I stretched my hand across the bed, expecting to find cold, empty sheets. But instead, I found him. Warm, solid, and alive. He was quiet other than still breaths, so perfectly timed with the beat of his heart. I hadn't even opened my eyes, yet I squeezed them shut even tighter.
I was thankful for boring nights. If somebody demanded my kidney in exchange for Peeta's sound sleep, I'd pick up the knife myself. I might even cut my heart from my own chest if it guaranteed him rest.
Over the last few months, I'd turned into someone I didn't recognize. And it was all his fault.
The pantry was full. Our clothes were always clean. We had hot water and new furniture and the privilege of boring evenings by a fire more for the sound than the warmth. My needs were so gluttonously fulfilled all the time I actually had to face my wants. My wants seemed boring.
After fantasizing of riches and comfort for my entire childhood, I was disgustingly content with him. The soft curl of his blond hair. His brick oven of a stomach that soothed my freezing fingers. His voice, his laugh, the way he said my name like he'd never run out of chances.
I couldn't help myself. I touched his full bottom lip with the weight of a butterfly. And yet he still mouthed, "Katniss."
How much had this simple life cost? I couldn't even fathom what future I'd had without the games. Surely, I would've married Gale. We would've hunted for both of our families, serving as the sole providers for our siblings' gaping mouths. I'm sure he'd have gotten me pregnant too soon. As soon as my bleeding stopped, I'd be filled with dread and hatred for him. But District 12 was too harsh to turn a husband from your bed. And so the cycle would continue.
I'd have a different type of trauma. I wouldn't be haunted by Rue's eyes in a monster's head. Prim would be here with me; she would remind me to find joy when all I wanted to do was bury an arrow in my own brain. I wouldn't carry the stories of Finnick and Johanna and Haymitch in the pit of my stomach. Peeta would've been safe.
Peeta would've been safe.
But I wouldn't have him. And the thought of that made my eyes well up with stupid tears threatening to spill from my cheek onto his.
He would've married some nice girl, probably Madge with her hair ribbons and pretty dresses. He would work in the bakery, throwing burnt bread to some other pitiful street urchin. His heart would still be golden. He would be happy.
But he wouldn't be mine.
We would pass each other in the streets of 12, our gaze flitting away as soon as we made eye contact. Neither of us could acknowledge the one connection we had before the games. That would make it real.
Peeta wouldn't be mine. Real, or not real?
He made me selfish. He made me pathetic and greedy and weak. He'd filed the callouses from my weathered heart and torn apart my scar tissue to expose my weakened body to a whole new world of risk and reward. I felt raw, with him. I'd lost so many, and if I lost him too, I doubted I could survive it. Not after he ripped me wide open like that. How was I supposed to live through that?
"Katniss." This time my name was audible. His lashes parted, and his eyes met mine. He didn't have to ask what was wrong. I swear Peeta understood my mind more than I myself understood it.
Instead of answering, I pressed my cheek into his chest and tucked my head under his chin. His hand found my back and started to trace sleepy, slow circles with the tips of his fingers. I'd always hated touch, until him. Now, if he didn't touch me for even an hour I started to unravel.
He pressed his lips into my hair. I wrapped both of my legs around his one, trying to pull him closer, trying to pull him inside of me.
I'd been too harsh with my mother. It was so easy to condemn her for being weak and stupid for loving my father so. For giving her whole self to him, for turning into an empty shell of a person when he left. I thought I was above it all.
I didn't even understand in the beginning, with the first games. But after the second games and the war, I was worse than my mother. I didn't know a person could have so many aching gaps and lapses that could be soothed by one man.
It was pathetic. But I didn't know how else to live.
"Please," I whispered in the dark. It wasn't a tall ask - it often took just one touch, one word, and he was ready for me. There wasn't enough of myself left to care. Long ago, I would have practiced chastity, restraint.
But District 12 was gone. My family was gone. He was all I had, and he was the only balm that soothed my bleeding heart.
"Katniss…" He was better than I was. In some ways. He'd at least try to make me talk, to let him in before we savagely took each other's bodies. But he was still a man. And when I touched my lips to his throat, he was mine.
I used to judge the families who had too many children, who couldn't control themselves enough to keep from making more mouths to feed. But if I'd had Peeta all this time, it might've saved me from my dirty hair and freezing feet and empty stomach. What we shared now was indulgent. What we could've shared then would've been manna raining from the sky onto the ruins of the Capitol.
I couldn't even tell when he entered me, our bodies were so tangled together. Yet the feeling traveled from deep in my core, spreading golden sunlight through each of my veins. I was addicted to Peeta Mellark, and it could kill me.
Both of our hips moved in unison, growing more and more desperate as he woke up. "I love you," he said, the words bold and brazen.
He said it all the time. When he rose in the morning, before he fell asleep at night. When he pulled on his shoes, when he shut the oven door, when his paintbrush paused for even a moment. He lavished me with those words, yet they were still like precious rubies and emeralds to me. He gave love so freely. I was jealous of him.
I just nodded and pressed my cheek into his, the stubble of a fresh beard raking my own skin. "Me too," I whispered. If I said it at all, it was easiest while he was inside of me, while he filled the empty chasm I still felt splintering me in half. No fancy house could repair it. But damn, making love to Peeta came close.
Rays of light started to filter through our open window. We hadn't truly lost our celebrity, but the stakes were gone. There weren't tabloids or Capitol news. We weren't public figures anymore. Peeta didn't creep over to my house in the dark of the night to preserve our performance of innocence. He was my husband. And I suppose that made me his wife.
"Please," he murmured right in my ear. It made my heart leap to my throat.
We both knew he wanted a baby. He didn't even have to say it, he reeked of the desire. Peeta deserved to be a father, that much I was sure of. But I couldn't even imagine cursing a child with my blood. Having me as a mother. I could feed and clothe them and keep them alive. I could handle survival. But beyond that, it would be all Peeta.
And he was still fragile. He still cried with phantom pain of his lost leg. He still had bad days trapped in bed, unable to face the world after what the capital had done to him. He was sweet and kind and good. Much better than me. But he'd still been a prisoner. He'd been tortured because of me.
Even if he could say he loved me, he couldn't swear he trusted me yet. We couldn't trust ourselves, let alone each other.
"No." My hips didn't slow. "Not right now."
He didn't respond, but we both understood which question he was asking and which answer I was giving.
I loved him. Even if I couldn't make myself say it, I loved him in a way I'd never loved another. Someone had knitted our two souls together and I couldn't even step away from him without ripping myself apart at the seams.
So I kissed him. I tried to say all I couldn't out loud. If he didn't understand, no one could.
