I used to hate waking up alone. There was a time, even after mine and Peeta's toasting ceremony, that if I woke up and he was just in the bathroom, anxiety would swirl in the pit of my chest. But now, since the bakery is officially up and running, it's almost every weekday morning that I wake up by myself in our bed. And, while I do miss his warmth, I don't mind being alone so much anymore.
It took a while for the bakery to get off the ground. Since there are new laws being put in place throughout Panem all the time, the permits went in circles for months - even years - before anything was set in stone. Even after the physical building was finished a year and a half after breaking ground, the ribbon wasn't cut until six months ago, which means the entire project took about three years in total.
Peeta and I have been married for nearly as long. Time has simultaneously flown and crawled by - the days are long and the years are short, as people say. But I like being married to him. It hasn't changed anything between us in any major way, besides the fact that he's gotten good at slipping the word 'wife' into his sentences.
And, since we have the titles and all, we feel a bit more freedom to do what married people are allowed - and encouraged - to do in bed. Not that we didn't before, because we did. But things are different now, in a good way. I think both of us feel more secure in the fact that we belong to one another, and always will, in the way that married people do.
This morning is like many other mornings in the way that Peeta has already gone to the bakery and left me a note. Even though that's always where he is - he's never once been anywhere else - it's nice to have it in writing. I squirrel these small pieces of paper away in a box at the bottom of the closet, but I don't think he knows about that. I don't know why I keep them, but it feels wrong to throw them away when he took the time to write them for me in his neat, blocky handwriting.
And they always say something different. This morning, the note reads:
LB,
Left for the bakery at 4:30. I couldn't wake you; you looked too beautiful. Come see me when you're up.
Already missing you,
P
LB, of course, stands for 'little bird,' and if Peeta's favorite way to reference me is by calling me his wife, 'little bird' or 'LB' is his second favorite.
I fold the note into a small square and close my fingers around it, slipping out of bed and stretching as the sun peeks through the windows into the bedroom. It's about 7am now, if I had to guess, and he'll be opening the bakery soon. A lot of the time, I make my way there and we'll work side-by-side for a few hours - and that's what I plan on doing today, but I have an idea that I want to carry out first.
It's about time for the persimmons to ripen - I've been waiting for just the right opportunity to pick them. If I do it too soon, they're so sour that they make your eyes water - and while I don't mind sour things, Peeta much prefers sweet. He's been wanting to introduce something new to the bakery, and I'm curious to see what he'll create when I bring him a bag of the little orangish-yellow fruits.
I don't bother getting dressed in my hunting gear, as that's not what I'm out to do today. Instead, I put on a pair of light-colored pants to keep cool in the thick July air and pair them with a long-sleeved linen top. At home, I wouldn't bother with sleeves. But since I'm headed into town after I make a stop in the woods, I need my arms covered. I'm still not comfortable enough to welcome the stares that my scars might still attract.
Peeta doesn't mind when people's eyes catch on the marks on his skin, but I mind for him. Sometimes, when we're behind the counter together, someone will watch him for just a little too long, their eyes tracing the rippled lines that cover his arms. I always snap them out of it, saying something that makes them remember their manners - just call me Effie.
I braid my hair back - my hair, which has finally grown to what it was before it got burnt, torn, and singed so badly - and the tail of it periodically taps my back as I walk along the dirt path to the woods. It doesn't take long to get there, but when I get to the persimmon trees that I've been monitoring, I find it picked clean.
Unfortunately, foxes, raccoons, and deer like persimmons just as much as I do. With a sigh, I study the area and know that there are no other trees like this in the general vicinity, not in the woods anyhow. But there is a place I know that a few are located - and that's the meadow.
I don't go to the meadow often. Even though it used to be a safe haven for me, I can't think of it as anything other than a graveyard now.
But I want those persimmons, I want them for Peeta, so I guess I'm going to the meadow.
It's not far and it doesn't take long to reach. But as I stand at the treeline with the persimmon tree in full view, it's not easy to take the first step. The only thing that gets me moving is seeing the tree overflowing with plump, vibrant fruit. I think of the expression on Peeta's face when I bring him this gift, and that's what propels me into the open.
With every step, I don't feel the soft press of the grass underneath me. Instead, I feel the crunch of bone. It gets so bad that I swear I can hear the grating, deathly sound of skulls, femurs, and ribs cracking beneath my feet.
I know that, when 12 was bombed, this is the place where survivors found safety. But that knowledge doesn't make the flashbacks go away.
But I reach the tree. I get there and I rest against the trunk, breathing heavily as its heavy branches shade me from the hot sun. As my chest heaves, I look towards the sky, up through the branches, and my eyes catch on a small bit of movement near the top. As I squint against the bright light, I can just make it out - a mockingjay.
I see it and it sees me. I know its eyes are too small to really know, but I swear we lock gazes and it sizes me up. It must assess that I'm not a threat, because it doesn't fly away as I start to move, reaching carefully for the fat little persimmons to slip them in the bag on my shoulder.
I stay completely quiet. I keep from making a sound, any sound, that the bird might feel tempted to copy. I don't want to hear its song.
…
By the time I make it to the bakery, it must be getting close to lunchtime because my stomach is growling. Over the past few years, I've gotten so used to regular meals that my stomach makes sure to let me know as soon as it's been too long between them. Peeta thinks it's a good thing, and I do too. Thinking about food makes the growling louder, which makes me wonder what he might be cooking up inside our little bakery.
The shopfront is warm and welcoming, homey and neat all at the same time. It looks fresh and new - it should, since it opened so recently - and business almost never slows down. Even now, through the tall windows, I can see Peeta making conversation with Brindle, the local seamstress. She's not my favorite person in the world, so I take my time dawdling outside the store as I wait for her to finish up.
As I linger outside, I notice that I'm not alone. Near the entryway is a little black ball - and it's moving. It takes a moment for me to realize that it's not a ball at all, it's a cat. Actually, a tiny kitten. And it's drinking from a tiny bowl.
I stare at it for a long moment, furrowing my eyebrows over its presence. Clearly, it didn't go inside and buy the milk itself, and I only need one guess to know who put the treat out here.
"Peeta," I mutter under my breath.
Hearing my voice, the kitten looks up with piercing green eyes. They're a beautiful color, I have to admit, one I've never seen on an animal before. But just because the thing has pretty eyes doesn't mean I have any warm feelings towards it. Unlike Peeta, I don't have a weakness for beauty.
After the kitten and I make eye contact, it abandons the milk and toddles towards me. It must be young, very young, because it's no bigger than the palm of my hand. I don't kneel down to welcome it closer, though. Instead, I put my foot out to keep it at bay.
"Go on," I say, shooing it gently with the toe of my boot. "Go home."
It cranes its neck and meows up at me, a tiny little squeak of a sound. Just one small note. But I'm still not swayed.
"Well, you're not coming with me," I say, and turn away from it to head inside.
Because of the cat, I had forgotten about Brindle. She's still talking to Peeta, who's behind the counter with his flour-dusted apron on, listening politely. But when I come through the door, his eyes land on me and he gives me one of those warm, secret smiles that I always hold onto.
Brindle doesn't acknowledge my presence. She's on a tangent, which isn't surprising, as she's known for being somewhat of a gossip. She's in the middle of a story and I don't care to gather the context, so I don't bother listening as she drones on and on. Instead, I join Peeta behind the counter, take the bag off my shoulder, and wash my hands.
"Isn't that right, girl?" I hear, and I realize that I'm being addressed. Brindle is wearing a smarmy grin as she leans across the counter, and Peeta has taken one step back towards me.
"Well, I don't know about that, Brindle, we-" Peeta begins, but she cuts him off.
"I was asking her!"
"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask. It's taking all I have to be polite and not brush her off and get her out of the bakery. I want to show Peeta the persimmons. Badly.
"I said that I saw you all at the Goat Man's place the other week," she says. "Trying to get that nanny goat knocked up, huh?" She laughs, loud and crackly. "And I said, when's it gonna be your turn?" She laughs again, this time more brashly - if that's possible. "Not by a goat, of course!"
As she erupts in a fit of cackles, all I can do is stare and Peeta is doing the same. I know if I open my mouth, no one's going to like what I say, so I let Peeta fill the silence once she calms down.
"Thanks for stopping in, Brindle," he says. "I'll let you know when the apples come into season."
She laughs her way out the door and I watch, still in shock, as she goes. I can't believe she would say something like that, and I can't believe I had the restraint not to slap her.
But I only concentrate on that thought for a moment before I remember the persimmons. "I have something for you," I say, changing the subject so Peeta doesn't feel the need to debrief the trainwreck that just occurred.
"A present?" he asks, watching as I set my bag on the countertop.
"Yes," I say, and pull out as many persimmons that will fit in my palms.
"You got them!" he says excitedly, his whole face lighting up. "They were ready, then, from the tree we saw?"
I shake my head. "No," I say. "But I found them somewhere else."
He doesn't ask where and I'm glad. I want to tell him about the mockingjay, but not here and not now.
He takes a persimmon from my hand and sinks his teeth into it - but once he does, his face puckers and his eyes turn to slits - they might not be as sour as they could be, but they're still very tart. They'll sweeten up once he bakes them, but his face is too funny and I can't keep from laughing.
"You know they're sour," I say.
Raising his eyebrows high, he pulls me in by the waist and plants a kiss on my mouth - I taste the zing on his lips from the fruit. "That's okay," he says, kissing me again. "You're sweet."
Playfully, I push him away by the chest and he tugs on the end of my long braid before smacking his lips loudly against the side of my hair. He always gets like this with me after we've spent a morning apart - and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it. A little. Or a lot.
After kissing me for just a little longer, Peeta heads to the back to store the persimmons and I keep an eye on the front door. But even though it's wide open to let the summer breeze inside, no one walks in. Once he comes back up to meet me, someone - or rather something - does finally step through the door, though. That kitten.
"Peeta," I say, my eyes on the tiny thing as it pads through the bakery like it owns the place.
"Hmm," he says. His eyes are downcast as he counts the cash register. When I don't respond right away, he looks up and prompts me again. "What is it, birdie?"
My cheeks warm at the little nickname but it doesn't get him out of my next question. "What is this?" I ask, nodding towards the animal. "Are you feeding it?"
"Oh!" Peeta says warmly, having apparently missed the kitten's entrance before I said something. "Fern's here!"
He named it Fern. It has a name, so I'm clearly not going to be rid of this thing anytime soon.
"It was by the door, drinking milk from a saucer when I came in," I say. "And it has a name?"
Peeta picks the cat up from the ground and it looks comically small in his bulky arms. He's more muscular than ever, but so gentle with the tiny thing. As soon as he puts its face close to his, it nuzzles his cheek and starts purring. I'm unfazed.
"Fern," he says. "For her green eyes."
"And you're feeding it?"
"She was hungry," he says, stroking its small head. "And cute, too."
I know from experience that Peeta can't help but feed what's hungry.
"There's going to be cat hair in the frosting if you're not careful," I say.
A scowl must have snuck onto my lips because Peeta takes great pleasure in mirroring the expression back at me. And when he does, I can't help but break it to grin. I try to fight it, but like always, I never win out.
"You have to admit, she's adorable," Peeta says, inching closer to me with the cat still held close. He sneaks a kiss on my cheek and tries to make the cat do the same, but I duck away from it.
"Stop it," I say, but I'm still smirking. "I won't admit anything. I'm going home."
"Oh, don't leave," he says, beaming.
"There are too many hands here as it is," I say, looking between my husband and the kitten. "Or paws."
Peeta extends one of those little paws in my direction. "Bye, Katniss," he says, and makes it wave.
While shaking my head, I walk out of the bakery. I think the smile on my face lasts the entire walk home.
…
As I'm making dinner later that same night, I throw the windows open to encourage some sort of breeze. It's hot - outside, in the house, everywhere - and the last thing I want is to eat hot food, so I'm working on a salad while wearing only cotton shorts and a thin-strapped tank top. And instead of a braid, my hair is in a bun because I couldn't stand the feeling of anything resting on my shoulder.
The open windows do help, though. And what helps even more is the look on Peeta's face when he comes through the front door.
I smile and he looks me up and down, taking in the sight of more skin than I ever show during the daytime. "This is a good look for you," he says, toeing his shoes off before joining me in the kitchen.
"It's too hot," I say, keeping my eyes on him as I dice a tomato.
"It sure is," he replies, and I roll my eyes. I know what he means, but he's not as smooth as he thinks.
He stands behind me and winds his arms around my waist, leaning forward to press my hips into the kitchen island. He flattens his hands on my stomach and tucks his face into my neck, opening his mouth on my pulse point as he kisses me, and I overlap his hands with mine.
"I'm all sweaty…" I say, but I tip my head to the side anyway to give him more room. In the best way, I've never gotten used to the way his lips feel on my neck - or anywhere, really. But my neck is sensitive and he knows that.
"I don't care," he murmurs, lips moving against my skin. "I like it."
As he moves to the round of my shoulder, he pulls the thin strap of my tank top down so it won't get in his way. I lift my hand and bury my fingers in his hair, leaning almost my full weight back against him as his grip around my middle tightens and the pads of his fingers dig into my hip bones.
"Mm," he hums. "I missed you."
"It's barely been… oh," I gasp, my sentence getting cut in half by the feeling of his right hand slipping inside the front of my shorts. "Two hours… Peeta."
"Hmm," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice as I jolt back against him involuntarily - pushed there by his thumb tracing the waistband of my underwear.
I'm about to tell him that we shouldn't. That dinner is almost ready, that the windows are open, that it can wait until later. But then I just… don't. I don't want to wait until later, I don't want to wait at all. I want him right now - right here, too.
"That feels good," I say, responding to the way that his fingers inside my underwear nudge me apart. My mouth opens and a breathy whimper comes out, and I have to press my weight forward onto my palms when he nudges the spot that makes me see stars. "That feels really good."
I can feel his arousal from behind, and it spurs me on. I arch my back and rub against him, which makes the breath catch in his throat and a low groan come from deep within him. I smile to myself, pleased with what I'm able to do, and he kisses my ear.
"Birdie, I want you," he murmurs, keeping his voice so low that it rumbles throughout my entire body and centers between my legs.
"So, have me," I say, turning my head to kiss him full on the mouth - strong and sure. As our lips move against each other, he uses both hands to slip my shorts down and they hit the floor with a whisper, then he gently bends me forward.
When he fills me, I rest my forehead on the sturdy wood of the countertop and scrape my nails against the hard surface. And when he starts to move, I lose my breath and any coherent thought - all I can think about is the way he feels and the way he makes me feel.
"Mmm, Peeta," I sigh, biting my lower lip as hard as I can. My eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline and he's got a steady hold on me - one hand on my shoulder and the other on the dip of my waist.
"Yeah?" he grunts, and I feel him press a firm kiss to the space between my shoulder blades.
"Nothing," I say, as he continues to thrust. "You just… oh… I…"
As I get closer, my eyelids flutter and I grit my teeth together, and when the spring inside me finally breaks and his warmth gushes through my body in waves, I lose the ability to speak altogether and all I can do is lie there, facedown, and recover.
I stand up straight after a moment and Peeta tucks himself away after cleaning us both up with a damp rag. I turn around, pull my shorts on, and lean back on my elbows. All we do for a long moment is look at each other, the same expression in our eyes, then we both burst out laughing. I cover my face, shoulders shaking, and he kisses my forehead and wraps me in a tight hug.
"I really did miss you," he says, swaying us back and forth.
"I think you had ulterior motives," I whisper, looking at him through my eyelashes.
"You did, with that outfit!" he says.
"It's not a crime to be comfortable in my own house," I say, tapping his chin.
"Well, it should be," he says, then reaches behind me to pop a tomato slice in his mouth. "Are you making a salad?"
"Yes," I say. "But I need to go grab a cucumber from the garden."
"Wait!" Peeta says, taking my elbow as I extricate myself from his arms. "Wait."
"What?" I say, tucking a flyaway piece of hair behind my ear.
"We… we don't really need cucumbers, do we?" he asks. "I think it'll be fine without them."
I shoot him a strange look and take my elbow back, then continue towards the door. "It'll be better with them, though," I say. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything," he says. "But you were in the middle of cutting the tomato. I can go grab the cucumber; you stay here."
"It's fine," I say over my shoulder, turning the doorknob. "I'll just be a- oh."
As the door opens, I see the reason why he wanted to keep me inside. There on the front porch, eating what looks like specialty fish from the butcher, is the little black kitten.
"Peeta…" I say, and he appears beside me looking sheepish and indignant all at once.
"She was hungry!" he insists "I mean, look at her scarfing it down."
"I'm sure its walk home after the milk at the bakery was grueling," I grumble.
"She," Peeta insists. "Is a girl. Fern, remember?"
I close my eyes for a moment and realize that this is a battle that I am not going to win. I have to come to terms with it, I guess - the fact that this house is now home to a cat once again.
…
A couple days later, Peeta and I are walking home from the bakery together. We've just come from the butcher's, where he picked up a quarter pound of salmon for Fern, who's living large in Victors' Village. She met the goats yesterday and Haymitch and the geese the day before. None took too kindly to her, but Peeta makes up for it with how he coddles her. When we're home, he almost never puts her down. And when the two of them are apart, he makes sure she's set up with a princess's accommodations. Hence the salmon tucked under his arm right now.
And my hand is in the crook of his other arm, which is just the way I like it. We're in the middle of a light conversation about an adjustment he plans on making to the persimmon tarts when Brindle passes and gives us a smarmy wink.
That paired with the suggestive expression on her face makes me come to a dead halt, and Peeta stops short soon after.
"What is her problem?" I hiss, flipping around to see her sauntering away. "What the hell gives her the right to assume anything about when or why or how we have sex?!"
"I have no idea," Peeta says with a sigh.
Feeling defiant, I lift my chest and state, "I'm going to say something to her."
Before I can get far, Peeta yanks me back. "Please, don't," he says, winding an arm around my shoulders and ushering me in the opposite direction of Brindle.
"Why not?!"
"Because," he says, glancing back before looking at me with worry in his eyes. "She'll just bother me about the children thing more than she already does."
That angers me even further. "She bothers you about it?" I say. "Why haven't you told me?"
"I don't know," he says, avoiding my eyes now. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable… or cornered, or anything like that. I was handling it."
With my eyebrows set low, I'm not sure how to respond. I don't like the fact that he felt like he couldn't tell me, but I don't know how to say what I want to say. I'm not even sure what that might be yet. So, to let us both simmer down in our own ways, I stay quiet for the rest of the walk home. And I leave the topic of Brindle alone.
…
Peeta and I don't talk much at all tonight. Not in a negative way, but I think there's a lot going on in both of our heads. It's only when we lie down to go to sleep that my thoughts are organized enough to bring up the conversation again.
So, with Fern making herself at home at the foot of the bed, I slide closer to Peeta and cup his face in my hands, stroking his cheekbones with my thumbs as I speak.
"You can tell me anything, you know," I say. "Always. No matter what."
He lifts his eyes to meet mine thoughtfully, saying, "I just… I know you don't want kids. So I didn't want to make you feel pressured." He sighs. "Trying to protect you, I guess."
"I know you were," I say, twining one of his blonde spirals around my pointer finger. "But you don't have to."
One corner of his mouth pulls up in a half-smile. "Yes, I know," he says. "The Mockingjay can take care of herself."
"No, not like that," I say, nudging his foot playfully with my own. "I mean… you don't have to protect me by not talking about children."
Suddenly, what was left of the lighthearted smile fades from his lips and he looks at me seriously when he says, "What?"
I take a long pause before I reply. I'm sure the words won't be right - they rarely ever are. But still, usually, Peeta understands. I can only hope he'll understand me now.
"I'm not sixteen anymore," I say. "And… I don't know. I used to be dead-set against having kids. But…"
I want to say: That doesn't mean I never wanted them. But I can't work up the gumption. I'm not sure why, but I'm not ready.
The best thing I can come up with is, "Because of you, I think my mind has changed."