Tango: Everdeen

by WizMonCruWil

No-Arena Everlark is one of my favorite things to write. I have tackled the topic again and again over the years, with various degrees of success. Recently, I read Xerxia's incredible Inevitability. It really captures Katniss and Peeta with a married life in hardscrabble Twelve. Much of this fic's structure comes from this, with some scenes fleshed out and more detailed smut. Enjo

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Reaping Day dawns bright and cloudless with the promise of a gorgeous sunny day. I fish in the morning with my best friend Gale Hawthorne, and we gather strawberries, but we're back at our respective homes early. It's Prim's first Reaping, and I want to be there to comfort my little sister. Only one of Gale's three siblings is old enough for the Reaping this year, but the younger two are nervous for their big brothers.

A Seam girl is Reaped, I only know her by sight; she's in Gale's year at school. She's 18, one of the oldest of this year's tributes, but underfed, scrawny and weak. This was her last reaping, if she hadn't been chosen she would have been free and clear now. The crowd barely reacts, older Seam kids are reaped every year, they're the ones with the most slips in the bowls. When the boy's name is called, however, an almost inhuman wail rises from somewhere in the crowd of waiting townsfolk. Davey Cartwright is only 13, all blond curls and chubby cheeks, he looks like a cherub. It's rare that Merchants are Reaped, they seldom have to take tesserae, and Davey would only have had two slips in the bowl, but the odds weren't in his favor.

I grab Prim, hugging her hard, safe for another year. We walk home with our mother, and with Gale and his family. Tonight there will be fish stew and strawberries and silent prayers of thanks. It doesn't feel right to celebrate when there are two families grieving, but the relief is palpable.

Everyone gets a day off for the Reaping, but it's business as usual in the district the day after, back to work, back to school, normal except for the Mandatory Viewing in the evenings, though this early it's nothing but recaps and analysis. The Games don't start until two weeks after the reaping, but there will be interviews and training scores and the tribute parade for the Capitol's entertainment before that. I notice Delly Cartwright is missing from classes only because Madge points it out while we have lunch side by side. Delly is missing the next day too, but then it's the weekend and I don't give any more thought to it.

Summer weekends are when Gale and I can hunt from dawn to dusk, bringing in as much as possible to salt and store away for the winter, and to trade for things we'll need when the weather turns. On Saturday evening we watch the Opening Ceremonies on the big screens in the town square, crowded together with our families and most of the district. Once the Games start people generally do their Mandatory Viewing at home, but the tribute parade is one last chance to see the children who were Reaped looking healthy and alive. Little Davey looks lost on his chariot, a child playing dress-up, wearing daddy's coal miner helmet, a generous coating of coal dust and little else.

Monday is rainy, so there's no hunting before school. Madge and I eat lunch silently as always; together, but not really together. Madge elbows me though, to get my attention, and points across the room with her chin. Delly Cartwright is back at school; attendance is mandatory until after your last reaping, the Peacekeepers would have been banging on her door if she'd missed another day. But instead of sitting surrounded by other merchant kids like she used to, Delly is alone, slumped at a table near the other kids, but not too close, her flaming red hair lank and dull, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. The Merchant kids who are her friends don't seem to understand her grief, or maybe it's just that most of them have no experience with loss, so for the most part they shy away from Delly. A few stop with a quiet word but none stay, and after lunch I watch as Delly shuffles back to class with her head down, alone.

I don't mean to keep tabs on Delly, but somehow I can't help it. Every day I notice Delly looking worse and worse, notice fewer and fewer people say anything at all to her. And while it makes no sense for me to care, and even less sense to act on it, I feel almost a kinship with the broken merchant girl. I know what it's like to lose someone that important, and every time I look at Delly I can't help but think of losing Prim, know that if it had been Prim who'd been reaped I myself would probably be falling apart. When Madge is absent from school, caring again for her ailing mother, I sit beside Delly instead of sitting alone for lunch. The other girl looks quizzically at me; it's the first time since the Reaping that she's worn anything other than a dazed expression, never mind her trademark smile. Neither one of us speaks, but I push a bit of bread with goat cheese into Delly's hands and we both eat.

The next day I drag Delly over to sit with me and Madge and the three of us eat together wordlessly. Days follow in the same fashion, but on the day the Games are set to begin, Delly finally speaks to me.

"Can we watch together?" I am only too eager to agree. Delly needs the support of someone, and she's unlikely to get it from her parents, who will have nerves just as shot as hers.

We watch on the giant screens in the Square, surrounded by a crowd of people more interested in enjoying the beautiful summer evening than in watching children kill each other. The Seam girl is killed in the first 20 minutes, during the bloodbath at the cornucopia, but Davey runs and hides and by the time Mandatory Viewing ends for the night he's holed himself up in a little cave by a stream. It's not the best hiding spot, but this early in the Games he'll probably be safe overnight.

Delly's spirits are better the next day, and as Davey continues to defy the odds she seems more and more like the Delly of old; tentatively chatting with her Merchant friends again and taking care of herself, though she continues to share quiet lunches with Katniss and Madge.

A week and a half in, Davey is bitten by a snake, and he dies lying on the riverbank in the mud, his sky blue eyes wide and his baby pink lips frozen open. He's the 15th tribute to die, just missing the Final Eight.

That night I have a nightmare. Bad dreams are common for me, I've had them since Daddy died, but this one is different. I dream I'm in the Games, watching Davey die in the mud. Only in my dream it isn't Davey's golden hair and vacant blue eyes that stare up at her, it's... Peeta Mellark's.

I jolt awake, heart pounding in horror and confusion. Peeta Mellark is a Merchant boy, the Baker's youngest son. We're in the same year at school, but we're not friends. In fact, we've never even spoken. Our one and only interaction was years ago when we were both eleven, a few months after my father died in an explosion in the mines where he worked. Mother was locked in a deep depression, unable to care for her children and we were starving to death. I remember being slumped under an apple tree behind the Mellark bakery, in the pouring rain, waiting to die, when Peeta threw me two loaves of slightly burned bread. He hadn't said anything, then or since, but in the years following I've thought about that day often, was almost certain he'd burned the loaves on purpose, for me, and had taken a beating from his mother because of it.

The bread, and the hope that he'd given me had saved my entire family. Many times over the years I've wanted to thank him but the opportunity has never arisen.

I dismiss the dream as nothing; it's true that Peeta and Davey look similar with their Merchant coloring, that's all it is. Still, I find myself watching Peeta that day in school, and several times our eyes meet before one of us looks quickly away.

Delly comes to school every day but she's shattered. She sits with me and Madge at lunch though, and our quiet companionship seems to help her hang on. I notice that the only other classmate who speaks to Delly is Peeta, who walks Delly home after school on days when he doesn't have wrestling practice.

The dreams plague me, returning again and again, each time growing more vivid, more graphic, until the night I wake Prim and Mother with my screams as I dream that Peeta is dying on the riverbank, this time by my own hand.

I can't sleep after that, so I head to the woods. Before the sun has even fully risen I've emptied and reset the snare line and picked a gallon of blueberries. It's a perfect summer day, but I'm too distracted to risk staying in the woods. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I finds myself standing at the back door of the Bakery.

Usually when I come to trade squirrels for real bakery bread, it's the Baker who answers the back door but it's much earlier than usual today, and so it's Peeta's golden hair and shy smile that greet me.

"Katniss... hi." There's a weird stutter to his voice. "Do you want me to get my father?" It's the first words he's ever spoken to me, but I shake my head and thrust a large cloth-wrapped bundle of berries into his hands, then turn and run down the alley wordlessly. My face is so red, it could be on fire, and there is a strange swooping sensation in my chest that makes me bristle.

Despite the odd sensations that rise up in me where Peeta Mellark is concerned, I feel better after that. Perhaps a half-gallon of blueberries is poor repayment for the bread that saved my family, and it's definitely 5 years overdue, but it's something. I hope it'll calm my guilt and take away the nightmares.

At school the next day, Peeta approaches me before class starts with a determined look on his face and I panic, mentally assessing the ways I could run, but before I can move he's standing in front of me, pressing a muffin into my hands. It's fragrant, and still warm, and it takes every bit of my restraint not to shove it into my mouth right away.

"I can't take this," I say quietly, in a voice tinged with regret. "I haven't got anything to trade."

"Not a trade," he says with a shy smile. "I made them with the blueberries. From yesterday," he adds, as if he thinks I might have forgotten. I'm speechless, and he walks away before I can stop him. I eat half of the muffin before heading to class, tucking the other half into my bag to give to Prim later, and it's the best thing I've ever tasted.

Peeta begins to join my girlfriends and I for lunch, not every day but a few times a week. While he's outgoing and gregarious with his other friends, he's quiet with us, but just his presence seems to help coax Delly out of her shell. As the days pass we all speak a little more, this strange foursome, and I learn that Peeta's and Delly's parents were childhood friends themselves.

Gale starts to work in the mines and he changes. We still meet in the woods on Sundays, it's the only day he doesn't work, but where we used to share a warm companionship, a brotherhood of sorts, things are now so much colder between us. Gale constantly berates me for spending time with my new 'Townie' friends and I'm bewildered. I've never thought of myself as very good at making friends, and it really hasn't crossed my mind until just now that of the few I've somehow managed to make, they all happen to live on the other side of the tracks. What difference does it make who I sit with at school for lunch? Gale doesn't even go to school anymore, and the small amount that I see Delly or Madge or Peeta outside of school never interferes with my hunting. I still take half of what the snares catch to the Hawthornes, even though Gale is down in the mines 6 days a week and can't help.

Davey's tiny coffin is delivered to the district on a rainy Friday, eight agonizing weeks after he left on the very same train, and Delly begs me to come to the cemetery with her the next day. I do, for her sake, even though I feel completely out of place; I've never been to a burial, there was nothing left of Daddy to bury after all, but I stand stoically as Delly clings tightly to my hand. Delly's father practically holds his wife up, while she stares vacantly at nothing. I know that look; it's the look that Mother wore for so many months after Daddy died.

As popular as the cobbler and his wife had seemed, there are only a handful of mourners present; I'm the only Seamer in attendance. Peeta is there, standing still and silent as we watch the small coffin lowered into the ground. I wonder why the Baker and his wife aren't there, since they're friends with the Cartwrights, but I daren't ask.

Sundays in the woods with Gale get more and more tense, even as the late season hunting itself improves. He's angry with me all of the time now and I begin to dread the very place that has been my sanctuary for so long. On a cool misty morning I finally confront him.

"I know you don't exactly like the company I keep at school, even if it's none of your damn business! But now I feel like nothing I do pleases you, and whatever the hell your problem is with me, at least be man enough to tell me!"

"You.. you stubborn, oblivious ASS!" Gale bellows. Quickly we escalate to screaming, scaring away all of the animals for miles. Suddenly, he backs me into a tree and reaches for me; momentarily I'm frightened that he's going to wrap his hands around my throat. Instead he cradles my face and presses his lips against mine.

I am completely unprepared. You would think that after years of friendship with Gale, I would be the kind of girl to even vaguely wonder about his lips. Or how his hands, which can set the most complicated of snares, can so easily entrap me now, stealing about my waist. I've never been kissed by a boy before, and while I'm sure it should make some sort of impact on me, all I really register is the firm pressure of his mouth against mine, and the faint scent of soap that lingers on his hands. Gale lets go, backing away. "I had to do that, at least once," he says, then turns and leaves. That's the last Sunday we spend together.

I know he still goes into the woods, suspect he's set up new snare lines elsewhere, but our paths never cross. I thinks he's avoiding me, though I don't understand why, beyond postulating that he fears how I felt about the kiss, whether I liked it or resented it. All I know is that I've disappointed him, somehow. He still trades at the Hob – that much I know. Greasy Sae fills me in on what he brings and who he speaks with, but he never trades with the Merchants in town anymore. It's as if he's divided our old trade route cleanly in half, leaving me the Town portion.

Once I've accepted that Gale is truly gone from my life, I start to bring Prim into the woods. Not to hunt, my baby sister is far too delicate to hunt, but she's an excellent gatherer and her plant knowledge quickly improves. I find in these shared experiences that my relationship with Prim deepens, find myself becoming less a parent to Prim and more a sister, a friend. The heavy cloak of responsibility that I've worn since my father's death seems to lighten a bit.

When I trade squirrels at the back door of the bakery now, it's Peeta I deal with, instead of his father, and gradually we begin to talk to one another. Sometimes I bring him nuts and berries, not to trade, but just because I want to and I like how he smiles when I gift them. I'm conscientious enough to only bring him small amounts, handfuls really, so that he can't force me to take anything in return. And yet he always shares with me a small taste of what he's made with the berries; a slice of bread, a muffin, a biscuit. The back and forth we develop is comfortable, and though I've still never thanked him for the bread all of those years ago, I begin to feel like I don't owe him so much anymore. He still shows up in my dreams sometimes, in a dank cave or lying on the riverbank, but no longer dead, and I think that's a major improvement.

Summer fades into fall, and Delly gradually gets better, but Delly's mother does not. The last time I catch sight of Mrs. Cartwright is when the train comes to town for the Victory Tour. Where the winner of the 74th Hunger Games, a Career from District Two, can barely conceal his disdain at being forced to speak to the silent coal-stained crowd.

The evening of the first snowfall of the season, Mrs. Cartwright passes away. The Peacekeepers list the official cause of death as pneumonia, but rumors abound that she took her own life, having never recovered from the grief of losing her son.

I begin to spend evenings now and again with Delly in the small apartment where she and her father live above the shoe shop, pungent with the smell of leather. I try to keep Delly's spirits up and help fill in the silence of her half-empty home. I'm surprised when on the cold, dark night of my second visit Peeta shows up as I'm leaving.

I pull up short, surprised. "Peeta? What are you doing here?"

His easy smile does something strange to my stomach. "Delly mentioned to me that you came round last night. I figured you might want someone to walk you home. I know it's out of your way. And it's getting dark earlier."

I don't need his help, don't want to owe him anything else, but he doesn't take no for an answer. We don't walk together so much as Peeta chases me as I stomp to the Seam, flustered, but he's undeterred. After that he shows up every time I visit with Delly, to walk me home.

By the time I confront him, my own objections are weak, privately... pleased that he is being such a gentleman. "I don't need charity or chivalry, Peeta! I can walk just fine by myself!"

He merely smiles. "I know, Katniss," he says, flashing that shy smile that I secretly adore. "I want to walk with you. You're doing me a favor by allowing it." I roll my eyes, but I don't fight him anymore, don't try to run, and the cold mile between Town and the Seam gradually fills with our conversations. By the time Yule rolls around we're making the walk mittened hand in mittened hand.

There are few celebrations in District 12 - there isn't much to celebrate here and starvation makes for a poor party. But New Years is a mandatory celebration; giant screens fill the square as the Capitol broadcasts vapid propaganda while counting down to midnight. Peeta is busy in the days before New Year's Eve, decorating cakes that the wealthiest citizens will buy for their parties: Mayor Undersee, Cray the Head Peacekeeper, a couple of others. I generally spend New Year's Eve at home, watching the countdown on the static-filled old clunker of a television that occupies the corner of the living room, but Prim wants desperately to go to the Square, and Mother is well enough this year that I can't use her precarious health as an excuse to stay home.

The atmosphere in the Square is exuberant. It's been a mild winter so far and there's a feeling of if not happiness exactly then contentment. People are suffering less this winter, people are less afraid of starving to death.

There's a bonfire leaping from a metal drum and a man selling hot spiced cider, somehow Mother has a few coins to buy a cup for me and Prim to share. The night is mild and just a few lazy snowflakes drift from the sky, twinkling in the light of the fire and the screens. Prim runs to her friends and Mother drifts away so I stand by the fire alone, watching. Madge isn't there, her father hosts a New Year's party for the most prominent townsfolk. Delly too is missing, keeping an eye on her own father at the close of their awful year. But I don't mind the solitude; I've always felt most comfortable as a wall flower, on the periphery.

A pair of fiddlers strikes up a reel and I can't hold back the small smile that plays on my lips as people begin to dance, all fast spins and joyful expressions. I don't realize that I'm singing along until a soft voice speaks almost directly into my ear:

"I remember the first time I heard you sing."

I spin abruptly to find Peeta standing so close to me that I can feel his breath on my ear, and I shiver, looking up to meet eyes that are little more than black pools in the darkness. "It was the first day of school, we were five," he continues. "At music assembly the teacher asked who knew the valley song and your hand shot right up. She stood you on a stool and had you sing for us. And I swear every bird outside the windows fell silent. And right when your song ended I knew I was a goner."

I want to scoff, but the comeback dies in my throat at the look on his face: still shy, a little frightened but determined, and completely serious. Instead I squeak out, "You have a remarkable memory."

"I remember everything about you," Peeta says, reaching down to tuck a loose strand of chestnut hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

"I am now," I whisper with a soft smile. He leans in close but pauses as if in question. I shock myself when I'm the one who initiates closing the distance between us when I pull him to me.

It's completely unlike the kiss I shared with Gale. I'm struck by Peeta's immediacy, how I feel surrounded by him, aware of his hot breath on my cheek as it puffs unevenly from his nose, and the stirrings in my chest, warm and curious. I let out a shuddering gasp into his willing and pliant mouth, and our lips separate, but we remain leaning into each other, my hands curled into the rough wool of his jacket, his hands resting lightly just above my hips, both of us with wide eyes and shy smiles. "I've wanted to do that for years," he confesses, lifting a gentle hand to cup my flushed cheek.

We break apart quickly when Gale's raucous voice booms out from only feet away. "Catnip," he slurs, squeezing between me and Peeta and throwing an arm around my shoulders. He sways slightly and smells like white liquor.

"Gale?" I question, stunned and confused. "Are you… are you drunk?"

He snorts, the sound like nothing I've ever heard from him before. "I prefer to think of it as really relaxed," he says, rolling the r sounds ridiculously. He's leaning on me now, having maneuvered himself neatly between me and Peeta. "I never see you anymore, I miss you Catnip," he laments, loudly, and I cringe visibly.

"That's because you're avoiding me, Gale," I say quietly but there's an edge of hurt to my words. The last time I saw him he was screaming at me and then kissing me, and that was months ago.

"No, it's not like that," he moans, almost impossible to understand, and his glassy eyes hold both an apology and fire. He leans into me, maybe trying to hug me, I'm not sure, but I twist out of his grasp and look at him with furrowed brows.

"What's going on, Gale?" I mean to be nonchalant but embarrassment wells up and my words come out sharply. Gale's face hardens and his jaw tenses, and when his hands grip my shoulders firmly I let out an inadvertent squeak of surprise.

Over Gale's shoulder I see Peeta move towards us. I thinks he's going to pull Gale away but I know that will just set off Gale's temper, and who knows what he'd be capable of in this state. There are Peacekeepers all around the Square and the last thing I want is trouble. I meet Peeta's eyes over Gale's shoulder and shake my head, silently begging him to understand. He backs away wordlessly but his expression is sad and confused.

Gale is mumbling incoherently and almost falling over, and I know if he stays in the square he's going to make a scene. I'm still hurt by his abrupt dismissal of me from his life, but even still he's one of my closest friends and I need to protect him. I tuck my shoulder under his arm and tell him I'm taking him home. Though I don't look back, I she can feel Peeta's eyes burning between my shoulder blades as I half drag Gale towards the Seam.

He mumbles what might be apologies as we trudge along, though his speech is so garbled I can't understand most of it. Finally he becomes aware enough to usher me to a large rock by the side of the path, sitting on it and pulling me down beside him. It's a little smaller than the rock where we used to meet in the woods before each hunting day but the familiarity makes my heart pang. I've missed him, the Gale that was my friend, the Gale who made me smile.

"It's supposed to be us, Catnip. You and me. Not you and the... Baker boy." He's holding my hands and pleading, but I shake my head in disbelief.

"We're friends, Gale, you and I. Best friends."

He moans. "No… We're more than friends, Catnip. We belong together! You and me, we're gonna get married, gonna be happy."

I bite my lip. I thought this might be where his thinking was going, but to hear it, even drunk as he is, makes me angry. He's the one who is supposed to know me better than anyone else. "You know I never want to get married, Gale. That's never been part of my plan. Marriage means kids and kids mean Reapings and…" He cuts me off, squeezing my hands painfully and leaning in close, the liquor fumes almost overwhelming as they push against my face. For one mad second, I think he is going to kiss me again. I don't want to push him away – I didn't when he kissed me in the woods, shocked as I was, but now I won't unless I have to.

"S'not stopping you from screwing around with the baker boy." He sneers and I jump back, shoving his hands away, shock and revulsion forcing a flush into my cheeks.

"Peeta and I are friends, Gale, nothing more, and it's none of your damned business anyway!" I run away, leaving him sitting on the side of the path, my mind whirling with rage. I can't abandon him entirely though, so when I see lights on at one of the houses on the edge of the Seam I convince the young man inside, Thom, one of Gale's crew mates in the mines, to drag him back. I don't stick around to watch.

Gale comes around the next day, sober, to apologize, but I refuse to see him. I have my sister send him away; I can hear him speaking with Prim but I hide in the tiny bedroom until Prim comes back to tell me that he's gone. I don't want to tell Prim what happened because Prim is twelve and she shouldn't know about boys and kissing and stuff, but Prim guesses much of what's happened anyway between being naturally perceptive and talking with Gale's younger brother Rory, who is her classmate.

"I'm never falling in love, Little Duck. I'm never getting married." Prim only rolls her eyes.

"I saw you kiss Peeta, Katniss," she grins, pale blue eyes twinkling. "And I see the way he looks at you. The way he's always looked at you."

I shrug her off, and we mercifully move onto other topics of discussion.

I expect Peeta to confront me at school or maybe to avoid me but instead we fall back into quiet joint lunches and walks from Delly's house to the Seam, as if nothing ever happened. I tell myself it's what I want, that I have no room in my life to think about frivolities like boyfriends or love, but when I think of Peeta and that kiss she feel hollow.

The winter continues to be mild and hunting, while not plentiful, brings in enough to sustain me, Prim and Mother. I don't see Gale at all. It's not that I avoid him, exactly (the last thing I want to be is a hypocrite), but I do the majority of my hunting in the early mornings before school, or on Saturdays and somehow there are always other things I need to do on Sundays that keep me out of the woods. When Prim mentions she's heard Gale is dating someone all I can feel is relief.

The first day of spring dawns cool and wet, and we're informed at the beginning of class that there is Mandatory Viewing that evening. Some propaganda piece from the Capitol no doubt, they're not frequent, but they're not uncommon either. When Prim and I tell Mother later that day, she seems to know what's coming: the Reading of the Card. This summer's Hunger Games will be the 75th, and that means another Quarter Quell, a glorified version of the Games, with some even more horrifying twist. For the last Quell each district had to send four children. That's the Games that District 12's only living Victor won.

Huddled around the television set in our tiny living room we watch as President Snow's snake-like face fills the screen and he reads:

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels of how very small they are in the face of the Capitol's power, the male and female tributes will be Reaped from only the pool of twelve year olds."

Mother makes a soft dismayed sound but Prim and I hug each other fiercely. Safe for another year! We won't even be eligible for this year's Reaping! Prim is 13, so she is just beyond the cut-off!

There are murmurs everywhere in the District, people grumbling under their breath about how barbaric it is to send 24 of the smallest children into the arena, the kind of seditious talk that normally only emerges from the mines seems to spread into households not only in the Seam but in Town too. District 12 is so tiny there are only maybe 80 twelve year olds in total, and none will have more than a handful of slips in the bowls. For once the odds won't be tipped so strongly in favor of Seam children being chosen.

Among the kids on the other end of the spectrum, the 18 year olds who have essentially aged out of the Reaping 3 months early, there is jubilation. They keep the peacekeepers busy between cutting school and gathering after dark for bonfires and drinking.

On a perfect April morning with my gathering bag full of fiddleheads and morels I slip back through the fence in the meadow to find Peeta waiting for me. In the months since the kiss we shared, we've settled into a comfortable companionship, maybe even a friendship, but it's still the first time I've seen him outside of school or our walks home after visiting Delly. I scowl at him in confusion, but he merely smiles, radiant as a sunbeam, and falls into step with me as I head to the Hob.

I'm surprised when he follows me into the Hob. Not that Merchants don't occasionally come here, there aren't any other places to buy contraband liquor after all, but Peeta isn't like the world weary old men who sneak in shamefaced and afraid of being seen. He's wide eyed and curious, friendly with the vendors despite the wary way they regard him, even managing to charm Greasy Sae while I barter.

After, he walks me to the Seam. Along the way he finally spills the reason he'd wanted to see me. "Mrs. Potvin came into the bakery yesterday," he starts. I'm familiar with the name - the Potvins are Seam folk, their two children are just a little older than me. I shrug, and he looks concerned, as if he'd expected more of a reaction from me. "She wanted to order a small Toasting cake. For Leevy…" he breaks off, still studying her face. Leevy is a year older than we are. I guess that since the Reaping this year will only involve twelve year olds, some of the 18 year olds are getting a head start on marriages and jobs. Finally he takes a deep breath. "For Leevy and Gale."

I'm surprised, sure, not that Gale is getting married – I've always known that was in his plans - but that it's happening so quickly. And if I'm being honest, I'm a little hurt that I'm hearing it from Peeta instead of from Gale, who was my best friend for so many years. Still, the only thing that pops into my head is to ask what they wanted on their cake, and Peeta grins, looking oddly relieved.

"Candied violets," he says, then describes the cake he'll make for the couple; a small one, tiny really, scarcely big enough to be called a cake but still an almost unimaginable luxury for a Seam Toasting. "Katniss," he says softly when the quiet has stretched between us. "What happened with you and Gale?"

I shrug again. "I'm not really sure," I say. I'd rather not talk about Gale with Peeta. For some reason it feels like they are parts of my life that should be kept separate, but there's something in Peeta's expression that compels me to continue. "Everything was great until the last Reaping, we were best friends, we saw each other every day. And then we weren't."

"I thought you would be the one marrying Gale," Peeta admits, and I stop, scowling at him.

"Gale and I were hunting partners, friends." I insist. "There was never anything else between us. There never could have been."

"He wanted there to be."

I study Peeta closely, wondering how he can tell. "Yeah," I admit after a while. "I think he did. But I didn't."

The Toasting is the following Sunday. I'm not invited, nor does Gale stop by to tell me about it, but when the couple leaves the Justice Building hand in hand I line up with the rest of my neighbors, singing the wedding song. Gale catches my eye and smiles as he walks by with his bride on his arm, and I think that maybe someday we'll be able to be friends again.

Peeta is incredibly busy in the weeks that follow. The Bakery receives a rush of orders for Toasting cakes which fill his weekends from before dawn to dusk, and practices for the upcoming wrestling tournament take up his lunch period and what seems like every spare moment of his time. When I do see him, at school for a few minutes at lunch, or walking between the school and Delly's house, he's more affectionate, giving my hand a gentle squeeze or stroking the glossy length of my braid, always with a warm smile and twinkling eyes.

Discovering the season's first rhubarb on an unseasonably warm Saturday morning in the woods reminds me that I haven't brought Peeta anything since the fall. I cut and trim a bunch of the pink-green stems, and bundle enough for him to make a small pie or a few tartlets, but not enough that he'll insist on paying me. His smile when I gift the tart stalks is radiant, but before I can dart back down the alley he grabs my arm.

"Katniss," he starts, and his voice wavers with nerves. "I finish at four today and I wondered if I could see you. Tonight." His words are ambiguous but I think I know what he means, though I'm tempted to play dumb and make him spit it out anyway, simply for the fun of watching him sweat. But he's looking at me with eyes wide and guileless and a streak of flour on his cheek, and I don't have the heart to make him squirm.

"Sure, Peeta." I smile as his features flood with relief. His hand slides down my arm to grasp my hand.

"Will you meet me here, at five?" The hope on his face is unmistakable, and sweet.

"Okay." I smile and squeeze his hand before darting back down the alley.

I should be terrified, I'm sure Peeta has asked me on a date, and courting leads to things I've always sworn I don't want; love, marriage, babies. But I'm strangely okay with it - well, with one date anyway. Maybe it's been the mild winter that's left Prim's cheeks fuller than they've been in years, maybe it's the lack of fear of the Reaping, at least this year, or maybe it's something different entirely, but I'm not afraid. Not much anyway.

I have to tell Prim of course, to explain why I won't be home for supper, and my sister's squeals of delight almost have me rethinking my plans. And while I would have been content to just wash my face and wear my regular hunting clothes, Prim won't have any of that. So I have an unusual Saturday afternoon bath, even washing my hair with a precious egg yolk. After, we sit on the front stoop in the spring sunshine and Prim brushes through my hair, 100 strokes, until it's dry and hangs in a glossy curtain down my back. When I reach back to braid it Prim slaps my hands away.

"Leave it down," she entreats, and I seldom say No to anything my sister asks. I do, however, draw the line at wearing a skirt, but pull on my nicest trousers, the ones without any holes or patches yet, and a soft grey tunic.

He's waiting in front of the Bakery when I arrive that afternoon, sitting on the steps beside a large basket. The flour streak is gone and he's switched out the white t-shirt and khakis that make up his bakery uniform for a blue button down shirt and too-long dark pants that are obviously hand-me-downs from his older, taller brother. His golden hair is slightly damp, the waves combed carefully into place. I'm struck, not for the first time, by how handsome he is. And seeing the care he's put into his appearance makes me grateful that she let Prim fancy me up a bit. His eyes widen when he catches sight of me, leaping to his feet as I approach. He's breathless as he tells me that he can't remember ever seeing me with my hair down, and I blush, in spite of myself.

He picks up the basket and, hand in hand, we head for the Meadow. We don't talk much on the walk, but Peeta keeps stealing shy, almost awed glances at me, as if he's not sure I'm real. There's a tension between us, not anger but something hopeful and electric.

Once we're seated on a blanket in the dappled shade of a giant oak tree, we both start to relax. Peeta's packed a meal in the basket, and the only thing that keeps me from being angry that he's feeding me is the promise that next time I can make dinner for them.

"Next time..." His grin when I run the words over my tongue threatens to split his face.

We smile and talk over hard boiled eggs, cold sausage and cheese buns, which are the most marvelous things I have ever tasted, sharing a flask of cold tea between us.

The evening is unseasonably warm, almost balmy, and we linger in the Meadow long after our meal is finished. I gather wildflowers and weave them into a crown with my head on Peeta's lap as he plays with my hair. When his hands still, I glance up at him warily. "What?"

"I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says with a sigh, but his eyes are twinkling mischievously, and all I can do is smile and shake my head.

I sit up when the sun begins to paint the sky in swaths of orange and pink, and he wraps his arms around me, pressing my back snugly against his chest, my hips bracketed by his muscular thighs, and it's my turn to sigh as together we watch nature's light show.

He walks me home in the twilight, and on my front steps he leans down to kiss me again. Even though it's been nearly five months since that first kiss our lips move together with almost impossible familiarity. He pulls back far too soon and I have to force myself not to chase him. His smile says he notices. "I have thought about kissing you every single day since New Years," he whispers.

"Then why didn't you?" All of these months I've wondered. I thought maybe he'd regretted kissing me. He looks embarrassed.

"I thought you were with Gale, the way you left with him that night. I actually thought he would come by to punch me in the face for kissing you. I was a little afraid to open the back door of the bakery for a few weeks."

I snort, an indelicate little noise of disbelief, then kiss him again before turning to my door. I pause, hand on the knob and peek at him over my shoulder. "It's always been you, Peeta," I say softly, then jog into the house before he can reply.

The next day at school I let him hold my hand walking between classes, and only barely notice how he's clearly favoring his left arm.

"Courting" doesn't change much. I still hunt, goes to school, take care of Prim and spend time with Delly and occasionally Madge, but now, when Peeta walks me home in the evenings, he'll steal a kiss or two. We're reserved with each other at school, holding hands under the lunch table but not much more. Neither of us ever say anything, but we both have the impression that we would like to keep our blossoming relationship private. But when Peeta has an odd weekend evening off, we'll spend a couple of hours talking in the Meadow over a picnic supper that either I pack or he does. And on those evenings we open up to each other in ways we've never opened up to anyone else.

I'm surprised to learn that the Mellarks are very nearly as poor as people in the Seam are. I guess I just assumed that growing up around so much food, Peeta would have always been well fed, but the truth is that most of their supplies go into the Bakery. His family mostly eats the hard, dry loaves no one else wants. I silently vow to bring him more fresh foods while the woods are in full bloom.

Peeta admits to me that his mother has been harping at his older brothers to find wives now that they're past Reaping age, wives she would deem suitable matches of course. Daughters of the wealthier merchants who can improve the Mellark fortunes. Rye, the middle brother, has already fallen into step with his mother's plans and is betrothed to the grocer's daughter; he began working at the Justice Building as a clerk when he finished school last year, and he helps out around the grocery too, which is why he's rarely in the bakery anymore.

Brann, the eldest brother, is an artist, which their mother hates, except when it benefits her. In plentiful times, when they can afford to order marzipan from the Capitol, Brann sculpts incredible intricate little figures to sell to the sweet shop that's next door to the Bakery. He used to carve little animals out of wood for Peeta when they were younger, but their mother insisted that Brann stop and dedicate more of his attention to learning the books for the bakery. Peeta admits that Brann hates the Bakery, and has secretly been learning silversmithing from the town's blacksmith. He's seen some of Brann's work; beautiful, delicate jewelry, but there's not enough business in District 12 to support a jeweler.

Peeta shyly admits that he dabbles in art too; he draws, and paints when he can get supplies. I've known since we were quite young that he's the one who decorates all of the cakes at the bakery but I'm curious to see his more permanent artworks.

I get my chance on May 8th, my birthday. I haven't really had a reason to celebrate since before Daddy died, but Prim always makes sure to do at least a little something for me. I don't think to mention it to Peeta, but somehow he knows, and he catches me walking to school that morning.

He gives me a bag with six perfect sugar cookies inside, each painted with a different delicate flower. I know cookies like these are expensive, and I want to protest, but the words die in my throat when I see the card.

He's painted our Meadow, the tall oaks bordering a sea of lush green grass dotted with yellow dandelions and purple clover. It's so exquisite that I expect to see the long grasses waving in the breeze.

And inside he's written in his nicest handwriting the words to an old lullaby my father used to sing, one that I myself sometimes sing for Prim:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise

There's no way he could have guessed how special that ancient mountain air is to me, and it takes everything in my power to not dissolve into tears. Peeta looks alarmed when my eyes shine and my lip quivers.

I hug him so fiercely that he's momentarily confused, but after a moment he wraps me in his arms, so strong and steady, and rocks me as I tremble with emotion. And on that quiet May morning something shifts in my heart. I feel certain that Daddy is giving me his approval.

---

Reaping Day dawns grey and cool, and black rain clouds roll in as the day progresses. I find it strange to watch from the viewing area instead of from the pens in front of the stage where I've spent the previous 5 Reapings. The pens that hold the children look startlingly empty - only 88 in total, most of them Merchants, and all of them so very small.

The Town tailor's little granddaughter is reaped. She's so tiny that she can barely make it up the stairs, and she cries the entire walk, huge tears running down her pink cheeks. A little Seam boy is reaped too, I know his family; they're neighbors of the Hawthornes'. As impossible as it is to imagine, he's even smaller than his district partner. Neither looks older than 10.

As we're forced to watch the recaps the same scene plays out district after district. Even in the career districts the tributes are small, and for once there are no volunteers in 1, 2 or 4.

The tribute parade is awful. The children are all so little, they can barely be seen on their chariots, and more than a few cry the whole ceremony. The interviews are worse - one tribute sucks his thumb the entire time, another hides behind a pillow and refuses to talk at all. But nothing - nothing - could have prepared Panem for the horror of the 75th Hunger Games.

The arena is a brilliant blue sea surrounded by sandy beach and jeweled green jungle. Each tribute is balanced on a pedestal surrounded by water. When the horn sounds to begin the games the two tributes from District 4, the fishing district, dive into the sea. The other 22 children stand frozen and terrified. Most are openly sobbing. Twenty minutes into the games, 21 of the children are dead either having drowned or been taken out by the careers from 4. Only one other child, from District 2, manages to dog paddle to the shore and run into the jungle.

He's dead the next morning, electrocuted by the force field that surrounds them. As soon as his cannon sounds the 12-year-old boy from District 4 kills his district partner, unceremoniously bashing in her skull with a rock while she sleeps, exhausted and delirious with thirst. The entire Games lasts a mere 19 hours, its Victor the youngest in history, younger than his mentor, Finnick Odair himself.

The Mandatory Viewing switches to Capitolites complaining, all garish colors and affected accents whining into the cameras until the broadcast ends abruptly.

There's an anger simmering in the district after the Games, there is every year but this time the outrage is almost palpable. 23 of the tiniest kids lie dead for mere minutes of "entertainment" that the people in the Capitol complained about anyway. Madge tells me in whispers that she's seen reports on her father's secure channel that several other districts are openly revolting.

After the Games, life in District 12 returns to normal for me. Hunting is plentiful, Prim is becoming an accomplished gatherer and Mother's Healing work doubles with the improved access to healing herbs. On a beautiful summer morning, I sneak Peeta under the fence for the first time.

He is so loud!

He's so incredibly loud that I can't possibly get any hunting done. He steps on every twig and crackling leaf, trips over roots and bumps into stumps. I'm annoyed, but the look of absolute awe on his face makes me bite my tongue. He acts as if I've given him a priceless gift.

After that, I take him under the fence once a week. Hunting is out of the question but I teach him to set snares and his long artist's fingers prove remarkably adept at it. But his true calling is fishing. Peeta has patience in spades and can sit silently beside me for hours by the stream, catching a bounty of fish. He won't take any home, though; I don't think he can without explaining where he's been. But he helps me clean and dry and smoke our catches, and I put enough away in the larder to feel good about the winter to come.

It's nearing the end of summer when I finally gather enough courage to take him to my father's lake. It's a long, arduous walk but he never complains, as if he senses I'm sharing something sacred with him. He's so still and silent when the lake comes into view that I worry he's disappointed, but a glance at his face proves otherwise. I've never seen him happier.

I want to teach him to swim and am bewildered when he won't remove his shirt before he wades into the water. I've never thought him shy about his body. We splash and play together like children, and catch fish for lunch with rods I hide in a tiny abandoned cement shack perched on the edge of the lake. We lie together in the sun on a large flat rock to dry off and chaste kisses deepen, hands skim over cool damp skin, mouths and tongues map out throats and collarbones between breathy gasps and moans.

When his hands sneak under my damp camisole to stroke the slight swells of my breasts, I keen, arching into him. His fingers pluck my taut nipples and I cry out his name. And when I so tentatively cup him over his shorts, his moan makes me burn in ways I've never felt before.

We go no further – we're both shy and so innocent, but there is an electricity in the air around us, an understanding that when we're ready we'll cross that threshold together.

---

We make two more trips to the lake together before the fall. Peeta brings a sketchbook and pencils and I'm fascinated watching him draw, how he gets this special look of concentration that hints of entire worlds trapped inside him.

I shoot waterfowl while he sketches, his stillness the perfect counterbalance to my stealth. And in the dim privacy of the little cement hut we explore each other; kissing, tasting sweat-soaked skin, caressing first over clothes and then bare sensitive parts. When I stroke him to completion for the first time, he collapses on top of me, panting declarations of his love into my shoulder. I don't say it back; the feelings are there, but the words just are not.

If he's upset that I don't repeat it, he doesn't let on. But he doesn't stop whispering "I love you," into my hair or ear or mouth whenever the feeling strikes him. Which is often.

---

Rye Mellark gets married to Libby, the grocer's daughter, on a spectacular day in mid-October. The Mellarks spare no expense, and Peeta spends nearly a week crafting the multi-tiered toasting cake his mother demanded to impress the other Merchant families. She has no regard for what the couple themselves might have wanted, but Peeta consults with Libby extensively, so that she'll have something she loves too.

He sneaks me into the Bakery late one evening to see the finished product and I'm stunned speechless. I knew he was talented, even have a few of his pictures pinned to the walls of the tiny bedroom I share with Prim and Mother, but the cake is beyond anything I could have imagined possible. Layer upon layer of flowers, each so delicate and lifelike she can't imagine eating even a single one.

I point to some of the frosted detail, admiring his craftsmanship and detail. "What are these?"

Peeta blushes. "Katniss roots. I wanted to give a complete picture, of the forest, but I kept them kind of hidden because..." I don't let him finish, kissing him hard, openly and right there in his family's kitchen.

Before I know what I am doing, I lean up and kiss him. Before Peeta can realize it's happening, I'm kissing him. Slowly, experimentally at first, they way we've been kissing in the woods, but then I grab his shirt collar to pull him in closer. Draw him into me. My mouth bursts into full bloom as it petals open for him.

He kisses me back, dazed with wonder. Peeta tastes like yeast from his baking; it makes me dizzy. He is all warm and it thrills me.

My mouth is wet and grows increasingly urgent, clumsily pressing against his. He welcomes me hungrily, too dazed to think straight. His arms go around me, lifting me easily and my strong legs wrap around his waist, blue dress riding up my thighs where his hands now squeeze.

Peeta sweeps tomorrow's buns off the worktable, setting me down on top of it, and I nestle him between my thighs, the buckles of my hunting boots pressing against his legs. I am burning with a passion long pent up and he meets me kiss for kiss, gives me access as I fumble with the ties of his apron.

"Peeta," his name on my breath against his lips stirs something huge and primal inside me.

His kisses move along my jaw, down my neck, my skin salty with a day's sweat. He runs his lips reverently over my shoulders. Blue straps fall out of his way, revealing my alabaster skin.

I pull his mouth back to mine hungrily, maneuvering so one of his legs is between mine and I rub up against his thigh, trying to gain friction. Already, I can feel he is painfully hard in his desire for me. Surprisingly, this makes me grin eagerly, as I pop the button on his pants.

But Peeta seems to want to take his time. He lays me out on the worktable, worshipping every part of my body he can reach with soft kisses. It appears he wants to be gentle, tender, explore me; wants me to feel his kisses not just on my skin but in my soul. Let me feel his love in every pore with each kiss.

Large hands trace tenderly down the top of my spine, feathery kisses along my collar bone, his lips seal promises on the soft flesh of each wrist…but I don't want to be worshipped. I want to be fucked. A fire is burning in me that I need him to put out, and I need him to put it out now. My heels are at his back and they dig in sharply.

"Peeta, hurry up," I urge, a frustrated frown between my eyebrows.

He tries to kiss it away but I am already slipping my hand into his pants.

"Come on," I urge, sucking on his neck, stroking his erection, cupping him in my fist.

He stills my hand with his own, and I frown harder. Why the hell is he fighting this?

"Kat…Katniss, slow down," he begs, stuttering to regain control as I try to stroke him again.

He is trying to figure out how to slow me down, relax my frantic mood, when I lift my legs so my dress rides up around my waist, and his focus is drawn to the new areas revealed for his attention. His hand slides reverently along my smooth, muscular calf, holding just above my knee, his mouth following with kisses ever so softly.

I get agitated again, groaning in frustration, pushing the top of my dress down to expose small pert breasts, my nipples already hard. I want him to taste them.

"Peeta," I draw his face to my chest, guiding his mouth to me, "I need..."

"Katniss, I…" he turns his head away like it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do, kissing my ribcage instead, over my heart.

He looks up at me earnestly,

"I want to do this right…I want you to feel…" He is so nervous, I can hear it in his voice.

Damn it all.

All at once, there is a clatter of pebbles and stones; the sound appears to be coming from somewhere outside the front of the shop. Is someone coming back, likely Peeta's mother? The last thing I want is to have her catch me wrapped in her son's arms, with him nestled between my spread legs. So my strong arms push Peeta's torso off my body with surprising force.

"I have to go," I mumble with regret, stealing out of the bakery. But not before I leave him with an apologetic, goodbye kiss.

I'm, of course, not invited to the Toasting, though I know Rye fairly well from school and my visits to the Bakery. The middle Mellark son can be a bit of a goofball. Only the wealthiest of the Merchant families are invited, the ones Mrs Mellark wants to curry favor with. I do catch sight of the happy couple leaving the Justice Building with their families. The smile falls from my face, however, when I see Peeta.

His cheekbone blooms with a fresh bruise, violet and black and blue and so painful looking. I know it wasn't there when she saw him the night before. He pretends he doesn't see me in the crowd and I pretend I believe that he doesn't. When Delly asks him at school two days later about his injury he has an excuse so smooth that I might have believed him... if I hadn't seen an identical bruise on his face six years earlier.

The months that follow are worse and worse for Peeta. He deflects when I ask him what's going on but I can read him now, can see his misery. Even his art takes on a sad tone, noticeably darker. And our escapes together dwindle to almost nothing between the extra hours he has to put in at the Bakery now that Rye is out of the house, and the snow that makes wandering the woods more difficult.

He comes with me to the Hob though - any chance he gets. It doesn't take long for the people there to accept him, he's so friendly and personable and down to earth. We're sharing a bowl of Greasy Sae's "beef" stew (the source of the meat always changes. I'm certain it's possum this time, since I brought Sae a pair of fat possums just two days ago) when Gale wanders in.

It's been more than a year since I last saw him at the Hob, and many months since I've seen him at all. He's already starting to stoop, the way I remember Daddy being hunched after each week in the mines, but his smile on seeing me is warm and genuine, and when he opens his arms, I don't hesitate to walk into them.

Peeta greets Gale with a friendly smile and a firm handshake, and Gale shocks me by returning the greeting pleasantly. 'He's really grown up,' I think. We exchange small talk. Gale fills us in on his life as a married man and the tiny shack they've been assigned. His wife, Leevy, is working as a seamstress and gradually sprucing up their tiny home, and they both continue to help support their families. I think that Gale seems truly happy, for the first time in a very long time.

And when Gale bids us both goodbye, he hugs me again and murmurs in my ear, "He's a good man. I'm thrilled for you." His acceptance of my choice, his happiness for me, is something I didn't think I wanted, never knew I wanted, but to have it makes me brim with joy.

---

It's well after sundown on a bitterly cold night when Brann Mellark hammers on our door, Peeta slumped against him, only half conscious and bleeding heavily from his head.

Mother and Prim tend to their patient right away while I look on in horror. The wound itself isn't terrible, only needing six stitches, but they're worried about brain damage from the blow. When Peeta is stitched up and resting comfortably on the couch, Brann explains in a low voice:

The tension brewing in the Mellark household had finally come to a head that evening as Peeta and Rye cleaned up the bakery after closing. Their mother, already enraged by Brann's refusal to court Madge after Mrs. Mellark worked so hard to get the mayor to agree to the match, turned her ire on Peeta. When his mother insisted Peeta take his brother's place as a suitor for Madge to cement the family's place in society he tried to explain, yet again, that he was already courting someone else. Neither Peeta nor Brann expects their mother to ever fully accept Katniss, but nor did anyone expect the rolling pin she threw at him from across the counter.

Brann doesn't know whether she was actually trying to kill Peeta or just scare him, but when the heavy marble cylinder struck him in the temple he went down like a ton of bricks.

Brann half carried, half dragged Peeta to the Everdeen house in the Seam. Rye took off to his home and his wife. Their father did nothing.

Brann steals away soon after, pressing a few coins into Mother's hand. Peeta sleeps fitfully on the couch and I sit up with him all night, clutching his hand tightly.

It's barely dawn when Mother examines Peeta again. He's achy and upset but it's clear no permanent damage has been done, at least not physically. She makes him remove his blood-stained shirt to clean it, and though he tries to shield himself with his arms and a thin crocheted blanket Mother and I catch sight of the various scars and half-healed bruises that litter Peeta's torso.

Mother makes all three of us hot grain with dried apples for breakfast, then retreats to the bedroom. When she returns, I'm surprised to see her dressed in a soft blue dress from her Merchant days, her hair carefully coiled into an elegant knot. She all but stomps out of the house, bundled against the cold and wearing the scowl that usually resides on my face. Prim and I are shocked into stillness.

When Mother returns, angrier than I've ever seen her, she insists that Peeta can't go back to the apartment over the Bakery. Though food is scarce and we're barely keeping three grown women fed there's no question that Peeta will stay with us, and I know he must still be feeling terrible because he doesn't put up a fight. Prim and I set up a pallet in the summer kitchen for him. It's cold in there overnight, even with extra quilts, but Peeta never complains. He spends a couple of days in bed, recuperating; I'm reluctant to leave his side, only going to school and then running home afterward to be with him.

I awaken before dawn on the third day that Peeta is with us to the sound of hushed voices. I creep out of the bedroom on silent feet. Rye is there, delivering to Peeta his few possessions, all of which fit into a dishearteningly small box. Clothing, schoolbooks, pencils and sketchpads, the only things Rye could sneak out of the house for his brother. Not a single memento of his family is in the box. Not a thing to suggest he was ever one of them at all. I duck back into the bedroom before Peeta can see me, and I pretend I can't hear his muffled sobs when he carries the box out to his pallet.

As soon as Peeta is deemed well enough to leave the house, he heads straight to the Justice Building and signs up for tesserae. I'm livid when he tells me, but he refuses to stay without contributing, however meager the extra oil and grain may be.

I expect grumbling and gossiping at school and around Town, and am primed like a she-bear to shield Peeta against any harsh word against him. After all, it's pretty common knowledge that she and Peeta are courting, seeing each other. To have him now living at the Everdeen house should be scandalous, but there's scarcely a whisper. The few people who do say anything to me or to Peeta are positive and encouraging - Mrs. Mellark's atrocious treatment of her youngest son apparently wasn't as much of a secret as Peeta might have hoped.

Peeta quickly proves his worth to the household. He's a phenomenal cook, turning our scant winter stores and tesserae grain into meals that are filling and taste good. He experiments with grinding the grains into a smooth flour and bakes up things I could never have imagined; griddle cakes sweetened with a little honey, slippery noodles tossed with oil and garlic, even quick breads stuffed with bits of salt duck from the larder.

He's always cheerful too, up at dawn to cook or shovel snow with a smile, happy to help Prim with her homework or fix the broken steps or wash laundry in coal-warmed water and lye. Though life in the tiny Seam shack must be so different than what he'd been accustomed to above the Bakery, he seems to adjust easily and never grumbles or even seems to miss his old life.

More remarkable is the change in Mother. Having Peeta there seems to spark something in her. She acts more like she used to before Daddy died, even if she does occasionally refer to Peeta by his father's name. And while I thought I'd never be able to trust my mother again, I'm actually beginning to, at least a little. Our relationship will never be what it was, but it improves immensely.

I still spend a couple of evenings a week with Delly, and one rainy evening on the cusp of spring, Mr. Cartwright timidly asks me if I'd be willing to help him with tanning a large hide. He does the tanning himself on some of the skins and furs that he uses to make shoes and boots because it's both less costly and better quality than what the Capitol will send. He explains that Delly is far too squeamish to be of any use in the rather gory tanning process, but he knows that I'm a hunter. He's bought skins from Rooba and seen the game I've shot and field dressed. He thinks I would do well, and of course he would pay me. I am surprised, but intrigued, and agree.

It turns out that I'm a natural, and in only a few weeks I'm producing leathers that are softer and suppler than Mr. Cartwright, in his exhaustion and impatience, has been able to produce since his wife's death. I begin bringing the pelts of the game I hunt directly to him. I charge him far less than Rooba ever did, and Rooba herself is pleased to not have to skin the meat I bring anymore. Even Sae doesn't seem to mind the change. And the extra money helps make life in our home a little easier for all four inhabitants, including Peeta.

When the snows melt away, Peeta and Prim build a tiny oven in the yard of our house with bricks scavenged from old abandoned buildings around the mines. The first time he can rise before dawn to stoke the oven and bake bread for the day, he's so happy he practically glows.

The arrival of spring means that Peeta and I finally have a little privacy again. By unspoken agreement we've done nothing more physical than a chaste kiss on the cheek since he's been living in my house, out of respect for Prim and Mother. We're very discreet that way, but even that can take a toll. The first time we sneak under the fence together in the muddy and cold predawn we barely make it 100 yards before he has me pressed up against a tree, kissing me like it's the only thing keeping him alive. My response is equally fervent, and when he rubs his hardness so tantalizingly against me, I wrap my legs around him and furiously rock back, biting his shoulder hard enough that he'll have a new set of bruises to hide.

He hesitates, and the moment passes like an eternity, until he finally rotates his head, just enough to touch his lips to mine. That is all the permission I need; I crush my chest to his, prying his mouth open with my tongue. One of his hands cups my face to hold me in place while he kisses me back wetly, and our tongues slide against each other in a desperate quest. His fingers dig into my back, and I slip my hands under his shirt to feel his hot skin, the tensing muscles in his back. He grunts into my mouth when my jagged nails scrape his skin, his teeth biting down on my bottom lip. I gasp before covering his open mouth with mine, pulling him closer, trying to climb up him, trying to crawl into his skin. Is it possible to want someone this much? I can't remember if the desire has ever been this demanding, this consuming before.

Suddenly remembering where we are, I jerk away from him, a string of spittle snapping between our mouths and dribbling down my chin. Peeta stares at me with glassy eyes, his lips swollen and red. There is fear in his gaze, too, but I realize it isn't fear of what we are doing—it is fear that I am going to stop.

He sets me down, his hands settling on my hips, and I stretch my torso along his, nuzzling my face in the crook of his neck. There, I place wet kisses; I refrain from sucking on the delicate flesh, knowing I can't risk leaving a mark, but I drag my teeth, nipping at his collarbone.

"Katniss," he murmurs roughly. Emboldened, I tug open his pants and slip my hands inside the parted fly, finding his stiffening cock under his boxers. He moans quietly as I stroke him until he is hard and throbbing in my hands, then I push his pants and boxers down to free his cock, sliding down his body to kneel before him. I glance up at him through my eyelashes as he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His face is slack with disbelief as he stares down at me. "Katniss," he says again, a slight whine straining his voice this time.

My gaze settles on his cock. It is thick and glorious, and my mouth salivates in anticipation. Bracing myself on my thighs, I lick the length of his erection a few times; he gasps at the first touch of my tongue, dissolving into a series of groans as I continue. Swirling my tongue around the head, I can taste the cum that dots the tip. I pull back slightly to lick my lips. Then I take him into my mouth, sliding him along my tongue until I can't take any more in; I stop before he hits the back of my throat, wrapping my hand around the base of his cock.

Peeta moans above me, his hands grasping the sides of my head, and he curls his fingers into my chestnut hair. But he lets me set the pace, and I bob my head up and down his length, sucking on his hot flesh. "Katniss...fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the tree. I move my hand in tandem with my mouth, the flat of my tongue bathing the underside of his cock. I didn't know that I was particularly good at giving head, but the way his hips thrust into my face gives me confidence; I suck harder, and he all but growls.

Before he cums, he pants out a warning. I hold him tenderly in my mouth as his cock pulses, spurting semen down my throat. Gagging slightly, I swallow what I can and pull my head back, spitting out what I can't gulp. With a cough, I clumsily wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before glancing at his face. He is watching me intently, his breathing heavy.

We go into the woods together nearly every morning and while there are often kissing and make-out sessions, we are also a serious hunting and gathering team. With the help of a plant book that has been in my family for generations, Peeta learns to identify edible roots, grains, greens, and berries, and he's more adept at managing the snare lines now even than I am. I can dedicate more time to hunting, can spare more time to tracking the bigger game that brings in more money.

Peeta starts trading at the Hob. People there are used to him now, accustomed to his friendly face, and they accept bartering with him without much fuss. I find I enjoy watching him trade - behind the affable, sweet front is a surprisingly sharp negotiator with a quick mind.

We make a great team, together, and over the spring months we tuck away an impressive nest egg of coins and necessities. Neither mentions what our lives could look like after our final Reaping, but I think about it constantly.

As Reaping Day draws nearer and nearer, I become more and more tense. I'm convinced that Peeta is going to be Reaped and it'll be all my fault because he had to take out tesserae. I begin to push him away, terrified of letting him see my fears, but he knows me too well. One morning he follows my pre-dawn escape, sliding under the fence on his heels and all but chasing me. I could easily outrun him but instead I turn and wait as he crashes through the brush, then wordlessly take his hand and head for the lake.

Our poles are still in the cement cabin, and it's not until we're sitting side-by-side, lines in the water, that I finally speak.

"I never wanted to fall in love," I say softly, and he tenses beside me. I've never said "love" to him before, not in all of the months he's been saying it to me. "I thought love made you weak," I admit. "I saw my mother fall apart after my father died, become so despondent that she wouldn't even take care of her own children. I've always sworn that would never be me, Peeta."

I turn to face him. The rising sun catches his hair where the ends curl and crowns him in orange and gold. I can't help but smile. "You snuck up on me, Peeta. I didn't want to love you, but you gave me no choice." He turns to me, fishing poles all but forgotten.

"Katniss," he breathes, "I know you're afraid. I am too. But it's going to be okay. We're not going to be reaped. And I can't promise that bad things won't happen, but I can promise you that I'll be beside you all the way, that we'll handle whatever life throws at us together. I love you, and I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," I say softly, "I know, Peeta, I know. I just…" I sigh. "Don't let them take you from me. Stay with me, please."

"Always," he moans, taking me into his arms and kissing me with days of pent up longing.

We make love for the first time in the little cabin, on a blanket before the cold hearth. We're both innocent, and it's clumsy and awkward. I haven't even adjusted to having him inside me when he pulls out with a shout, spilling himself onto my stomach in hot sticky spurts. His whole body is trembling as he collapses half on top of me, pressing wet kisses all over her face and panting his love and gratitude, and as I guide him back into my wet folds and rub myself against, moaning until I cum, I am certain that I've never felt closer to another human being.

I take in Peeta's amazed stare as he stands. Wordlessly, deliberately, I get on my knees before him. With trembling fingers, I peel back the elastic of his underwear and drop them down to his ankles.

Above me, I hear Peeta let in a sharp intake of breath. I watch, fascinated, as his organ pops free and rises to attention like a serpent hypnotized by a snake charmer.

I moan a little at the display before me. Peeta's stalk is still angry and red, a vein throbbing along the shaft, the foreskin peeled back.

Taking a deep breath, my eyelids drooping heavily, I rear forward and take him deep into my mouth. I've only heard whispers from other girls in school about the tricks to pleasuring a man like this, so I hope I'm doing it right. From the moans Peeta is letting out, I can guess that I am at least sucking him competently.

"Mmmmmmm…" I groan around his throbbing member, and I tenderly cup his balls in one of my palms, while with the other, I curl it into a fist around the base of his shaft. Snapping my jaws forward, I take him in deeper, until I can feel the tip of his penis touching the back of my throat. I breathe in deeply through my nose, trying not to gag, and ease up, just a little. My lips are puckered in a pretty, little 'O' tight around Peeta's foreskin, and I suck his dick with passion, love and zeal. For good measure, I even loll out my tongue to lick the upper reaches of his shaft.

"Katniss….." Peeta groans. His fingers have woven themselves into my brown hair, undoing the braid from its ties. His nails sink into my scalp, not painfully but just enough to pinch. Peeta begins to pump his pelvis into my face. With my mouth, I rub him faster, stroking him with my tongue. I want to make…. him…. cum…..

And cum he does. His juices suddenly shoot out with the force of a geyser and flood my mouth. Lashes fluttering, I gulp down every last drop he gives me, the salty liquid coating the back of my throat. Finally, I sit back on my heels and release him, admiring my handiwork before tenderly tucking him back into his underpants.

When I rise up from where I've been on my knees, however, Peeta suddenly pushes me back into the cabin's far wall. I glance up at him, confused and startled, but then gasp when I see the black glint of desire in his eyes.

"Your turn," he murmurs. I gulp, my throat dry, and Peeta's lustful stare turns hesitant. "I…. I want to taste you too," he mumbles. "All trades must be fair, right?" I find myself laughing at his adoption of my philosophy, but then, slowly, I nod.

I shiver when Peeta undoes my hunting trousers and underwear, throwing both down to my ankles. Slowly, holding my gaze, he reaches out a hand and touches me at the apex of my thighs. When his thumb brushes over my clit, I whimper, and buck my hips into his palm, my legs trembling. I am gasping for air now.

"More….." I croak.

When he kneels before me, I sexily open my knees for him. Spread my thighs. My pink beauty is already swollen and slick with dampness.

Blue eyes sparkling, Peeta presses a soft kiss to the inside of my thigh, before lifting my leg over his one shoulder. Diving in, he buries his face into my curls. When his tongue darts out to lick up my labia, I throw back my head with a happy cry. A spasm of sheer pleasure shoots through my core, and I wriggle in startled delight.

"Sweet Panem, love, you're dripping!" Peeta's voice has lowered to a lustful hiss against my folds.

I loll my head back against the wall, my eyes rolling into the back of my skull. "O… Only for you," I gasp. Digging my nails into his scalp, I thrust his head forward, burying his face into my folds as I roll my hips into his mouth.

"Taste me," I breathe. "I want you to taste me….. Peeta, please…"

Fingers gripping my hips, Peeta happily obliges, firing his tongue into my clit, like a poker stoking a furnace.

"Ohhhhhh…." I groan. "Faster…. Faster…. Harder!"

Peeta is licking and lapping all over my pussy, and I fucking adore it as he eats me out. I am weeping from the pleasure and happiness he is giving me.

"Love me…. love me…." I sob. "Please, Peeta…. Peeta…."

He lifts his face out of my cunt just long enough to moan, "You know I do." He latches his bottom lip around my nub again, and that's when I lose it.

"PEETA!" I scream. He fires his tongue into my clit again, and I squeal, clapping a hand over my mouth to stifle my noises. "Ermmmm…. Uhhmmmmm…." Writhing, I finally feel the wave that has been building within me crest, and I cry out again as I cum, juices crashing down. Peeta's face is coated and he licks up every small amount of what I give him. When he emerges from between my legs at last, he smiles giddily.

"You're so beautiful…." he breathes it out full of fire, and I blush furiously.

My legs have turned to jelly, and I stagger back, lightheaded and stunned over what we have just done. Peeta gets up off his knees with a pleased smirk.

And after we make love again, after he takes me again, he tremulously whispers, "You love me, real or not real?" I kiss him breathless and tell him "real."

There are so many more Peacekeepers at the Reaping this year, there's a tension to the crowd too, a feeling of anger simmering just below the surface.

I'm so certain that they're going to call Peeta's name that I don't even register who they do call. Only when Peeta and Prim have found me in the crowd and enveloped me in a tight hug do I allow myself to relax. It is over, at least for Peeta and me. We've survived. But the mood in the Square around us isn't the relief of Reapings past. There's a low hum of dissent from the parents and spectators; they don't dissipate immediately but instead stay around the makeshift stage, some even calling out rebellious words as the Peacekeepers begin to push the crowd back. Peeta and I shuffle Prim away. We've never encountered open resistance to the Capitol's will before. It's frightening but it's also exhilarating somehow.

Peeta cooks a large celebratory meal that night, Hazelle and the younger Hawthornes join, and the evening is as close to a party as I can remember. I'm happy and relaxed, sitting on the threadbare couch with Peeta when Prim and Mother retire for the night. Once we're alone Peeta turns to me with nervous eyes and blurts, "Can we go for a walk? Together, I mean?"

"Sure," I acquiesce, but her heart is pounding. It's common, customary even, for courting couples in District 12 to get engaged after their final Reaping, and I'm terrified Peeta's going to propose to me now. Not that I don't love him, I do – deeply - and I'm not even as dead set against marriage as I was years before, but I'm by no means ready.

By the time we reach the Meadow, I'm light-headed with fear and adrenaline. Peeta turns to face me and takes my hands in his own. I'm shaking like a leaf as he wets his lips and takes a deep breath. "Katniss," he whispers and I hold my breath, expectant. "I'm going into the mines."

For many long moments, I can only stare, my brain refusing to turn his words into anything understandable. "Huh?" is all I manage to say, my brow furrowed in confusion.

"I have an appointment to meet the Foreman next week," he clarifies. "I should be able to start working there early next month." As comprehension dawns, my anger rises.

"No," I say. "No, you don't belong down there, Peeta. You can't. Just, no." I shake my head, still stunned, still barely comprehending what's going on. I rip my hands from his in my rage, wrapping them protectively around myself, scowling. This isn't what I was expecting at all.

"Katniss," he breathes, his hands gripping my arms. "We're eighteen now, the Reapings are finally over for us. We're finishing school at the end of the month. I..." He pauses and swallows hard, his throat visibly bobbing. "I want a future with you, and I can't do that unless I can earn a living. I can't take care of you without a job."

"No!" I scream, wrenching myself from his grip and he flinches. "You're not going down there, you can't!"

He takes a step towards me but my name dies on his lips as she backs away. "I have to, Katniss. Please understand."

"Understand?" I shriek. "Understand?! Oh I understand fine, Peeta. I understand you lied to me!" He recoils as if he's been slapped.

"Wha-what?" he stammers.

"You promised! You promised that you'd stay with me, always."

"I will," he protests. "I'll be by your side as long as you'll allow it, Katniss. I love you!"

"No! If you loved me you wouldn't do this!" I can't stay calm anymore, my anger transforming to hysteria. His eyes widen as tears began to course down my face. I have never cried in front of him before; since Daddy died, I've never cried in front of anyone.

"Katniss," he pleads, his voice breaking. "Please, I've spoken with nearly every Merchant in Town, there's nothing else! I don't have any choice..." he trails off.

"This is why I never wanted to fall in love," I whimper, and his face crumples. I've only told him that I love him once, just that one time a couple of weeks ago before we had sex for the first time. "You'll go down there and you'll never come back." I turn away from him and walk a dozen paces before slumping to the ground. My sobs ring through the quiet Meadow, desperate and heart wrenching.

I sense him kneeling in front of me but resolutely refuses to lift my head. I move an arm to cover my mouth, muffling the awful choking sounds that speak of my agony.

"Is this about your dad?" His voice is right in my ear, gentle and soothing despite the words. I want to be angry with him for bringing up my father; instead, I cry harder.

"He never came back," I whisper, then a fresh round of sobs prevents me from continuing as 7 years of repressed pain erupts from deep inside. I feel myself being lifted from the ground but my eyes stay squeezed shut. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently.

When I finally calm, I raise her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. "Please don't go. I need you," I admit simply. His arms tighten.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think... I never realized..." He sighs. "I'll figure something else out, Katniss. I'll find another way."

"We'll find a way," I correct. "Together."

We sit in the Meadow, wrapped in each other, for hours. Comfort turns into gentle kisses that grow more heated. We make love under a million stars, slowly, starting and stopping and starting again, both trying to draw out our pleasure, our connection. This time when Peeta pulls out to spill his seed it's because my orgasm has triggered his own. And after, when we're laying together in the Meadow grass, half-naked, my blue Reaping dress still bunched up around my hips, sticky and sated, I whisper, "I want us to have a future together too." Peeta's smile is brighter than the sun.

Our "another way" presents itself only days later. Greasy Sae suffers a stroke, and while it's a mild one, she can't run her stall, at least for the time being. Mother makes the suggestion that Peeta run it until Sae recovers.

Sae drives a hard bargain even when bedridden; she has to since she's caring for an orphaned granddaughter as well as herself with what money she can bring in from the stall. Eventually she and Peeta agree to a 65/35 share of the profits.

Peeta's been around the Hob so much over the past year that no one blinks when he's the one preparing the soups and stews. He sticks to Sae's recipes... for about 3 days. Soon I notice he's taking a list with him when we go foraging in the woods before dawn, and the specific herbs and greens he seeks out start to flavor his daily wares. The changes in taste don't make much difference in sales at first.

Then he starts offering breads.

He's been experimenting with grains since the winter, laboriously grinding them by hand in a mortar and sifting painstakingly to make surprisingly fine flours. Now that summer is here, he searches out wild barley, buckwheat, amaranth and maize, which he grinds and mixes with precious wheat flour from the grocer. One evening at supper, he serves fluffy rolls that are virtually indistinguishable from what the Bakery offers. Prim pipes up, "You should sell these at the Hob!"

I nod thoughtfully but when I turn to look at Peeta, seated beside me at the tiny table that takes up most of our kitchen, he's frozen, pain written clearly across his face.

Mother somehow reads the situation and knows the right thing to say. "You don't owe them anything, Peeta," she says softly. I sigh in understanding; he doesn't want to take business away from the Bakery.

We haven't spoken much about his parents in the 7 months since he left the Bakery, battered and bruised, bleeding from his head. Brann is a fairly frequent visitor to my family's little Seam shack. Rye and Libby have come a couple of times too but there hasn't been a single word from his father, and I know that hurts Peeta the most. He and his dad had been very close before his mother's last attack.

Mother leans across to pat Peeta's hand. "I felt the same way at first, when my parents were still alive and I was starting to do some healing work in the Seam." I never met either of my maternal grandparents; they ran the Apothecary in Town, but they disowned their only child when she ran off to marry a miner from the Seam. Both are long gone now, having never reconciled with their only daughter. "But my parents made their choice," she continues. "And that was just one of the consequences. Your parents made a choice too, Peeta."

He's quiet the rest of the meal, excusing himself as soon as the dishes are done to sit on his pallet in the summer kitchen, alone. He stays in there all evening, skipping Mandatory Viewing of the 76th Games and not even coming out to say good night.

Late in the night, I climb out of bed for a glass of water and see candlelight shining from beneath his door. I seldom go into the summer kitchen - it's Peeta's space. We all respect that he needs a place that's his own. But tonight I push the door open.

He's awake, sitting by the windowsill that holds various cloth covered bowls containing his bread starters, staring out into the darkness. He turns when he hears the door creak but he doesn't look surprised to see me. His face is lined with dried tear tracks that shine silver in the candle's glow.

"Why didn't they love me?" My heart breaks at his words. Peeta is so sweet and kind and giving. If anyone deserves to be loved and cherished, it's him.

I move into his room and sit on the edge of the pallet that's served as his wholly inadequate bed since Yule. He joins me, and I wind my arms around him as tightly as I can, wishing I could put him someplace safe where no one could ever hurt him again.

"I just don't know," I murmur into his soft curls, bleached almost white by the summer sun. "But it's their loss, Peeta. You are the best person I've ever met, and if they can't see that, then they don't deserve you anyway." My voice is a fierce whisper, choked with emotion. "You're not alone, Peeta. We are your family now. Me, Prim, Mom, we all love you so much." He sniffles, and I guide him to lie down, blowing out the candle and then curling myself around him.

We fall asleep that way and when the first fingers of dawn streak across the sky, we awaken wrapped up in each other. "I'm going to bring breads to the stall," he says firmly and I simply nod.

To call Peeta's baked goods a hit would be an understatement. He sells out every day, partly because he charges far less than the Bakery does and partly because his clientele at the Hob are the folks his mother makes feel unwelcome in Town. He keeps his offerings simple: soft rolls made from mixed grains, oatcakes, and dense hearty breads sweetened with molasses. Though he's perfectly capable of making cookies and cakes, I think he wants to leave some things the exclusive domain of his family's business.

Within a month, my lover has more than doubled the profits at Greasy Sae's and she offers him a 50/50 cut. I thinks Sae equalizes the shares out of fear more than generosity - if Peeta opened his own stall, he'd take away most of her business. As Sae grows stronger, she and Peeta share more and more of the prep work, which frees up time for him to bake more and their profits continue to grow.

The 76th Hunger Games last 8 long weeks, spanning almost the entire summer, as if the Gamemakers are trying to compensate for the previous year's debacle. But the end result is the same as nearly every year, a Career tribute wins, this time from District 1, and the Capitolites actually complain of boredom during the post-Games television specials. I hear whispers of rebellions in the other districts, but nothing happens in Twelve. We're just too small, I think. Every single person would have to rise up against the Peacekeepers for us to even have a chance of taking the district, but the class divides between Merchant and Seam make that kind of insurrection impossible.

I still tan leathers for Mr. Cartwright, and he begins to teach me a little about cobbling, which I'm pretty good at that too. My arms are strong from years of using a bow and I understand how the leathers bend and stretch from having spent so much time skinning and tanning. Soon enough, I'm happily working a couple of days a week repairing shoes while Delly tends the front shop.

It's during a quiet day in the shoe shop that Delly excitedly gives her news. Things are getting serious with Weston, the florist's son, who Delly has been dating since school ended. She thinks he's going to ask her to marry him any day.

Though I'm not physically demonstrative by nature, I hug my friend and congratulate her wholeheartedly. Delly has had a tough two years, losing her brother and mother, and watching her father bury himself in his work. She deserves to be happy. So I smile and nod where appropriate as Delly waxes poetic about the flowers she hopes to have for her Toasting. When she says she wants Peeta to make her cake, instead of the Bakery, I grin.

I realize that I've lost the thread of the conversation when I hear Delly mention Peeta's father. "Sorry, what?" I ask.

"I wondered if Peeta had made up with his father yet?" Delly repeats, and I scowl. Delly hurries to explain. "It's just that Mr. Mellark was so nice when we were young... he used to make us little dough boys and girls to play with and I know Peeta was his favorite."

I fight to keep her temper in check, with only partial success. "It's been more than nine months, Delly, and he hasn't once checked up on his 'favorite son'. Hasn't once visited, hasn't once made any attempt to speak to Peeta at all. That's not how you treat your own child! That's not something a 'nice' person would do!" Delly nods at my impassioned speech, flushing, and lets the subject drop. All is quiet in the shop.

After a while, Delly turns to me, her blonde brows furrowed. "Why aren't you and Peeta married yet?"

I sigh. The easy answer would be 'because he hasn't asked me,' but it wouldn't be the whole truth. "You know that the stall Peeta is running isn't technically legal, right?" The Hob is a black market; officially it's prohibited to sell anything in the districts without an expensive license from the Capitol, but the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the rules. Most of them are fairly frequent clients at the Hob, as a Peacekeeper's salary isn't much.

Delly nods. "So?" she questions.

I stare at my hands uncomfortably. "Well, the Justice Building won't assign us a house unless one of us has a proper job," I admit. Hunting and selling in a black market aren't exactly the kind of jobs we could report on our taxes to the authorities, so on paper, Peeta and I are both technically considered unemployed dependents of Mother. The arrangement is deeply ironic, since Peeta and I supply most of the household income. And marrying without being assigned a home of our own would be awkward, impossible really, given we share a little single bedroom shack with my mother and sister.

"Oh," Delly breathes, pouting sympathetically, but I'm spared whatever well-meaning platitude Delly might have offered when her father returns from an errand. I tell myself it's better this way anyway, being prevented from marrying, though I'm not as convinced of that as I used to be.

Delly is right; Weston proposes on November 1st. For the first time in a long, long time, the little apartment above the shoe shop is filled with joy. Peeta and I are having supper with the newly engaged couple and Mr. Cartwright when Delly asks Peeta to make her cake. He beams. "Of course, Dell, I'd be honored!"

Peeta is like a man possessed, searching out alternatives for the supplies that are common in the Bakery but close to impossible to buy elsewhere. I help him crush berries and boil roots to make dyes for frosting and we all taste-test a lot of cake – until we get sick, really - as he experiments with recreating the ultra fine cake flour that's essential for a good cake. But it's Brann who provides the final ingredient, smuggling a bottle of glycerin from the Bakery for Peeta's fondant.

As the day approaches, the icebox in our kitchen is overrun by cake decorations. Peeta meticulously handcrafts dozens of perfect gum paste leaves, delicately handpainting each in shades of red, orange and yellow. When he assembles the two tiers and arranges the leaves to look like the forest floor I am certain I've never seen anything more amazing.

Delly and Weston are married at the Justice Building on Saturday morning, and we follow them through the streets of town to the florist's house, where Peeta's cake will be served to guests who mingle under tents in the florist's extensive gardens, dormant for the year but still stunning. The actual Toasting will be a private affair, held the first time the happy couple enters their newly assigned house, as is customary in District 12.

Though the majority of the Merchant class shows up, Peeta's parents are conspicuously absent. Delly confesses it's because she told her new in-laws that they could have the Mellarks at the party or they could have Delly, but not both. With an ultimatum like that, who did she think they were going to pick? "You're my oldest friend, Peeta," she says shyly and he hugs her hard, tears in his eyes.

---

I continue to help Mr. Cartwright, making and mending shoes and tanning leather, and gradually over many weeks, I take over more and more of the shop duties.

On a quiet morning just before spring, Delly's father and I are working side by side when Mr. Cartwright announces with no fanfare that he would like me to officially become his apprentice. I'm shocked; I love working with him, his personality meshes well with mine and I genuinely enjoy the work, but it never occurred to me that it could possibly become something permanent, something real. I'm Seam; the apprenticing of Town businesses has only ever been meant for Merchant kids, especially for second and third-born children who normally stand little chance of inheriting their parents' livelihood anyway. The only reason Peeta might inherit his family's Bakery is because Brann doesn't want it, and Rye has married into another Merchant family. An official apprenticeship would pretty much guarantee that I would take over the shoeshop when Mr. Cartwright retired or died. I briefly think about how it would make Delly feel, but she's married now herself to the florist; Weston will want her on hand to support him.

We file the paperwork at the Justice Building that very afternoon.

When I return home, I find only Peeta there. Prim and Mother apparently left to help with an in-home birth elsewhere in the Seam. Peeta has dinner already on the table, and he tries to make small talk, but I'm distracted and fidget all through dinner. I'm a terrible liar and secret keeping is difficult for me. Once the dishes are dried, Peeta turns to me with a wary smile.

"Care to share what's on your mind, Miss Everdeen?" His tone is light and teasing but I can tell he's nervous. I grin, rush over to my game bag, leaving him confused.

When I place the papers in his hands, he reads them first with a puzzled expression, then with a smile spreading across his face as comprehension dawns. "Katniss," he breathes, "Oh my goodness, Katniss, this is incredible! Congratulations!" He picks me up and spins me wildly as I laugh.

"You're not upset that I signed them without speaking to you first?" I ask after we've kissed long and hard and are breathless.

"No, of course not, Sweetheart, this is an amazing opportunity for you!"

"For us," I correct. "Do you know what this means, Peeta?" He shakes his head, smiling down at me, bemused and perplexed, reflecting back her excitement even though the full weight of my employment hasn't hit him yet. I gather all of my courage before replying.

"They'll assign me a house now. All I have to do is ask." His eyes widen, as if he's afraid, but he says nothing. I realize that he must think I'm going to leave him, and my heart clenches.

"We could have a house of our own now, Peeta. Together. I mean, if... if you want to, you know..." I trail off awkwardly. Peeta is still frozen, like a deer staring down the line of my arrow. I sigh, a frustrated noise in the quiet of the shack. I've never been a good communicator, that's Peeta's specialty, and right now he's been rendered utterly mute by surprise. At least, I hopes it's surprise, and not horror.

I suck in a deep breath, forcing myself to hold his eyes. "Marry me, Peeta," I propose quietly. I can see the moment when it all finally clicks for him; his eyes start to shimmer with tears. Before I can say anything else, he surges forward, kissing me, hands caressing my face, my hair, anywhere they find purchase.

In between kisses he murmurs over and over, "Is this real?" and I laughingly assure him that yes, it is. With a whoop, he scoops me up and carries me back to his little sleeping area, laying me on the pallet, peeling back the layers of my clothing reverently and worshipping my body with his mouth.

When his tongue touches my center, I forget to worry that Mother or Prim could walk in on us at any minute and simply surrender to the ecstasy he raises, my hands twisting in his curls.

After he's made me fall apart twice with his hands and mouth, he slides into my waiting heat. As he moves inside me, he pants confessions in my ear, how he's wanted to marry me since we were five and he first heard me sing, how he's been in love with me longer than he's known what that meant, how I've starred in every fantasy he's ever had.

"Katniss..." he murmurs hoarsely, swallowing thickly. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful. I..."

I reach for him, my body thrumming with need and desperation. "Now, Peeta. Now, now, now," I beg, wanting to feel the weight of his body on top of me, just as I have thought about, night after night. He settles between my legs, capturing my lips and my tongue in a heady kiss, and I slide my hands through his damp hair. My hips cradle his, but when I feel his cock slide through my dark curls, I gasp, pushing on his shoulders. "Condom," I manage to get out, and he snatches up his pants from the floor, digging the condom out and freeing it from its pouch. The irony of the moment is not lost on me, but I push the thought away, impatiently helping him roll it down over his cock. He groans at my touch. His flesh is hot, even through the condom, and he is heavy and thick in my hand.

I pull him back to my center, lifting my pelvis to his, and when the tip of his cock slides between my folds, he holds my hips down to push into me. "Mmmmhmmmmm…" I moan loudly, drowning out the sound of his own relief. I feel full, stretched wide; it is almost painful. I expect him to keep moving, but he stops once the full length of his cock is buried deep inside me. I squirm anxiously, but he kisses my mouth, my neck, my breasts, sucking off the lingering droplets of rain. His tongue teases my pebbled nipple, purple and hard, and I arch against him. When his hand slips between my thighs, his fingers brushing my swollen clit, I gasp, clenching him inside me reflexively.

"Fuck," he hisses, but his fingers bear down harder, drawing circles, and I claw at his back. "There?" he asks, his teeth scraping my nipple. I whimper and nod frantically. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes!" I gasp, rocking my hips in time with his fingers in what little space I have to move. His large body traps me to the couch, and he sucks my nipple into his mouth, humming his approval of the way my body grips his cock. His fingers move deftly between my thighs, the pleasure coiling tight inside me.

"I'm—I—" Words escape me, and when his teeth tug on my nipple, I cum with a breathless shout. Peeta groans as I tremble underneath him, pulsing around him. And then he is moving, pulling his cock out just to push it back in. I whimper again in my bliss, opening my legs wider for him. His thrusts are hard, relentless, his hips driving mine into the cushion, and when his fingers begin moving between my thighs again, I gasp in surprise, still sensitive from my first orgasm. But the pain is exquisite, and my hands simultaneously push and pull at his chest, unsure what I want from him.

He kisses me, swallowing my pleading sounds. "It's okay, it's okay," he whispers into my mouth, his fingers rubbing my clit with unforgiving mercy. I moan then, a whining mewl, and soon my hips jerk against his wildly, desperate for the relief he promises me. "God, this is—fuck, this is so good. So—so good, so much better than I've imagined," he whimpers in my ear, and I want to tell him the same, but my coherent thoughts are long gone by this point. With one artful stroke of his fingers, I explode again, crying out into his neck. Peeta grunts, thrusting erratically until his hips strain against mine. He moans her name into my shoulder, and I feel him throbbing inside me, my own body still quivering with pleasure. It takes a while for me to stop shaking, the only sound in the room our labored breathing.

Much later, when we're lying entwined; sticky and sweaty and utterly spent, I say softly into the dark, "Was that a yes?" and he chuckles.

"A thousand times yes."