Even though it's the first week of September, the weather hasn't cooled in the slightest. It doesn't bother me, though. Peeta likes it, too. The heat means that we can keep up our routine of going to the lake and swimming the day away. We might even be able to continue into October if these 90 degree afternoons don't stop.
We've been to the lake almost every day since I first took him here at the beginning of summer. We like our habits, and this one will die hard once it starts to get cold. But we don't have to worry about that - not yet. The water is still bathtub warm and the breeze is pleasant, if not balmy, every day.
We've been in the water once already today, but we got out to eat the lunch that he packed. Soft rolls, cheese, and ruby red strawberries that we picked on the way here. I had almost forgotten how sweet those plump little berries could be.
Now, Peeta and I lie next to each other on a soft bed of moss with full bellies and sunkissed skin. He's shirtless, wearing just the bottoms he went swimming in, and I'm in a pair of light undershorts and my white cotton bra. He's got his eyes closed, those mile-long eyelashes grazing his cheeks, with his hands supporting his head. As usual, I'm resting on his chest, one ear to his heart, as I study the curly blonde hair on his stomach.
I smirk to myself as I remember the first time I saw it, how he didn't care at all about his nakedness and I had cared so much. At 16, I wouldn't have been caught dead half-dressed and lying atop Peeta - or any boy, for that matter. But right now, there's no place else I'd rather be. I'm content, and I do all I can to soak up the feeling.
I walk my fingers across his stomach and under his belly button, watching his muscles tense as I do. I grin a little wider - I know what the proximity of my hand will do to him, but I pretend to be none the wiser.
When we're lying together like this, lately we've been tracing words on each other's skin and making a guessing game out of what we're spelling. Using just the tip of my nail, I draw the word 'naked' and by the time I make it to the 'k,' he's stirring.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs. Judging by the gravelly tone of his voice, he'd been close to sleep. I'd feel guilty for waking him if I weren't so amused.
"Nothing…" I say, flattening my hand where it lies.
"That tickled," he says. "Did you spell 'baker'?"
I laugh a little and say, "Not quite."
He takes my wrist and brings my hand to his face where he kisses the palm of it. I lift my head to look in his eyes, and chuckle softly as he shakes his head at me.
"Asking for trouble," he says.
"Never," I reply, my eyes wide and innocent.
He scoffs lightly and pulls me in, the fingers of one hand buried in my tangled, damp hair. He presses his lips to mine in a slow, searing kiss, and my heart reacts instantly - along with another part of my body.
Throughout the summer months, I haven't been able to get enough of him. He hasn't exactly been chaste, either. Almost every night, we find each other - and we don't get to sleep sometimes until after 2 or 3am. Sometimes, we even hear Honk and Whiskey squawking before realizing that we've stayed up all night having sex.
There's something about him that I just can't resist - no, not something. More than one thing. Everything, I think.
I push myself up onto my hands and knees so my hair hangs around our faces like a dark curtain. He looks up at me, eyes glinting in the low light that I created, and I kiss him again - not long enough, though. Not for as long as he wanted.
Lately, he hasn't been afraid to tell me what he wants, what he likes. And I've been trying to do the same… although saying certain things out loud still doesn't come naturally to me.
He pulls me back down with a hand on the back of my neck and kisses me hard, his tongue slipping between my lips. He sucks on the tip of mine, which makes my heart pound double time, and I inhale sharply through my nose when his hand sneaks between my thighs to cup the very center of me.
I have a hard time concentrating on my kissing technique when his fingers are moving in the way that they are. He makes my hips twitch and jolt, searching for friction, for him to touch that spot that lights me up inside, and I feel a whole new burst of electricity when he meets my gaze and locks eyes with me.
"Katniss," he says, then bites his lower lip. "Can we try something?"
At this point, as I'm literally in the palm of his hand, I'd say yes to nearly anything he asked. I just nod - I don't even ask what he wants to try because I'm sure that I'll want to try it, too, and that I'll enjoy it.
He gives me a firm, wet kiss and tucks my hair behind my ears. "Lay on your back," he whispers, and I get moving.
I lift my legs off of him and situate to the position he asked for, with the moss acting as a cushion under me. Peeta moves lower, finding a place between my knees, and presses his lips to the soft place between the bottom of my rib cage and my belly button. Then, his mouth moves lower inch by inch, and my stomach muscles tighten as he nears a place that his face has never been close to. As far as I know - and I don't know much - during sex, a penis goes inside a vagina and that's it. That's the extent of what I was taught - or, rather, what I once overheard. So, I have no idea what he's about to do.
"Peeta?" I say, propping myself up on my elbows so I can see him. "What are you…?"
When he meets my eyes, his pupils are dilated with arousal. Before he answers, he kisses the inside of my knee and lingers there, just breathing against my skin. It feels good.
"I don't really know how," he admits. "But I wanted to try to… to go down on you. If you'd be okay with that."
I furrow my eyebrows. I've never heard that phrase but I can use context clues perfectly well. "Your mouth would go…?"
He nods and says, "I can make you feel good." Then, he amends his statement. "Well, I'll try at least."
"That's not gross?"
He shakes his head quickly. "No, no," he says. "Katniss, no. It's definitely not gross."
I lay back again and stare up at the crisp blue sky. My heart is still hammering and my pulse is centered in the place he wants to taste - and I realize that I want to let him.
"Can I?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, tipping my cheek towards my shoulder so I can see him. "Yes."
Seemingly rejuvenated by my words, he kisses his way up my leg until he reaches the top of my thigh and my undershorts get in his way. After permission given in the form of quick eye contact, he pulls them down along with my underwear and I'm suddenly bare before him.
I've been naked in this spot before - many times. That's not new. But what is new is the way his breath feels on my core, and the heady way he's looking at me. I thought I would feel exposed, vulnerable, and much too self-conscious, but I don't feel any of those things. I feel wanted… I feel desired. By him, the only one who matters.
When he closes the distance and slides his tongue between my legs, I audibly gasp. I had expected it to feel good - I was sure that it would - but I didn't know it would be like this.
"Oh," I moan, reaching down to twine my fingers through his curls and scratch his scalp with my blunt nails. "Peeta… Peeta…"
He smiles against me, which sends me reeling all over again, and I have to close my eyes. I'm feeling so much all at once - all good things, but still - and it helps me process. I could process better if one coherent thought could make it through my mind, but Peeta is making that impossible.
His lips, tongue, and even his nose move around, over, and even inside me. He's pulling me apart, yet I've never felt as whole as I do right now. Knowing that I'm his and he's mine gives me the last nudge that I need for the spring to snap and my orgasm to flow through me like a slow, steady wave crashing to shore.
As I'm coming down, I throw my arms above my head and allow myself to just lie there and pant. When Peeta crawls up my body, he's grinning like a devil when he reaches my face and kisses my lips.
"That was.." I begin, but I can't find the right word with how foggy my head is.
"Amazing," he finishes. All I can do is nod.
We lie there together for a few minutes while I regain my energy, then I sit up and pull my underwear and shorts back on.
"We could've never done that at home," he says, chuckling. "You were so loud."
"I was not," I say, shoving him with my shoulder.
"Whatever you say," he mutters jokingly.
"Does that mean we should do it again?" I ask. "Right here, right now?"
He looks at me, eyebrows up. "You're serious?"
I jump up from the moss and sprint towards the water, yelling over my shoulder, "Catch me first and we'll see."
I hear him grumbling something from far behind - there's no way he'll catch me. He never can. I bound into the water and paddle out to the middle of the lake, laughing to myself the entire way as he tries and fails to make headway. It's only when I hear him call my name that I stop and take stock of where he is.
"Katniss," he calls. "Wait. Hold on." The serious tone of his voice makes me spin around to see that he's a good distance behind me, still in the shallows but not swimming anymore. "I think I'm stuck."
"What do you mean, stuck?" I ask. I watch as he tries to yank himself free, his upper half jerking as his legs move underwater.
"My bad foot," he says. "I forgot to take it off. And it's wedged in something big, I don't know. I can't see it. And the other one stings, there's something sharp down there."
I can sense him starting to get alarmed, so I make quick work of swimming over and calming him. "It's okay," I say. "I'll get you out."
I take a big gulp of air and dip underwater, opening my eyes even though I can barely see in the muck he's stirred up. What I can make out, though, is the fact that his titanium foot is stuck between two tree trunks that have probably been in this spot longer than I've been alive, and the good foot is in a thicket of thin, spiky branches. Even through the murk, I can see blood pooling in the water from how they've cut him.
I take the ankle of his titanium leg in both hands and pull as hard as I can, but nothing happens. It doesn't even budge. I try to move the tree trunks, hoping that they'll be decayed enough to roll off, but they're not going anywhere. And I'm running out of oxygen.
I breach the surface and sputter for air, swiping hair out of my eyes as Peeta looks on with worry in his eyes. "Is it bad?" he asks.
I tell myself that at least the water isn't deep, at least he can touch the bottom. He's not going to wear himself out and drown here while I try and figure out what to do - not like I would let that happen, but it's one less thing to think about. My mind flies at top speed as I try to think of a solution, but I come to the conclusion that this isn't something I'll be able to solve on my own. I need another pair of hands, and the only option I have is Haymitch.
"I need to go get help," I say.
Peeta nods, pressing his lips together. "Okay," he says.
"I'll be fast," I say, pushing his curls off his forehead. I give him a quick kiss and squeeze his hand, then paddle to shore.
The shirt that I wore here has a line of small buttons, and it will take much too long to put on. So instead, I throw Peeta's shirt over my head and don't pay any mind to the way it billows down to my thighs and covers my undershorts, all I do is shove my feet into my boots and lace them sloppily. I toss my wet hair behind my shoulders and I'm about to take off when I hear Peeta call my name.
"Yeah?" I say, taking a few steps towards the water. I'm worried he's going to tell me he's in pain or he pushed his foot further or that there's a creature nibbling on his toes.
But he doesn't say any of those things. Instead, he smirks and says, "I like that look on you."
I roll my eyes and shake my head at him, and I fight the smile that threatens to sneak onto my face as I bolt through the woods in the direction of home.
When I get to Victors' Village, I hurry onto Haymitch's porch to be met by Honk and Whiskey, who aren't quite fully grown yet - but they get bigger every day. They rush over, their feet slapping the wooden planks, and greet me as I bang on Haymitch's front door.
"Haymitch!" I call, but there's no answer from inside. The geese nip at my bare legs and the fabric of Peeta's shirt that they can reach, but I don't bother swatting them away - they'll just come back. They're as relentless as their owner, who's apparently sleeping late like he always does.
I let myself in the house and the geese follow close on my heels, honking and squawking as they investigate the various bottles, pieces of trash, and dirty clothes that Haymitch has strewn all over the floor. Peeta clearly hasn't made it over to clean this week, as that's something he usually helps Haymitch do, but I try to ignore the mess as I step over it on my way to where he's snoring.
He still sleeps with the knife in his hand, so I stand over the back of the couch and let my wet hair drip on him as I shake him awake. "Haymitch," I say. "Haymitch!"
Luckily, though he might still hold onto his weapon, he wakes up a lot less violently than he once did. Still, he starts as the wet droplets fall on his face. "What the hell, sweetheart? I'm taking a nap here." Whiskey flaps her wings and hops onto Haymitch's legs, and he looks confused for a second before saying, "Hey, you."
"I need your help," I say as he yawns. "Peeta's stuck."
"Stuck?" he asks. "Where the hell is he stuck?"
"The lake," I say.
Haymitch wiggles his eyebrows. "Ah, the happy couple's hanky-panky spot. Don't think I don't know, sweetheart. I see you two sneaking-"
"That is not the point!" I say. "His bad foot is stuck and his good one is all cut up. I can't get him out myself. I need help."
With a groan, Haymitch rises from the couch and the geese follow close behind as he makes his way to the front door. "Well," he says. "Let's go, then. I'll grab the wheelbarrow, you lead the way."
The wheelbarrow is usually meant to transport the geese from one place to another, so when Haymitch drags it out from behind his house, Honk and Whiskey think that they're going for a ride and hop in. No matter how many times he shoos them, they stand their ground and he insists they'll follow us anyway, so they might as well come.
Everything in me wants to sprint to the lake, but Haymitch is much slower than I am. More than once he tells me to ease up the pace, his body isn't what it used to be, and that Peeta is fine as long as he can touch - which he can. I know he's right, but I don't like the fact that Peeta is alone. Being apart feels wrong, especially in situations like this.
When we make it to the lake, Peeta smiles, which settles my nerves considerably. "God damn it, boy," Haymitch grumbles, which only makes Peeta laugh.
"You brought the geese!" he says pleasantly.
Flapping their wings, Honk and Whiskey spot the body of water and exit the wheelbarrow promptly to take a dip, joining Peeta and circling him as if showing Haymitch exactly where he is.
Cursing under his breath, Haymitch takes off his filthy jacket and deposits it on the shore before following the geese and me into the lake. "You don't need to go under," I tell him. "Just pull on the titanium ankle and try to get it loose."
"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Enough with the instructions."
Haymitch pulls until his face is red and his arms are trembling, but the foot still doesn't budge.
"That thing's not going anywhere," he grunts.
"Let me try," I say, pushing my way in front of him to yank at a different angle. Of course, the foot doesn't move. The trees probably weigh over a thousand pounds, so it's pointless to keep trying.
"Believe me now, sweetheart?" Haymitch says. "It's gonna have to come off."
"No!" I say.
"Would you rather he live the rest of his life in this damn lake?" Haymitch says, growing frustrated now.
"Katniss, it's okay," Peeta says. "I can order a new one. They have my measurements and everything, they'd just have to make it." I meet his eyes and he gives me a reassuring smile. "I'd rather not become a swamp monster."
"Why do you think I brought the wheelbarrow?" Haymitch asks gruffly.
"Fine," I say. "But I'll do it. You don't know how."
Haymitch raises his palms and his eyebrows, backing away from Peeta to give me room to work. I've taken his leg off plenty of times - while looking and not - so it's easy to let my fingers guide me. It comes off easily, and he can finally drift away from where he'd been trapped.
"We're just going to leave it?" I ask.
"We have to," Peeta says. "But it's fine, little bird. They won't make me wait long for the new one."
"Okay," I concede, then take his right side as Haymitch takes his left to help him to the wheelbarrow that's waiting on the shore. We lower him into it and I get a good look at his foot - there are deep gashes on the bottom of it that will need treatment as soon as we get home.
"It's bad, isn't it?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No," I say. "It's not. At all."
"You've always been a horrible liar."
"I'm not lying," I say, watching the geese stumble out of the water and hop into the wheelbarrow with Peeta, ready to head back too.
Haymitch keeps control of the wheelbarrow, and I hold Peeta's hand for the entire trip back to our house. There's no way we can get it up the stairs, so Haymitch and I help Peeta to stand on his injured foot, and he tries not to show how badly it hurts - but by now, I'm an expert at reading his face. Because of that, we don't bother getting him upstairs and instead deposit him on the couch, which is much closer.
Haymitch helps me gather what Peeta will need - dry clothes, towels, antiseptic, medical supplies - but starts inching towards the door soon after. "All right, Dr. Everdeen," he says. "I think you've got it from here."
I would rather him stay to make sure that I can stabilize Peeta correctly, but I've noticed that he isn't all that comfortable seeing Peeta or I in pain. I think it reminds him of things he'd rather forget - that we'd all rather forget. So, I let him leave without complaint.
I get Peeta out of his wet clothes and into warm and dry pajamas, and when his head pops through his shirt as I'm helping him pull it on, he says, "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it."
We lock eyes and smile - but the grins last for only a moment before they fade into straight-faced, serious expressions. I'm sure he's remembering the same thing I am - that cave, how he came to acquire the titanium leg in the first place. Some small, tucked-away part of me started to fall in love with him for real in that cave, even though I'd been faking it on the surface. Some aspects, I was really faking. But others… there was no way to fake some of the things that I felt.
But the cave still doesn't bring back warm nostalgia, no matter if love was present there or not. It's where Peeta got blood poisoning and almost died because of Cato's sword.
I don't want to think about it anymore, so I do my best to stop as I move to the end of the couch with my medical supplies in tow. I have to disinfect the cuts on his foot, which is going to hurt, then bandage them. I'm not an expert at this, so all I can do is try my best.
Peeta watches while I work and he doesn't wince or flinch away once. By the time his foot is wrapped up, I think I'm more shaken than he is.
"There," I say, smoothing the seam of his bandage. "I'll check it in a couple hours. For now, you should rest."
I'm not sure what to do with myself - it's early afternoon, past lunch and much too early for dinner, so it's not time to cook. Before I can linger on the subject, though, Peeta says my name and I look up from where I'd been concentrated on his foot.
"I'm going to need a new leg," he says.
"I know," I say.
"I mean…" he begins. "Dr. Aurelius has to know. I can't get up, and the phone doesn't come off the wall."
It takes me a moment to realize what he's insinuating, but eventually I get it. I have to call. I haven't used the phone to call anyone but my mother - and him, when he was in the Capitol. The last person I want to call is Dr. Aurelius. But I'm not so stubborn as to refuse - Peeta needs a replacement leg. And it shouldn't be put off just because I'm averse to the phone.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Just… just tell me what to say."
I hand him his sketchpad and he writes me a script, which I appreciate. I read it over a few times, enough to cement it into my head, and walk slowly to the phone - dragging out every step. I dial the number that's taped right under my mother's, and my stomach twists and jumps with nerves as the line rings.
A receptionist answers and I follow Peeta's lines and ask for the doctor after stating my name. She gives me no trouble, saying she'll pass me through after a brief hold.
I don't wait long. After just a few moments of pleasant music, I hear the doctor's low voice.
"Katniss Everdeen?" he says. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
I glance at the paper and clear my throat. "Peeta needs a new prosthetic," I say, and I don't leave room for him to interject. "His old one is unusable and he's out of commission until he can get a new one. You should still have his measurements. If you could put a rush on it, that would be best. And send it in the mail, please. You should have our address on file."
"I'm sorry to hear about his previous prosthetic," Dr. Aurelius says. "I can start working on that right away; he shouldn't be without it for long. I know it serves him well."
"Yes," I say tersely.
"So, Miss Everdeen, now that I have you, how's your health been since you've been home? I heard about your broken arm - I assume that's been healed for a while?"
I open my mouth, flummoxed over the fact that he's breaking from the script. But even though he is, I won't. I don't want to talk to him.
"If the leg could get here as soon as possible, that would be great," I say. "Thank you. Goodbye."
Then, without waiting for his response, I hang up the phone.
…
With Peeta rendered immobile, I realize how much I have to do alone. It dawns on me quickly, too. I don't know how long it will take for his new leg to get here - I'm guessing no faster than two or three weeks - and until then, it's my job to cook, clean, hunt, take care of him, take care of the goats, take care of Haymitch, and take care of myself. After he tells me that the goats will be getting hungry, I start feeling frazzled, and I think Peeta can tell.
"If you go upstairs and get the morphling," he says, situating himself to try and sit up in a way that allows his foot to hover above the floor. "It should dull the pain enough to where I can help you."
"No," I say, gently pushing him down with a hand in the middle of his chest. "I can do it. I don't want you on morphling, not if you don't absolutely need it. No chance. I can handle this."
"Are you sure? I feel awful."
"Stop it," I say. "You'll just hurt yourself worse if you try to walk on that foot. I just wrapped it today, there's no way you're standing on it."
He sighs and lies back, obviously upset that he can't help. I'm frustrated by it, too, but not in the same way. "I saved scraps from last night's dinner for them; they're in the kitchen in a brown bag. And with that, they'll take two scoops of grain. That should be more than enough until morning."
"Okay," I say. "I can do that."
I leave him on the couch with his sketchpad and head out to the goats' pen. As soon as they see me, they start bleating up a storm - I'm not sure if it's from excitement or anger over the fact that I'm not Peeta.
I push my way into the pen with the brown paper bag in tow, holding it above my head so they won't snatch it from me. "Be patient," I say sternly, emptying it into their trough. Beside it, I dump out the grain and they dig in as I clean their living quarters in the best way I know how.
After they're finished, Marigold comes over and yanks on my shoelaces, successfully untying them. And after that, Hopscotch takes to nibbling on the loose fabric of my shirt. "Hey," I say, standing up. "You two just ate. Stop eating me."
They bleat in protest, but I just shrug.
"You won't see Peeta for a while," I say. "Maybe he lets you chew on him, but I'm not so nice."
Directly contradicting my words, I sit against the wall in the guise of retying my shoe, but I don't fight either of the goats when they trot over and ask to be petted. I stroke their odd little heads and don't protest when they get close enough to sniff my ears and lick my face. Some part of me, the part that's related to Prim, even likes it. So, I allow myself to smile.
…
It's lonely, cooking dinner without Peeta. Even though he maintains conversation from the other room, it's not the same. We eat together on the couch like we did when my arm was broken, and he's a much more pleasant patient than I had been.
I can't get him upstairs on my own, so there's no other option than for him to sleep on the couch. And I don't plan on sleeping by myself, so I get comfortable on the outer edge so if anyone falls off, it'll be me.
With how close we are, though, I doubt I'm in danger of falling anywhere. As we lie on our sides facing each other, Peeta wraps his arms around me and I tuck his leg between both of mine, making sure to steer clear of his freshly-bandaged foot.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For what?" I whisper back.
"For today. For helping me."
"You don't have to thank me, Peeta," I say, knitting my eyebrows together. "You would do it for me."
"Of course," he says. "But it's still a lot to ask."
"It's not," I say, pulling myself even closer so our chests are pressed right up against each other. "I like taking care of you."
I hear him smile - a small puff of air exits his nose - as he presses his lips to my forehead. "I love you," he tells me.
The words swirl in my chest and make a home there that's soft and sweet. It's not something we say often because the words feel so sacred. So, when one of us does say it - it comes as a pleasant surprise. "I love you," I say in return, nuzzling his neck.
We fall asleep quickly, but I'm woken with a jolt in the middle of the night to Peeta breathing heavily, sweating, and thrashing - so violently, that it's a wonder how I stayed on the couch. I can't understand what he's saying, but his forehead is lined with wrinkles of concern and his jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems like his teeth should crumble.
"Peeta," I say, still trying to wake myself up. I had been deeply asleep. I rub my eyes and push his sweaty hair off of his forehead. "Peeta, it's a nightmare. You're having a nightmare, wake up."
Fortunately, it doesn't take much to bring him out of the state he'd been in. With a sharp gasp, his eyes snap open right into mine - and when we meet gazes like that, he relaxes and says, "Oh."
"You're okay," I say, still running my fingers through his hair. I give him a soft kiss and say it again. "You're okay."
"We were… the cave," he says, catching his breath and swallowing loudly. I notice that he's trembling - from nerves or from being cold, I can't be sure. "I was dying. Like before. It was freezing, I was so hungry, but this time you weren't there."
"I'm here," I say. "I'm here now."
He looks into my eyes again and nods shakily, and I notice that there are tears running down his face. "I didn't know what to do without you," he says. "I was dying. All alone, I was dying."
"I would never let that happen," I assure him, my voice firm and sure. "Ever."
He nods again and swipes at his eyes, trying to wipe the tears away. But new ones replace the old and he continues to cry quietly, still terrified from what he saw and experienced. I know all about what it's like to relive the Games in my sleep, and it's not something you can easily climb out of. Some nights, when it happens to me, I can't fall back to sleep at all - no matter how hard I try. But I don't want that for Peeta. In order to heal, he needs to sleep.
But he can't sleep when he's so wired, so afraid of what his brain conjured up. To help him, I think of what used to comfort my sister when she'd have nightmares - something I haven't done for anyone since the nights she slept beside me.
"Do you want me to sing?" I ask, caressing his cheek with my thumb.
With wide eyes, he looks up with a wobbling chin. He tells me yes, and I think of a song I sang to Prim when she was a tiny baby, when I'd wake up with her in the night so our mother and father could rest.
As time draws near, my dearest dear
When you and I must part
How little you know of the grief and woe
In my poor aching heart
'Tis but I suffer for your sake
Believe me dear it's true
I wish that you were staying here
Or I was going with you
As I sing softly, the first notes I've sung in a very long time, Peeta slowly comes back to himself and returns to a state of calm. The fact that he does allows me to relax, too, and my eyes start to close before I can move onto the next verse.
I take a deep breath and get comfortable again, pressing my forehead to Peeta's chest as he winds his arms around me and slips his hands inside the back of my shirt to gently tickle my bare skin.
I can barely stay awake, but I realize that he's drawing letters as I drift off. I cling to consciousness just long enough to discern the shapes, and right before I succumb to sleep, he traces them again and I make note of each one as he goes.
And as we're twined together as one, he writes on my skin:
Marry me.