each other's arms on a blanket spread out in the sand last night and didn't wake up until just before dawn. We hurried back to the village and to our huts just before the other hunters and fisherman had woken up for the morning. I yawn, stretching my limbs. The beach sleep had been wonderful. Peaceful. It had been like the sleep I had on the first night Peeta was here, but the late nights and early morning schedule are catching up with me. We are going to need to figure something else out. I know he is exhausted too. His day starts just as early as mine does.

I tumble out of bed, wiping the grit of sleep from my eyes when a bundle wrapped in white cloth and tied with an orange ribbon catches my eye. The smell hits me before I even pick it up: cinnamon, sugar, and butter. I untie the ribbon to find a dozen snickerdoodle cookies still warm from the oven and a handwritten note in neat, clear letters:

Happy birthday, Katniss.

Prim must have told him that today I turn eighteen. How else would he know? I have never told him and I'm sure I never mentioned it in school when we were children. I look back at Prim's pallet and huff. Hopefully, she didn't tell the entire village. It's bad enough that Peeta knows and that he'll get reprimanded for the use of the ingredients without permission. I can't stomach the thought of well-wishes the entire day. Not when all I can think about is the way my mother would make lamb stew – my favorite – for dinner every year on this day or how my father's voice rang with pride as he sang to me. I pocket one cookie and bundle the rest, leaving it on Prim's pallet, before grabbing my bow. I head for the trees needing to be alone and hope that no one will notice it is too late to do any hunting.

I spend the day high above the ground in the cradle of a wide branch on a tree that reminds me of a willow, ignoring my growling stomach and full bladder. I thought I would spend the day crying, wailing into the enormity of the jungle at the loss of my parents. It had felt that way as the weight of that loss fell heavy on me making my boot move slowly through the sand, but, surprisingly I had laughed more than I cried. I even managed a smile or two as I thought of the two of them and the sacrifices they made, the beautiful memories they had given me.

The sun begins to sink below the canopy of leaves when I start back to the village. No one bothered me. No one came to look for me. I suppose I have Prim to thank for that. She knows me well enough to keep everyone away, to give me privacy. She deserves the cookies I left, although knowing her the way I do, she gave them away. I hope she at least kept one for herself.

The courtyard is quiet as I make my way across the shell-lined paths. The smell of roasted chicken and vegetables lingers in the air from dinner. I hope that Prim also knows me well enough not to worry when my feet don't take me to our hut.

I don't see him at first. His pallet is empty, a shirt and tan trousers folded neatly at the end. But then I see his toes sticking out from the other side of the bed, his short, wavy locks peeking above the pallet frame. He's lost in concentration, head tilted, charcoal in his hand, studying a sketch he's drawn on the wall: a pair of hands holding a length of rope. He tips his head back as I approach, looking up at me from beneath those long lashes.

"Are you okay?" he asks

I shrug and kneel down beside him. We both study the drawing.

He sighs, leaning back against the wall and dropping the charcoal. "The cookies were a bad idea. I just - I just wanted the day to be special. I'm sorry."

He looks so sincere, so worried about me. I don't think he's ever stopped worrying about me. Maybe he never will. I touch his cheek. "No. Don't apologize. The cookies were the perfect gift, and the only thing I ate today." As if knowing what we're talking about, my stomach lets out a grumble. "I will need to get Prim back for telling you it's my birthday though."

He tilts his head, a blush coloring his cheeks. "Go easy on Prim. She didn't say a word." His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. "When we were little you used to always stop in front of the bakery and look at the cakes in the window. Prim told me that you did it for her because she loved the flowers and colors, but on this day every year, you would always stay by the window a little longer even after Prim had left. I thought it might be because it was your birthday, but I wasn't sure and didn't know how to ask. But when you died, or at least we thought you died, they put your birthdate on the wooden grave marker. Then I knew for sure." He reaches up and pulls my hand from his cheek to his lips, pressing a kiss to my fingertips.

"And you never forgot?"

He smiles. "I never forgot."

My stomach takes the opportunity to grumble again and Peeta chuckles, rising off the floor.

"Wait here. I'll be right back," he says with a wink before hurrying through the door as quickly as his limp allows.

This is the first time I've been in his hut since the night I found him broken and sobbing. It's been months since that winter night, but I can still see the tears staining his cheeks. I can still hear his voice breaking as his chest heaved. I curl my knees towards my chest and wrap my arms around them, taking the opportunity to look around at the place that Peeta now calls home.

Everything is neat and organized. He has a small stack of clothes piled on a shelf across from his bed. The small table by the bed holds the stub of a candle and a book. His pallet is neatly made, the bedding tucked in. Everything is ordinary except for the walls. Charcoal drawings line the empty wooden slats of the hut filling the space with life. Aside from the hands holding the rope that he was working on when I walked in, there are drawings of the mountains around the Capitol, a wheat field as seen through a small window, Prim with her eyes bright and eager, hands bound to a wall, a sweeping meadow that I recognize from Twelve, Finnick's face with his unnaturally charming smile, the butcher preparing a slab of meat, the rocks jutting out from our secret cove, Johanna looking at something in the distance dressed in a ball gown, hands – my hands, I realize – moving a chess piece across a board, Haymitch Abernathy reading a book, a pistol held in someone's hand, a baby I don't recognize, Peeta's middle brother grinning broadly, that odd dandelion chair from the room we met in at the Palace and so many others.

My throat becomes tight as I try to swallow back the lump that threatens to make me start crying again. I've cried enough today already. I gape at the beauty and horror all around me. Peeta truly is gifted. I realized it from the moment I saw his paintings on the television during his Victory Tour, and I saw it again in the portrait he drew of me, but this… The detail and accuracy all done with a simple piece of charcoal are nothing short of amazing.

I'm still gawking at the drawings when he returns, a plate in his hand and a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"I may have broken a few rules," he says placing a finger to his lips and handing me the plate. It's piled high with leftover chicken and vegetables. He's also got a loaf of fresh bread under his arm. "If you won't tell then I won't." He grins and tears off a chunk of the bread before placing the loaf on the floor between us. "I don't think anyone would care about the chicken. It would need to have been eaten by tomorrow anyway, but the bread is liable to get me thrown in the Hot Box. We are running low on yeast, flour, and sugar. Paylor is planning to send a group back to Four to see if there are any more supplies to be found."

I scowl at the bread and then at him. The Hot Box isn't something to joke about. The people on the island are good people but that doesn't mean that everyone follows the rules all the time. People like to push the limits to see where rules can be bent or even broken. Paylor knows this and she is just and fair in doling out punishment. I've never seen the Hot Box used, the hardest punishment I've seen inflicted is manual labor, but it's there as a warning nonetheless. The Hot Box is literally exactly what it sounds like: a wooden box dug into the sand and baking in the sun. It has a small slit in the top for air, but it is sweltering inside even on cool days. If not carefully monitored, a person could easily overheat and die inside.

I push the loaf of bread away and Peeta laughs, taking a large bite of the piece in his hands.

He nudges my shoulder with his own. "Don't worry. I've been through worse than sweating in a box for a few hours. Plus, I've had this loaf hidden all day, so no one will know it's missing." He raises his eyebrows conspiratorially, grabs the loaf, and holds it out to me again. "It's got cheese in it," he says in a sing-song voice.

I snatch the loaf out of his hands and he tips his head back in laughter. I take a bite, moaning as the melted cheese hits my tongue. Peeta stops laughing, his throat pumping as he chews and swallows the rest of his piece.

"Happy birthday, Katniss," he says. his blue eyes bright in the setting sun filtering through the single window.

My breath catches in my chest. The rays of the sinking sun cast a halo of burnt gold color around his blonde head. Does he know how devastatingly handsome he is? He must be aware due to the simple fact that he was a well sought-after commodity for Snow. But he never acts like it. He never preens like Finnick or carries that confident swagger in the way he holds himself. He can pretend. He can wear that flirtatious confidence like a heavy coat if he needs to or if he wants to make me laugh. But that's something he's not. It's a Capitol creation made to dehumanize him. And I'm well aware of how close it came to nearly working. He still bears the scars on his wrists. The true Peeta is sweet and kind. He's funny and witty, with sarcasm that can draw grins or draw blood depending on how he uses it. He's generous and selfless. He adores my sister, looks at Finnick like he's a brother and when he looks at me, all I see is love.

It's scary, that look. I've spent weeks with him denying it, pretending the feelings bubbling inside me didn't exist. I've spent weeks keeping this thing between us a secret because I was afraid of what it meant and how it would change everything. Change me. But spending the day in the dense cover of trees has helped me realize that life is too precious, too short, and fleeting to deny myself the happiness I see in Annie. And in Finnick. And in Prim. I place the food on the small table by the bed and lean into him letting the scent and solidness of him wrap around me. He chuckles softly gathering me in his arms and kissing the top of my head.

"I still can't believe this," he says into my hair. "Every night I go to bed and think I'm going to wake up thirsty, covered in sweat and blood in that arena. Part of me is waiting for all this to disappear. I dreamed about holding you and kissing you and talking with you nearly every day knowing it would never happen, but...". His arms tighten around me. "Do you really think things will be different now? That we'll get to live a life that's just ours?"

I hesitate, not knowing how to answer. I want to tell him that I do, but I think that a part of me will always be looking over my shoulder and waiting. The fear that everything we went through, all the people we lost, was for nothing will always be there. I can't lie to him in order to soothe his worry. And I don't want to. I instead twist my body in his arms, running my fingers through his hair to the back of his neck - the way I know he likes - and bring my mouth to his.

He smiles, his eyes alighting with a hunger that has nothing to do with the forgotten meal and he stops me, cupping my face in his hands. His fingers trace the lines of my face like he's painting me with his touch. My eyes flutter close, the sensation sending a shiver down my spine. Then his fingers are replaced with his lips. They feel so soft, caressing my cheeks, my chin, my eyes, my forehead, and the tip of my nose. When his lips finally graze mine, I'm ready. I press forward waiting to taste him, to hold him, to feel him, but he pulls back just enough to make me open my eyes. His hand trails down the short braid draped over my shoulder. His eyes glance at the pallet and then back to me. He inhales deeply.

"Can we stay inside tonight? Will you – will you stay here with me?" he asks, his voice unsure and hopeful.

I don't give myself a chance to second guess or hesitate. I say the only thing that has been true since we were ten years old when I answer, "Always."

His lips crush into mine while his hands scoop me into his lap. My hands blaze down his chest and under his shirt, relishing in the feel of his skin under them. I know that if I told him that I wanted to stop he instantly would. I would do the same for him. He's experienced so much, but he's never been with anyone or done anything that was his own choice. I don't blame him for his tentativeness with me. We've never so much as removed a single item of clothing in all the time we've spent at the cove together, but all that has done is make me want him, want this, so much more. I've felt so torn between my desire, my inexperience and not wanting him to feel like I was taking advantage of him. But tonight, right now…

I need to feel him. I need his skin pressed against mine. I need to know what that hardness that I've brushed up against so many times over the past weeks feels like when it's inside of me. I want to know what noises I can pull from him. What noises can he pull from me? I want to know the bliss that comes from giving yourself over to someone completely. I want to return the love that has been etched in each look, each glance, each moment we've spent together – well before either of us realized it.

He releases a shaky breath, the muscles in his stomach tightening under my touch. I slide my hands up, pulling the hem of his shirt along with them and watching his face. He doesn't look away as he raises his arms letting me remove the shirt. It isn't until I see my shaking fingers against his bare chest that I realize I'm trembling. I lean down pressing my lips to his shoulder, his collar bones, the column of his throat. I work my way from his throat to his chest, experimentally running my tongue across a nipple. He hisses through his teeth, his hands gripping my hips. I pull away, moving back to his mouth.

"Tell me what to do. I - I don't know what...I've never. Tell me what you like, what you want," I murmur against his lips. I can barely string a complete thought together. My clothes feel constricting. The air feels too warm. I want him closer and yet, I don't know how to achieve that.

He looks at me through hooded eyes and his voice is a mixture of rough and bashful when he says, "I want you. Can I have you, Katniss?"

The sound of my name so rough and needy as it leaves him reverberates straight through me, like hot, liquid fire pooling between my thighs. My skin feels tight. My breasts heavy and aching. The answer comes out of me in a rush of breath and yearning, my voice is huskier than I've ever heard it before.

"Yes."

I expect Peeta's lips to slam into mine and I ready myself for the onslaught. I'm panting, craving the pressure of his mouth, the velvet smoothness of his tongue. But he ignores my eager lips entirely, pressing a slow lingering kiss to the base of my throat before running his tongue up my throat stopping to suck on the hammering pulse point before working towards my chin, nipping the skin with his teeth. His lips find the shell of my ear, sucking the sensitive lobe between his teeth. A whine weaves its way from my throbbing core and skitters across my tongue.

His chest rumbles and his voice is like a purr when he says, "I want to taste all of you."

Nearly every thought empties out of my head. All I can taste, smell, see and feel is him. I'm barely aware of the darkness enveloping the hut. The sun has set into the vast sea. I squirm on his lap desperate for something...anything. The throbbing between my legs becomes a rhythm of intense need as his hands work my shirt over my head. His hands tremble as he brushes them over my bare shoulders and down my spine. In a quick movement, the clasp of my bra is undone. His hands move to my waist, his thumbs grazing the skin just beneath my waistband and moving in small, soft circles. I push the bra down my arms letting it fall to the floor.

The movement of his hands stops. He inhales through his nose before releasing the shaky breath through his parted lips. His tongue brushes those lips as his eyes take in my bare chest. When I had thought of this moment in the past, I always assumed that I would be shy in my nudity. I always had been, even with my sister. But sitting on Peeta's lap with his eyes looking at me with so much reverence, I don't feel an ounce of shyness. The only thing I can feel, the only thought I have is a crushing, overwhelming desire to show him how much he means to me, how much I want this, how much I want him.

I slide my hands over his shoulders and press myself into him, my pebbled nipples flush against the hard planes of his chest. The sensation of his soft skin against the sensitive area makes me groan. Peeta's fingers dig into my hips. I find his mouth again, gently pulling his bottom lip with my teeth before sucking it into my mouth. A sound rumbles from deep inside him and he somehow flips us from our seated position onto the expanse of his pallet, his body a welcome weight on top of mine.

My knees fall open. He sinks into the space they create and I gasp at the feel of him, his length wedged firmly against my most intimate spot. It feels like too much and not enough all at the same time. Warm, wet open mouth kisses rain down on my shoulders and the tops of my breasts. I arch into them. Peeta pauses, holding himself above me with his arms braced by my head. He sinks down, drawing my mouth to his. The kiss is slower, sweeter. His tongue caressing mine, pushing and pulling, a simulation of the act we are on the cusp of doing. He releases my mouth and returns to my breasts, running that same tongue over a nipple before pulling the bud into his mouth.

I'm speechless. My head tips back. My eyes close and the noise I make has Peeta chuckling in disbelief, his mouth, and tongue mapping the uncharted territory of my skin. I forget everything. I forget the lack of privacy. I forget the closeness of Annie and Finnick's hut. I forget that people can probably hear what is happening with us. When his mouth reaches my waistband, the only thing I can remember is his words.

I want to taste all of you.

White-hot need washes through me and my fingers fumble with the button of my pants. Peeta rises to his knees between my legs, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening, and his hair a mess. He watches as I undo the button and begin to slide my pants and my underwear over my hips. For a second he only stares at me, his mouth hanging open, his hooded eyes filled with wonder, the muscles in his stomach expanding and contracting with each tremulous breath. Then he grips the clothing pulling them down my legs until I'm completely bare to him. His hands hover over my bent knees like he's afraid if he touches me I might disappear. I reach for the button at the waist of his pants. The bulge straining at the seam sending a tendril of excitement through me. My fingers graze the hardness, traveling along its length. Peeta gasps, gripping my knees before pulling away. He gently takes my fingers and brings them to his lips, nipping the tips then kissing them softly.

"Not yet," he says, his voice deeper, richer.

Then he moves back down, lavishing my naked stomach with kisses. My hips. The inside of my thighs. His breath coasts across my drenched center and he breaths deep.

"You are so beautiful. Truly. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he says, pressing a lingering kiss to my inner thigh.

He's so close. So close to where the ache is. The humming, throbbing need. I buck my hips at his breath and lips and tongue, whimpering when that tongue sweeps across me. He devours me like he's been starved. Like I'm the only thing he's ever wanted to taste. A deep moan rattles through me ascending from where his mouth feasts on me, and past the coiling, tightening, sensation low in my gut. I bow off the bed, the coil springing loose, and let the moan soar into the darkened hut. My legs shake where they bracket his head. My fingers stiffly wound in the blanket. A laugh bubbles up in me. A girlish giggle that I can't keep in. I'm boneless and sinking into the comfort of the pallet with the blankets that smell of cinnamon and the sea surrounding me. And I'm happy. Peeta laughs too. A quiet sound as he presses a soft kiss to my stomach and crawls up my body to meet my face.

One look at him, at the stark, naked love pouring out of him, and the raging fire in me is rekindled. I want him, need him, all of him. Now.

"Please," I say, the word like a plea. "Peeta."

He swallows, nodding his head. I place my hand on his chest. His heart pounding against his ribs beneath my touch. His breath rough and ragged. He leans his forehead on mine, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss on my lips. My hands run down his sides to the waist of his pants, popping the button and pushing them down as far as I can reach with him cradled between my thighs. He wiggles, freeing himself from the confines of the pants then lowering himself over me again. He meets my eyes, holding my gaze as I feel him hard and hot pressing against my center.

He shudders. His voice is low, nearly a whisper, our breaths blending together when he says, "Katniss, I'm…let me know if I hurt you. I'll try to stop."

I reach my hand and brush the sweaty waves from his forehead. "You won't hurt me," I say, pulling his lips back down to mine.

He throws himself into the kiss, pouring every drop into it. He gives himself up freely, letting me have it all. His arm hooks beneath my knee, pulling it up towards my chest and he slides into me. His arms shake with restraint as he moves in short, shallow strokes. My mouth opens in a silent cry as he stretches me. His forehead falls to the crook of my neck and he swears under his breath, inching forward until he has me filled completely. It doesn't hurt like I'm expecting it to. Instead, it's a bewildering fullness – like discomfort, but not – that satisfies some urgent place inside me. Peeta holds completely still giving my body time to adjust. He breathes and breathes against my skin, the muscles of his back contracting with the effort.

I slide my hands along his spine, past the dip in his low back until they firmly grip his ass. He lets out a sound of surprise as I press him closer, deeper. Groaning, his lips nip at the skin of my neck. I move my hips drawing him out and back in. He sucks in a breath bringing his head up, his hands fisting the blanket by my head. We begin to move together, slowly at first until the discomfort is replaced with another growing, all-consuming sensation. I'm vaguely aware of the sound filling the small hut: gasps and sighs, moans, and the contact of skin.

I'm drowning. Completely and utterly drowning in him. I can't get enough. I claw at his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. He murmurs my name over and over like a prayer. There's the taste of his lips and tongue and the salt of sweat. He continues at an agonizing pace until I come undone again, clamping around him with a shout. I lose myself knowing that only he can find me. He'll always find me.

Peeta follows shortly behind me, his body shaking with his release. We lay together with him still buried inside me, his weight resting on his elbows, trying to regain our breaths, ourselves. After a long moment, as the thundering rush of my heart begins to fade from my ears and the sounds of the sea drift into the hut, Peeta whispers that he loves me.

"I think you might love me too," he says, his solemn, beautiful face so close to mine. "Am I imagining this? Is this real?"

My fingers find the place above his heart again. The rhythm has slowed, but I can still feel it beating steadily beneath my palm. Beating just for me. And I know that my heart beats the same, just for him. Only for him.

So, I say, "It's real."

A/N: There's only a short epilogue left. I hope to have that posted in a few days. I have it partially written. Like the prologue, it will be in Peeta's POV.

Thank you so, so much for reading! I hope you liked all the everlark :) I know it's been a journey to get here.

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