**A/N - This idea came to me one night and I haven't been able to let it go. I don't know if anyone will like it. It's hard to summarize without giving away too many plot points. Please feel free to let me know what you think. I'm not sure if I should continue it or scrap it.

I'm also still working on An Unexpected Life as well. There is only about 2 more chapters left in that one though.

This is also cross posted on AO3.

I apologize in advance for any typos or grammatical errors!

I wish we had a mirror. The reflection from this window is warped, dirty and dusty. The dress I'm wearing looks brown even though I know it's white. Well, once upon a time it was white. I've seen a photograph of it. My mother smiling brightly dressed in this beautiful, white dress. There were flowers in her hair. My father looking down at her, a smile on his face and adoration in his eyes. The dress has yellowed a bit with age which is fine by me. No one really wears white dresses anymore. Some people don't wear dresses at all, showing up in their normal, threadbare clothes and signing the paperwork. There's no fanfare. No music. No celebration. There are still tears sometimes, but they aren't the happy sort.

Prim will be home from school soon. I'm thankful that the school opened back up a few years ago and Prim could go back. I stopped going shortly after I turned eleven when the bombs were dropped and the mine caved in. A shiver rolls over me when I think about my father trapped gasping for air as the oxygen ran out in the dark, dank holes drilled into the earth. He might have been killed quickly. I hope he was. No one knows for sure because the entrance to the mine collapsed entombing the workers inside. My mother became a shell of herself after that. She still got up each day and treated the wounded that were brought to her, but she was never the same.

A few weeks after my father died and the food ran out, I braved the bombs and the gunfire and crept like a predator in the night through the darkened, war torn streets and alleyways scavenging for scraps like a mangy wild dog. I was able to keep us alive this way, but just barely. By early spring Prim and I were so rail thin I had to make belts out of twine I had found tied to a post to hold our clothes up. If it wouldn't have been for the boy and the bread we would be dead. That bread gave me the strength to slip into the woods and hunt alone for the first time. The chill from winter hadn't faded and the noise from the fighting made even the meager cold weather game scarce. I was lucky if I shot one squirrel a day, but we survived. I've seen the boy many times throughout the years, always releasing a breath I didn't notice I had been holding when I realized he was still alive. I owed him my life and I've never been able to pay him back or even mutter a quiet thank you. I've tried. I've made it as far as the back steps to the bakery before running home with my proverbial tail between my legs cursing my cowardly self the entire way.

The war started after the finale of the 64th Hunger Games. Words like revolution and tyranny were spoken in hushed voices and then in bellowed war cries all leveled on the shoulders of the winner of those game; an extraordinarily handsome and charismatic 14-year-old boy named Finnick Odair. My six-year-old brain didn't comprehend the words or the fighting, but my parents spoke with passion filling their voices as the uprisings began.

Bombing raids and fire fights became a normal part of our lives. School remained opened until the first major bombing of the district happen; the one that collapsed the mine. After that, the schools were closed and district residents not able to fight or help with the cause were told to take shelter in their homes, although that didn't do anyone much good when bombs were dropped on their houses. The war ended with a rebel victory the summer after I turned 16. My mother died a month before when she was shot while tending to wounded combatants on the ridge not far from the district border. The boy lost his leg in the same battle when he signed up to fight after turning 16 the autumn prior.

The heat was oppressive that summer. I signed up to help bury the bodies. I felt like I needed to do something and the new government was paying people for that kind of work. They also paid to help rebuild, but the population of District 12 was so small after the war ended that there wasn't much that needed to be rebuilt. Those jobs helped me keep Prim warm and feed through the winter and into my seventeenth year, but then the jobs ran out and the only ones available were in other districts. I couldn't leave the district. I couldn't leave my home. I couldn't leave Prim. We were all we had left.

Except, that wasn't really true. Rory Hawthorne survived the war as did his baby sister and their mother. His oldest brother survived too, moving up through the ranks of the military. He is now serving under the new government and sending a good portion of his pay home to his family. Even though they lost Vick, the Hawthorne's are doing better than most and Rory Hawthorne is sweet on Prim. They are our closest neighbors and the childhood friendship between the two has started to blossom into something more. Prim blushes when she talks about him. I'm happy for her. Falling in love is a weakness I can't afford. If I've learned anything from growing up in a war it's that life will do whatever and take whomever it pleases. I've lost so much already. I don't think I'm built to take another loss.

I check the cabinets and see that we are running dangerously low on canned goods and I used the last of the coins we had saved to buy the paltry amount that now sit in the cabinet. That's all it takes to steel my resolve about doing this. I look down at the dress. It's almost long enough that I can hide the toes of my hunting books under the skirt. I'm sure no one will notice what's on my feet anyway. I grab the flyer off the counter and fidget with it while I wait from Prim. It gives the date and time for the next lottery drawing and if Prim doesn't walk through the door in the next few minutes we will be late. We can't be late. It is the only way I know how to take care of her.

The new government established the lottery system last year. When each district had counted and buried their dead it was discovered that the population had drastically decreased. Specifically, the population of young, fertile residents had nearly all but been wiped out. Without these people, the population of the country was sure to be extinguished within a single lifetime. The lottery is a way to ensure the repopulation of the country while also supplying a much needed financial incentive. Any female of child bearing age and any willing male can enter the lottery and be randomly chosen to partner together with the sole responsibility of procreation. A two-year contract is signed between the couple and if no children are conceived within that time they are able to go their separate ways and try with other partners or stay together and continue to try with each other. The government allows and encourages love matches as well, but they can't rely on love alone to repopulate the country and they know that money is a huge incentive, especially in the poorer and more war-ravaged districts.

The lottery is only held twice a year, in March and September, and if Prim doesn't make it home in time we will have to wait until the spring. I don't think we will survive another winter. I can't go alone. She'll want to go with me to the Justice Building even though this isn't what she wanted.

"I'm here!" Prim exclaims bursting through the door breathless. "Posy tripped and fell on the way home and refused to walk. We had to carry her. It slowed us down."

"It's ok, Duck," I tell her letting her get a drink of water before grabbing the small sack I had packed with my belongings and pulling her back out the door towards the Justice Building.

I've heard people speak about how the lottery is conducted in other richer and more technologically advanced districts. In those districts the people who are coupled together can never even meet. They have a medical way to impregnate a woman that doesn't involve physical contact. Only the genetic material from both a man and a woman are needed. Those procedure require specialized doctors, medications and machinery that are hard to come by especially since District 3 was basically turned to ash during the war. Even in the richer districts with the equipment, a more natural approach is typically all that is available. Here, in District 12, the lottery is seen almost like a marriage contract since the couple is together as a husband and wife would traditionally be and most couples who do end up having children stay together as a family. Lottery couples live together and if work is available, they work together.

I just hope that I'm paired with someone I can stand. I wrap my arms around myself and shudder at the thought that I will have to have sex with whoever is chosen as my partner. I have virtually no experience with intimacy and absolutely no experience with sex. My only hope is that I get partnered with someone who understands that. I keep telling myself that this is for survival, for Prim, for the good of the country.

"After I'm paired, go to the Hawthorne's and tell Hazelle. She'll make sure that you're taken care of until I can talk with my partner," I tell Prim at the bottom of the Justice Building steps. "If they agree, then I'll come and get you as soon as possible. If not, you can stay with the Hawthorne's and I will visit you every day."

She nods, her fingers moving deftly through my hair twisting it into an intricate braid at the nape of my neck. I roll my eyes. These kinds of things seem out of place in a situation like this, but I indulge her. We climb the steps and enter the building heading towards the front desk. The elderly man behind the desk directs us to a nearly empty room. There are three other females in here with me. Prim takes my hand as we sit and wait for my name to be called over the intercom. Once we hear that we will head back out to the front desk and meet the man I am to be paired with.

My foot bounces nervously as I watch the other women being called out one by one. Prim chuckles as she catches sight of my hunting boots. I nudge her with my shoulder and playfully tug on her braid. Time seems to freeze when my name is called. I notice the slickness of my hand in Prim's and release her to wipe the sweat from my palms onto the front of the dress. I suddenly feel completely unprepared and utterly ridiculous. I smooth the dress out over my stomach and reach up to grab the end of my braid – a nervous habit – until I realize it isn't there. Prim touches my shoulder and we start towards the door.

The sound of rushing water fills my ears. It reminds me of the way rain sounds as it cascades off our roof when it downpours. I wonder if I'm losing my mind, but then I recognize that the sound isn't rushing water at all. It's the thundering of my heart. It's beating so hard. I have the sudden urge to grab Prim's hand and run out of the building. I haven't signed anything yet. I could do it and no one would say a thing. I could figure out another way for us to survive. I've done it before. I could do it again.

Prim opens the door and gently pulls me through. We walk towards the front desk and I can't lift my eyes from the floor. I'm terrified to see who it is. I school my features. I can't let the fear or disgust show. I lift my head and the thundering in my ears disappears. I'm sure I've gone deaf. I can't hear anything anymore and I have to remind myself to take a breath. This must be a dream. He's been in my dreams before though he's never looked this sad or shocked. This can't be real. I'm partnered with the very last person I expected. The boy with the bread, Peeta Mellark.

He stands within arm's reach of me leaning his weight on a crutch with eyes glued to his lone shoe. The pant leg of his missing appendage tied off at the knee. I feel Prim tug at my hand capturing my attention and the noise of the Justice Building slams into my eardrums all at once. I jump and Peeta's head lifts briefly, his blue eyes locking with mine for a split second before moving back to his shoe. I see the faint beginning of a smile form on his lips as he spies the toes of my boots peeking out from under the hem of the dress. I pull on the dress to lower the hem and hide them, a blush working its way onto my cheeks.

The man at the front desk beckons us to follow him down a corridor to a bank of windows carved into a wall. Above the windows a sign reads The Office of Population Management: Lottery Division along with the new seal of the country of Panem. Three other nervous couples are stationed at the available windows nodding to the person inside as they give them instructions and then hand them the contract to sign. Peeta and I are ushered to the next open window. I let go of Prim's hand. She hangs back against the smooth stone wall, eyes wide as she takes in the scene.

The woman seated behind the window looks bored. She's not from here. From the complexion of her skin and the ridiculousness of her hairdo I would guess she is from the Capitol or a district close to it. She explains the rules of the contract, the monthly payment we each receive, the additional payment we will receive if we conceive and have a child, and the penalty for not following through with the obligation of our contract. This means that we must at least actively participate in trying to conceive a child or face heavy financial penalties, loss of travel privileges and possible jail time. The government doesn't take these contracts lightly. In the beginning many people saw this as an easy way to earn money without having to do anything, because how would the government prove that the couples weren't indeed trying to conceive a baby? The government quickly caught on to this and instituted caseworkers that are assigned a lottery couple. The caseworker can randomly show up to check the status of the relationship between the individuals and if questions arise, they can enforce medical checkups. However, they still aren't able to know indisputably that the rules of the contract are being abided by and that is why contracts only last two years. There will always be those that take advantage of the system, but by and large, most participants are invested in strengthening the population and also restoring a bit of normalcy to their lives.

The woman thrusts the contract at us after we agree to the terms. I sign first with a shaky hand. Peeta leans close to me to also sign his name on the small ledge attached to the window. He loses his balance slightly and reaches out for my arm to steady himself as he adjusts his crutch.

"Sorry," he whispers letting go of my arm, his cheeks bright red.

Peeta signs and hands the paperwork back to the woman who eyes us suspiciously with a smirk. She hands us each a card with the name and contact information of our caseworker then, as she closes the partition to her window she says with a laugh, "may the odds be every in your favor." I let out a groan and roll my eyes. People old enough to truly remember the Hunger Games like to throw that saying out as a joke, but I don't see it as funny at all, not when so many people have died before the war and during. Peeta sighs finally lifting his head enough to look at me fully and then turns toward the door jerking his head at me to follow him.

He's surprisingly quick for having only one leg and a crutch and I have to jog to keep up with him. I hear Prim's light footsteps as she keeps pace with me. We follow Peeta out of the building and through the town square. He heads directly for the bakery without stopping or looking up from the ground. I turn my head and look at Prim over my shoulder. She looks torn as to whether she should continue to come with me or head back to the Hawthorne's. I shake my head and shrug. I don't know what to do either. I can barely wrap my head around this day or the fact that I will be spending the night with Peeta Mellark. It will be the first night I've ever slept anywhere but my home.

Peeta leads us down the alleyway beside the bakery's brick building and to the muddy, crooked, wooden steps that allow access to the back door. I pause at the bottom as he carefully climbs the steps and opens the door. He turns when he realizes that I'm no longer behind him.

"My sister," I say gesturing towards Prim. Prim raises her hand and waves at him before clasping her hands behind her back.

"I – I don't really have a place for her to sleep for tonight, but she is welcome to stay for dinner. If – If she wants and if it's okay with you," he says quietly, a nervous tremor breaking through his words.

He disappears into the darkened bakery leaving the door open. I look at Prim who shrugs and starts up the steps. I follow stepping into the bakery and closing the door behind me. We walk down a short hall that looks like it was once used as a sort of mudroom with its empty wooden bench and coat hooks, but now houses only a crutch, a single canvas shoe and a rifle propped in the corner. Prim's worried eyes find mine when she sees the rifle, but I choose to ignore it. The hall opens into a spacious kitchen with three brick ovens, a sink large enough to bathe in, a wall with built in cabinetry and a massive butcher block table. The smell of meat and potatoes fills the air and I see Peeta balanced on his crutch by one of the ovens. Prim and I stand awkwardly in the doorway both of us uncomfortable in the strange, new environment.

"Please, sit," Peeta says pointing at the stools around the table. "I didn't expect for there to be more than two people, so I only made two potatoes but we should have enough meat and I made a loaf of bread."

I nod, unsure how to reply. Prim and I probably would've shared half a potato for dinner if we weren't sitting in his kitchen, so anything more than that is a luxury. I can see Prim nearly vibrating in her seat wanting to speak to Peeta and to ask questions. She is so much more outgoing and inquisitive than I am and loves to talk with anyone who is willing. I kick her foot to try and get her to stop fidgeting. She ignores me.

"Do you live here alone, Peeta?" She asks in a voice that is just a little too sugary sweet than her natural one.

"Prim," I reprimand under my breath shooting an apologetic look towards Peeta. He doesn't know that once he answers her the floodgates will be opened and she will not stop.

"Yes," he says reaching for a dish to put the cooked food on. He works his way toward the table balancing a large plate in his hand with two potatoes and a decently sized roast. He places it in front of us and it takes all of my willpower not to dig into the food with my bare hands. He grabs three plates from a cabinet, placing them on the table before also grabbing glasses and a pitcher of water. I understand too late that I should've offered to help him and I mutter an apology for not doing so. "It's okay, Katniss. I can still manage…even on one foot."

"Did your family die in the war?" Prim asks.

I'm so embarrassed by her willingness to pry into other people's lives that all I can do is focus on the food on my plate. Though, in that moment, I also realize that the more she keeps talking the longer she will be here. As soon as she stops she will have to go to the Hawthorne's and I will be here alone with Peeta contractually obligated to be more intimate with him than I have been with anyone. I've only kissed a boy once and I would hardly even classify it as a kiss. It was just a quick pressing of lips together as Gale was leaving for the train to The Capitol. He told me he had to do that just once and that was the last I saw of him. The kiss felt anything by romantic and left me feeling more confused than anything else.

"Some of them did," Peeta answers between bites of his dinner. His voice soft and distant. "My mother moved to District 1 shortly after the end of the war and my older brother lives in District 10 working with the military to rebuild the livestock industry there."

"Oh," Prim replies as she takes small ladylike bites of her meat and the potato I split with her. Meanwhile, I've already shoveled all of the food into my mouth and am working on the slice of fresh bread on my plate. "We lost our dad during the first bombing and our mom died right before the war ended during the Battle of Hawk Ridge," she continued.

Peeta only nods. He knows all of this already because he fed me when I was a starving 11-year-old and because Hawk Ridge is where he lost his leg. My mother had been the one to use the tourniquet that cost him the leg but saved his life.

"So, you're running the bakery alone?" Prim asks.

I lift my head at this because I'm curious too. Is this why he signed up for the lottery? Did he need an extra set of hands and the extra income? It has to be hard to keep the place afloat by himself even with the current small population. Maybe the small population is what is making it hard to begin with. Less people means less money and less chance to sell his wares.

Peeta nods.

"Is that why you signed up for the lottery?" Prim questions, batting her eyelashes at him sweetly.

I kick her foot harder under the table and she gives me a sideways glare before returning her sweet stare to Peeta's downturn head. He's focused on the nearly empty dinner plate, moving the crumbs from his bread around the plate with his fork. His cheeks are tinged pink and the tips of his ears turn crimson.

"I – I guess that is part of it. Things are hard for everyone right now. I still have a few customers, but people don't have a lot of money to spend on items they don't really need. They still buy the bread, but it's not enough to keep the bakery open. I um – I also would like to have children. I mean, I didn't think I would be having them this soon, but this is the only option for me right now outside of leaving the district to go work in reestablishing other more important districts. If I do that than the bakery will close for good and I can't leave it to die like that. My father was here and my brothers. It's – it's home."

Prim is quiet after that. She finishes every last bite off of her plate and offers to wash the dishes in repayment for the meal, but Peeta refuses. He gets up stacking the dishes to move them to the sink. Prim looks at me and then nods her head toward Peeta urging me to go and help him. My throat feels dry and my palms feel too sweaty. Prim reaches out and physically pushes me off my stool. I stumble toward the sink and stand next to Peeta to rinse and dry the dishes that he washes. I'm cautious of him, making sure I don't unintentionally bump against him in such close proximity.

I swallow the ball of nerves in my throat. This is going to be a disaster.

I hear Prim get up from her stool. I flash a look at her over my shoulder pleading with her not to go yet, but I also notice that the sun is starting to set and if she doesn't leave soon she will have to walk back home in the dark.

Noticing my panicked expression, Peeta clears his throat. "Katniss, I –," he says softly.

"I need to say goodbye to my sister. It's getting late and she needs to get back to our house before dark," I rush out keeping him from saying whatever he was going to say.

He puts the last washed dish down and shifts over to my side of the sink to finish rinsing and drying. Prim hovers in the doorway and I hurry over to her and wrap her in my arms.

"Go talk with Hazelle. I'll come by and see you as soon as I can tomorrow," I say.

"You can come back tomorrow after school," Peeta interjects making his way over to us. "Come back and have dinner with us again. I can have a place ready for you to sleep by then as well. If that's okay?" He asks looking toward me.

I'm stunned for a moment before responding. "Yes, of course. That would be wonderful. I was going to have her stay with our neighbor because I wasn't sure what would happen, but – yes. "

"I don't want to separate you from your family, Katniss," he replies quietly turning his gaze back to the floor as Prim and I say our goodbyes. The click of the latch as Prim closes the door seems to reverberate through the still, empty kitchen. I can hear the thundering of my heart in my ears again. I now feel completely out of place in this silly white dress. The awkwardness between Peeta and I is almost painful. The tension in the air is so thick it feels like I could reach out and grab it.

"I'm sure you want to get changed. I think I only remember seeing you in a dress one other time," Peeta says with a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

He's looking at me now. His eyes are deep blue wells of resignation that remind me of an animal when it's been caught in a snare. I wonder what I look like to him? I nod and follow him past the kitchen and down another short hallway with four doors. He explains that the doors lead to the storage room, the bathroom, the office and the staircase to the upstairs living area. He opens the door to the office and I see that it isn't really an office, but more of a converted living space. There's a small desk, a bed, a nightstand, a dresser with a lamp, a bookcase and an overstuffed chair. The waning sunlight seeps through a lone window beside the desk. The bed has a pile of blankets and an open notebook that looks to have drawings in it. Peeta moves past me to grab the notebook, snapping it shut and pulling it against his chest.

"The upstairs was damaged during the last bombing," he says. "Shrapnel tore holes in the roof and rain water caused a lot of damage. I haven't been able to get it completely fixed yet. I've been sleeping down here. I uh – I wasn't sure how the lottery was going to turn out, but there's an extra cot in the storage room that I can sleep on tonight. We can clean the room out tomorrow and I can use it as my room from now on. You and Prim can have this one."

I open and shut my mouth several times trying to figure out what to say. I'm grateful and relieved, but also extremely confused. We are legally obligated to follow the rules of the contract and in the eyes of the district we are basically married, but I'm not sure how we are supposed to honor the lottery rules when we're sleeping in separate beds and separate rooms. A sense of determination comes over me. I need this money. I have to take care of Prim. I push the thoughts of what it will mean to be intimate with Peeta and to have children with him to the back of my mind. I can't think about that right now.

"No. No, that won't work," I say.

Peeta's head snaps up and his face is puzzled. I know he thinks he's doing the chivalrous thing, but he's not doing us any favors.

"We need to honor the contract we signed. You need the money and the help or you'll lose the bakery. I need the money or I'll lose Prim. We can fix up the storage room for Prim. I'm so grateful that you are willing to let her live here and grateful to you for – for the bread too," I stammer the last sentence out as my trembling fingers begin to undo the buttons on the front of my dress. I inhale deeply to steady myself, but the thundering in my ears is loud and distracting and my fingers don't seem to want to stop their shaking. I make it to the buttons just below my bra when Peeta's hand stills mine. I look up. He's so close to me and I can feel that he's shaking too. He smells like soap with a hint of cinnamon.

"Can we wait just a little while?" He asks softly, his eyes finding mine and his hand squeezing my fingers gently. "We don't have to do anything tonight. We're allowed to get to know each other first."

I nod and exhale feeling the fear and tension release from my shoulders. His hand is large and warm nearly eclipsing my hand completely. I suddenly feel very tired. I know he's right. Our caseworker won't come around immediately and there are even provisions in the contract we signed that allow the partnered couple time to get to know each other. The government doesn't expect people to be so comfortable right away. They'll give us time, but not a lot of it.

"One month?" I ask. This seems like enough time to not arise any suspicions and hopefully get us more relaxed around each other.

"One month," he agrees, removing his hand from mine. My fingers tingle and feel odd without his touch. He turns and moves towards the door to leave me to get changed.

"Peeta."

He stops and turns.

"I never said thank you, for the bread I mean. Thank you," I say. He nods and even grants me a small smile. "I was so worried today, but I'm glad that it's you," I add and then flush slightly with embarrassment.

It's the truth. I am glad it's him. It could have been someone like old Cray, who somehow miraculously survived the war. This night would be going horribly different if it had been Cray.

"I never imagined it would be you," he says with a sigh, closing the door behind him.

I stand there frozen, my shaky fingers still on the buttons of my dress. My head hurts and I'm exhausted but I don't know how I'll get to sleep tonight in this strange room, in a strange bed and with Peeta sleeping only inches away from me. At least Prim will be here tomorrow and we can help Peeta with getting the bakery back up and running. Maybe we can help him work on the upstairs too. I've never really done much in the way of construction or carpentry work, but I'm a fast learner and I owe him so much already. I finish unbuttoning the dress and fold it neatly before placing it in my small bag. It's one of the only things I have left that was my mother's and from the way my father looked at her in the dress in the photograph I have, it meant a lot to him as well so it means a lot to me too.

I slip on a simple, worn sweater and comfortable pants. I look at my boots and decide against putting them back on. I line them up neatly on the wall by the nightstand. I work my fingers through the elaborate braid Prim had woven in my hair letting the tresses fall around my shoulders. I consider weaving the hair into my usual single braid but choose to leave it down. I like the weight of it around my head and the way it hides my face a bit when I duck my chin. It's like a curtain I can hide behind to escape the uneasiness of this situation when I need too. Besides, it's the evening and the autumn chill is already seeping in through the wooden floorboards below my feet. This sort of hairdo feels comfortable in the chilly nighttime weather.

I creep in socked feet back down the hall and into the kitchen. Now that the sun has set it is very dark in the bakery save for a light glow at the end of the hall. When the battle for District 5 and control of the power grid took place, the grid was nearly destroyed. It had been one of the most prolific victories for the rebellion and many say it turned the tide of the war. Power has been spotty ever since. Growing up on the outskirts of the district I rarely had access to power, so the absence of electricity isn't anything new to me but it does make for dark, cold nights now that winter is approaching. We thought they would have the grid repaired by now, however we are learning that with limited man power in every district rebuilding is an uphill battle. Yet another reason why the lottery and population growth are essential.

A single source of light emanates from the middle brick oven. A small fire burns inside and the cast iron door has been left propped open. Peeta sits below the oven, his back propped against the warm brick and the notebook he confiscated from his room in his hands. The pencil held between his fingers slows on the page as I lower myself to sit beside him. The brick feels incredible against my back and I sink into it more, turning my head to look at the open notebook. The page is open to a loose sketch of Prim during dinner that evening. Her chin is propped up by her fist, her elbow on the table and a mischievous smile on her lips.

"I didn't know you could draw," I say surprised. "You've captured her so well. You're an artist."

He smiles and shrugs, shaking his head to disagree with a small laugh.

"No, really you are. I couldn't have been in the room more than 15 minutes and yet you were able to draw Primrose so accurately just from memory. It's amazing. I have no talents like that."

"You can take your bow into the woods and feed your family. You even bring back enough game and trade and help feed the district," he says with a knowing look.

I shake my head. "That isn't talent. That's survival."

He nods. "I – I would like if – if we could be friends, Katniss," he stutters, picking a piece of lint from his pants and avoiding my eyes again.

I realize now in this close proximity to him just how much the war and the loss of his family have changed him. As a child, when school was still open, I remember a friendly, outgoing boy with bright blue eyes and blonde curls. He would talk to everyone and loved to make people laugh. This boy – this man before me now is a ghost of that person. He's shy and nervous and seemingly hyper aware of just how changed he is but lacking the confidence to pull himself up out of the depths he finds himself in.

I let out a humorless laugh. "I would like that too, but you should be warned, I'm not so good at being friends." Gale's face flashes in my mind.

"It helps if you know the person. I hardly know anything about you other than you're stubborn and good with a bow," he says, lifting his head and leaning it against the brick. The hint of a smile is playing on his lips. He's teasing me. I can tease too.

"That about sums me up," I say with a shrug reaching for the notebook still in his hands. He pulls it just out of my reach.

"Uh-uh. There's more to you. You just don't want to tell me."

I sigh.

"Katniss, the way the whole 'friends' thing works is we have to tell each other the 'deep stuff'."

He really is teasing now and I find myself stifling a giggle. I never giggle. Where is that coming from?

"The deep stuff?" I ask, my eyebrows raised. "Like, what?"

He closes his eyes seeming to contemplate this for a moment before his eyes pop open and they are alight with something akin to joy and the glow from the fire. His long lashes framing the brilliant blue hue. I realize my mouth is hanging open and close it using my hair to hide my blush.

"What's your favorite color?" He asks in a voice laced with seriousness.

I almost snort out a laugh, but we're playing a game now and I like to win. "Now, you've crossed the line," I deadpan with as severe of a scowl as I can muster.

He laughs. My chest tightens. It is a beautiful sound. I could get use to his laugh. For a moment I see the boy he used to be. I tell myself to add this moment to the list of moments I keep in my memory of things that are good, things that make me smile or things that I love. I don't want to forget the moment I first made him laugh like that.

"No, seriously. What is it?" He asks, the smile on his face bright. I think he might like this moment too.

"Green. What's yours?"

"Orange."

"Orange?" I make a face. All I can think of is the garishly bright oranges the Capitol people used to wear and think were the latest fashion. It reminded me of peacocks strutting around flaunting their feathers.

"Not that kind of orange," Peeta chuckles, seeming to understand where my mind went. "More of a subtle orange. Like a sunset."

I can picture what he means perfectly. I think of the lake out in the woods, the little cabin by it and the way the sunset reflecting off the lake looks from its doorway. A soft orange and red shade that extends across the lake's surface. It is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. That lake and the cabin somehow survived the war unscathed. I wonder if Peeta has ever seen it. I wonder if he's ever been outside the district when he was fighting with the rebellion and what that was like. I wonder about his family and his solitary life. I wonder about his leg. Is it painful? Is he worried what I might think about it? I wonder about a number of things as we sit in a more companionable silence with our bodies pressed close to the brick. Peeta picks up the notebook and begins sketching again and I weave different braids into my hair before pulling them back out again.

Before long, my eyes start to drift closed and I turn to see Peeta already dozing, his head slumped against his chest. I crouch beside him and shake him gently. He startles, grasping my wrist tightly in alarm before remembering that I'm here with him now. His grip loosens and he mumbles a quiet apology. I reach down to help him up which he accepts but I can tell the help makes him feel uneasy. He shuts the oven door, lights an oil lamp and we move together down the hall towards the bedroom. I grab my bag off the floor of the room and head towards the bathroom. He follows me and hands me the lamp while he waits in the hall for me to finish. I quickly relieve myself, brush my teeth and hair before switching places with him. The windowless hall is pitch black. The only light belonging to the sliver of moonbeams creating shadows as they stretch from the bedroom window into the hall. I listen to the muffled noises of Peeta and hug the wall. The floorboards overhead groan and creak. I can feel the cool gusts of air escaping around the closed door of the stairs. I'm sure I can possibly get some help from around town to work on the upstairs. I can hunt for meat to trade for labor and Peeta can provide bread. We can make it work. If we have children they will need a place to live that isn't an abandoned drafty office.

Children. I never wanted to have children, but here I am. I'll be a terrible mother.

Peeta exits the bathroom and I follow him into the bedroom. We stand awkwardly by the bed and share a shy smile. He gestures for me to get into the bed which I do. It's bigger than the bed I shared with Prim and more than big enough for Peeta and I, but I still move all the way against the wall to give him room and provide space between us. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me and places his crutch against the nightstand before reaching down to remove his shoe. He turns out the lamp and lays on his back. We huddle stiffly under the blankets, fully clothed and not touching. I listen to his careful steady breaths and close my eyes trying to pretend that I'm at home, in my bed with Prim. I want to stretch out and get comfortable but I'm afraid to move. I don't want to bother him or accidentally brush up against him. This whole scenario is so foreign and out of place to me. I wrap my arms around myself and let my mind spin uncontrollably until I finally fall asleep.