Chapter 3: I'll Take That Bet

"Is your mother well?"

I shyly, lamely shrug at the question posed by Delly Cartwright. We're in her father's cobbler shop in Town, going through the inventory the morning after the Reaping. The morning after I tried to sell myself and ended up…. kissing and giving head to a boy.

Catching Delly in my periphery, I feel myself flush when I remember how she is close friends with the young man I propositioned and with whom I engaged in oral sex last night. Peeta Mellark. I suddenly fear, given their friendship, that he might appear some time while I am here working. So far, however, he has not, though that isn't saying much – I haven't been at this job long.

I'm still not really sure how I got this job, except to judge that it was quite by happy accident. Mr. Cartwright, Delly's father, is one of the few Merchants in Town who treats Seamers fairly and kindly. Gale and I have had an arrangement with him to provide pelts skinned off the fresh game meat we sell in the Hob. The furrier business can be just as lucrative as hunting – Greasy Sae accepts pelts from our kills now and again. What sets Mr. Cartwright apart is that he likes how supple I make the leather upon tanning.

Still, it came as quite a surprise to me when one day, several weeks ago, Mr. Cartwright stopped me as I was leaving and offered me a job working in his shoe shop. Part time, of course. He explained that he had been looking for an apprentice, seeing as Delly eventually wanted to move on from the cobbler trade, likely once she marries. I was more than taken aback; I'd always assumed Delly would inherit the cobbler business from her father, seeing as that's how most Merchant children master a trade: inheriting it from their parents. There are exceptions, naturally, especially if a Merchant has more than one child. The eldest son will often take over the family business, leaving anyone else after him to marry into another Townie family, take an eligible daughter as a wife, if they want to inherit another Merchant business through their in-laws.

In any case, seeing as Mr. Cartwright could probably teach me skills even I didn't know, when it comes to handling skinned materials, I accepted the apprenticeship. Delly and I have been working side by side ever since.

I chance a glance at Delly again. I like her… well enough. She can often be a bit too happy for my tastes. There's not much to be happy about here in Twelve, outside of the Harvest Festival, the birth of a new baby, or a Toasting. That's the traditional marriage custom in Twelve. Most young adults go to the Justice Building and sign a marriage license in the presence of the District clerk and Justice of the Peace, to be wed in the eyes of district law… but no one here feels truly married until after a Toasting. Every newlywed couple is assigned a house by the Justice Building, and following the bride being carried across the threshold by her new husband, the lovers toast a bit of bread over the hearth and share it. It might be simple and quaint and romantic, but the tradition is ours, be you Merchant or Seam.

And if there is anyone in this district who is romantic, it's Delly Cartwright. Her innocence and glass-half-full outlook can be a little off-putting, especially for a cynical realist like me, but she's friendly and we work well together. I turn back to pounding this insole into place with my chisel.

I finally find the social skills to answer Delly's question in words. "She's taken to her bed and hardly come downstairs. I had to bring breakfast up to her before I left this morning."

Delly winces in equal measures sympathy and concern. "Have you thought about getting her a health waiver? For Mandatory Viewing?"

I shake my head. When I was little, during my first Reapings, Mother was still so depressed over losing Daddy that I had no choice but to file a health waiver with both the Head Peacekeeper and the Justice Building. Even if I wanted to this year, none of the powers that be would grant it, for Mother and I are relatives of a tribute this year. That means we have to stand in a place of honor in the Square, no matter how sick or emotionally frail we might be. The only consolation is that we'll be standing with the Hawthornes in our tortuous grief, watching our loved ones fight and die.

I bristle, pounding at the insole with a little more force than is strictly necessary. I'm still steaming about Gale's foolish actions yesterday that sent him into hell.

Although, I ponder as I work on the bottom of this shoe, I have to feel strangely…. grateful that in doing so, he spared Peeta Mellark's life.

"Katty! Look!" I turn to watch Delly thumbing the dial on her family's beat up TV set balanced precariously on the counter. Reaping recaps aren't technically considered Mandatory Viewing, but most people watch anyone to size up the competition.

What I'm seeing so far isn't raising my hopes that my sister might come home alive instead of cold in a wooden box.

The Careers from Districts 1 and 2 – those are the illegally trained tributes who are deployed into the arena year after year, and who almost always win – appear to be the regular deadly crop of ruthless assassins. Though there is a physical affect to the boy from 1 that makes me wonder if he's mentally retarded. At any rate, he doesn't appear to be the sharpest tool in the box. His partner, Glimmer, oozes sex appeal and beauty. My eyes bulge at the sheer muscles on the boy from 2, Cato, and I feel my face grow hot. Peeta looks as bulky as him, I think. I bet he could even take this leading Career down in a fight. It would be a sound wager. Peeta can throw one hundred pound sacks of flour right over his head; I've seen it. He's also on the wrestling team – I sat in the stands of his championship match and watched him lose the title yet coming in second, and that was only to his own brother.

I mentally slap myself. Why on Earth am I thinking of Peeta Mellark at a time like this? An image of me down on my knees with my lips around his cock floods into my brain and I banish it with a deep blush.

The short stature of the girl from 2, Clove (she doesn't seem much taller than Prim, not much older), might give me some hope were it not for the fierce look on her face. Clove might be a pixie, but she's a rabid one.

Thankfully, the rest of the field culled seems unremarkable, except for the girl from 5 who appears shifty. The boy from 10 has a bum leg, which won't do him any favors.

The District 11 kids are the first to give me cause for concern again. Their boy, Thresh, is basically Cato with darker skin, and with even more heft to him, if that were possible. His partner is my sister's age and, though petite, is cute.

This wisp of a tribute – Rue – gives me just as much fear as the more physically threatening combatants. Pre-teens and tweenies get much of the sympathy vote once Reaped, and that can divide sponsor money. Old Capitol biddies will probably back my sister because they feel sorry for her, but Rue stands to gain just as much from that donor base. If the cash is split between two little girls who tug at the Capitolites' heartstrings, neither one will get all the way to the end or even close to it once the number of contenders dwindle and the Gamemakers jack up the gift prices.

I whimper when I see Prim clambering off the train to shrieks and coos and even crying. The people seem to be falling in love with her just as much as I did when I was little and Mother first placed her in my arms. It takes a train outbound from Lucy Gray Baird station the better part of two days to reach the city, and yet Prim seems worlds away from me now.

If the people seem quite taken with my sister more than they have been with other young tributes in the past, then they are enamored with the dark mystery aura radiating off of Gale. He is imposing, body and jaw clenched, and I can hear Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith discussing how the betters like this ballsy volunteer's chances.

So what does that leave me with? Counting my sister, I have eight legitimate contenders – OK, nine if the girl from Five (I nickname her Foxface) is left in the mix. Districts 1 and 2, 11 and 12… and Foxface. One of them will be the winner this year, I'm confident of it. Often, only less than half the tributes stand a fighting chance to walk out alive going in.

Delly must see the anxiety written on my face, for she quickly turns off the TV. She peers out the shop window, biting her lip at the waning afternoon sun. "They'll be calling us to the Square soon. For the chariot parade."

Mere minutes after my colleague states this, there is an authoritative knock at the door. Lifting her skirts, Delly politely goes to answer it and finds a squadron of Peacekeepers on her doorstep.

"Good evening, miss. We understand that one Miss Everdeen is an employee of this establishment? She wasn't at her mother's house when we came to collect her."

"She's just through here, sir." Delly stands aside, admitting the cadets while mouthing to me, 'Sorry.'

I circle out from behind the counter with what is left of my dignity, trying to appear like a cultured district lady. "Are you here to escort me, gentlemen?"

The officer in the lead gives a nod. "Indeed, Miss Everdeen. They are expecting you with the Hawthornes in the Square."

"Where's my mother?"

"I'm here, dear," her voice floats to me from within the phalanx of soldiers.

And despite the strained feelings I have with my mother, I join her in solidarity, allowing us to be marched under heavy guard to the Square.

Before the Justice Building, there is a raised platform where the relatives of the tributes sit, giving them an unencumbered view of the jumbotron screen now mounted to the government edifice. I am just about to mount the first stair, lifting the hem of my blue Reaping dress when….

There he is. Not ten feet from me. Our eyes lock, blue on grey. I feel my entire body grow warm, even as I go rigid with awkwardness… and shame.

"Hi there," I blurt stupidly.

I could swear Peeta nods once, curtly, though I can't be sure as a Peacekeeper nudges me forward. Mother and I take our places with the Hawthornes and watch as the first chariots pulling the tributes begin to go down what is called the Avenue of Tributes, towards the City Circle.

Most years, the tributes from Twelve are dressed up to look like something resembling coal. By Districts 7 and 8, I am preparing myself for my sister and best friend to suffer a humiliation exactly like this.

At least until the gasps and rousing cheers start to go up around District 11's emergence.

No coal. Not this year.

Prim and Gale are bright and luminous, burning like twin candles of flame as they burst onto the paved street. The roar from the spectators is defeaning, even when filtered through the speakers here in our Square, and the cacophony of response clearly takes my sister off guard, judging from the close-up reaction shot of her face.

But then, as the minutes tick by, Prim begins to become more relaxed. She smiles bashfully, waves adorably. Gale actually lets out a hearty and completely out-of-character chuckle as he swings Prim up onto his shoulders. Prim starts to blow kisses out to the crowd, and I am amazed as I watch grown adults along the thoroughfare begin to violently push each other out of the way. Bodies diving, hands reaching, grasping, as if these kisses really can be caught, plucked out of the air.

"PRIM-ROSE! PRIM-ROSE!" The chant is crescendoing even before Prim and Gale reach the City Circle.

President Snow steps up to the podium to deliver his address but I ignore most of it, eyes only for my sister whenever the camera is drawn to her angelic face, which turns out to be often. Mandatory Viewing ends for the night, and as the Square disperses, I catch a flash of blonde hair scuttling past the viewing platform. Heart lurching, I'm lifting my skirts and pelting down the steps after him without thinking.

"Wait."

My voice is choked off with something that might be tears as I finally catch up with Peeta just off the back loading dock of his family's bakery, in the alley. The alley where I forced myself on him. Kissed him. Drew him in between my puckered lips and pleasured him when he wanted no pleasure.

The Baker's young son turns slowly to face me in the moonlight, and I am once again struck by how his eyes are such a brilliant, impossible blue.

The folds of my blue dress are becoming hopelessly creased as I wring the fabric in my restless hands. "I…. I'm sorry. I…. I had no right to force myself on you like that. I don't even have any right to…. to…." I frown, eyes burning with unshed tears as I fail to voice just what it is I'm asking for.

Undeservedly, Peeta bails me out for trying.

"I forgive you," he states simply.

I lift my hanging head to gape at him in surprise. "You… you do?"

"Anyone would have snapped, in your situation." He nods in the direction of the emptying Square. "And for the record, your blowjob wasn't entirely atrocious. You… felt… tasted…. Good." I think he might be flushing, though it's probably from shame that he had a Seam girl put her mouth on him.

I blink. Cock an befuddled eyebrow. "….. Thank you?" I lilt.

To my surprise, Peeta smirks. "You're welcome," he accepts my uncertain gratitude quite literally. There is an awkward, deeply pregnant pause between us. "So:" Peeta finally breaks it. "If you can quit looking at me as though I'm wounded, then I can quit acting like it. And then maybe…. we've got a shot at being friends."

I kick at a pebble in the dusty dirt of the street, mumbling. "I've never been very good with making friends."

"Well, it does help if you know the person. I hardly know anything about you except you're stubborn and good with a bow."

I wince almost apologetically. "That about sums me up."

"Nah, there's more than that; you just don't want to tell me. See, Katniss, the whole friend thing doesn't start off with making out and sucking off an erection like it's a lolly. Before you get to that, even if you want to, you gotta tell each other, the deep stuff."

"The deep stuff?" I raise another eyebrow, ignoring how I'm reading into a subtext of foreplay that probably isn't there. It's not like Peeta would want me to give him head again. Then again, perhaps I would be more loosened up if I let him, say, duck under my skirts and lick my clit. Or push his face in between my boobs and taste my nipples. I certainly seemed to speak with more confidence when I was in the midst of seducing him, however clumsily I did it last night. "Uh oh – like what?"

I expect him to make some witty riposte again, such as what I like to do most in bed. Instead, he merely suggests, "What's your favorite color?"

"Well, now you've stepped over the line," I deadpan facetiously. That garners a chuckle out of him, and I actually crack a smile. How strange. For the longest time, I've never had cause to smile at anyone of anything that didn't have to do with Prim.

"Seriously, though, what is it?"

I turn into myself, meeting his eyes shyly. "Green. What's yours?"

"Orange."

"Like Effie Trinket's hair?" I scoff.

"Snow's Roses, no, not that kind of orange!" I'm actually taken aback and even a little… impressed that a Townie can so casually utter what is considered a Loyalist oath. Essentially take the President's name in vain. "More like a…. sunset kind of orange."

I run my tongue over my bottom lip and teeth as I contemplate his answer, all while trapped in his rather entrancing stare. Sunset…. Perfect.


Having reached a crucial truce, Peeta and I encounter each other frequently over the next three days my sister, Gale and the other tributes are in Training. Cameras aren't allowed in the Training Center, and there is no Mandatory Viewing for the evenings until the training score returns are announced on the fourth night, following the contestants' private evaluations with the Gamemakers.

There is, however, plenty of trading between Peeta and myself, as I go back to bartering squirrels for bread again. I think I make things more awkward about the transaction than Peeta does, who seems less inclined than I am to dwell on what else we traded here in this dark, back alley on Reaping Night.

By the time the Training Scores are announced, Peeta has migrated up to standing by my side up on the family-viewing platform. Relatives of the tributes are allowed to invite a guest of their choosing, and though it is left unspoken between us, I find I want Peeta up here with me. It's a debt, for what I violated when throwing myself at him. From the gossip Delly Cartwright chatters in, it is clear that many people think some sort of backroom deal was struck between Peeta and Gale, so the Baker's son could get out of the Reaping. Ridiculous, of course, for there's one gaping flaw in the theory: how would Peeta have had the foresight to create a contingency, strike a deal with anyone (least of all Gale) if he had no idea he was going to be Reaped? Welcoming him up with me sends the silent message that I don't (or no longer anyway) harbor any resentment towards him for Gale taking his place.

Caesar Flickerman is awash with excitement as he reports the training score returns. The quartet of Careers get 8s and 9s – Cato gets a 10. So does Thresh. The girl from Five and Rue are not far behind at 7.

"And now we have the truly enthralling Primrose Everdeen! With a score of: …. 7," Caesar announces.

I stifle a groan. Average. Honestly, I shouldn't have been expecting higher. It's good, in this field, it will make Prim stand out. But there's still five tributes ahead of her, and she's tied with two more.

"And finally, we have the massive Gale Hawthorne, with a score of…." There's a pause. Caesar is taking the tiny square of paper and holding it to the light, twisting it this way and that, as if he can't quite believe what is written there. "…. 11!"

I let out a shout of amazement, and Peeta whistles. Just like that, Gale became the one to beat. I imagine the audience is now itching for perhaps a three-way battle between the large boys: him, Cato and Thresh. On the side of the screen, I can now observe the tributes' statistics being adjusted for their training score.

Even as I am thrilled for Gale, in returning to my thoughts of Prim, I stare at the giant screen projecting my sister's stats, her odds, with growing dismay. "If she wins…" I mutter in what I think is under my breath. "I'd go and get married in the Justice Building!"

"I'll take that bet."

I whirl around to gawp at Peeta, my expression slack in disbelief and confusion. "What?"

"I'd wager your hand in marriage against, say…." It's almost adorable how he pretends to think about it. "… Prim's Victory in the arena."

I suck in a gasp of astonishment at his temerity, before the amazement turns to anger and my teeth set. I lean in close and practically hiss at him, "No dowry of mine could be worth my sister's life! Not by a long shot!" I say this even though I already know it's a lie. For the sake of my sister's well being, I would gladly take any man as my husband. I would gladly accept even this man's hand in marriage, if I thought doing so would be protecting Prim and her best interests. Even so, for Peeta to essentially…. propose to me in such an underhanded way…. How dare he! How… how dare he! It is practically blackmail.

Peeta runs his tongue over his bottom teeth in thought, and I oddly feel a pinch of…. aching longing in the space between my legs. "A date, then," he haggles down the stakes. "If Prim wins, you allow me to take you out to any place in Twelve of your choosing."

I cock a lofty eyebrow. "And if you lose?" I challenge him with relish. He doesn't answer me, and I'm embarrassed to quickly discover that I can't really think of anything that could make the pendulum swing back away from a date with Peeta Mellark. Worse still, I feel kind of trapped into countering his wager, as his losing would mean my sister would…. die. And I want Prim to come home alive just as much as Peeta does. If her survival means I have to go on a date with Peeta Mellark, well… so be it.

My eyebrow arches higher still, skeptical, as I appraise him. Size him up. "One date," I sigh. "If Prim wins. You can name the place."

Peeta purses his lips in a thoughtful line, gesturing at large. "The way I see it, everybody wins," he points out. "And you, double."

My grey eyes expand in absolute astonishment. I have to admit, I'm in some ways… impressed by his chutzpa. It is this that compels to give a firm nod of my head and hold out my hand.

"Deal."

I agree to his terms flatly, and we shake on it.


The following night is the tribute interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Peeta joins me, Mother and the Hawthornes back up on the platform. I try to ignore how Hazelle and Rory are shooting my… my friend withering glares. It makes me sad to think that they believe some quid pro quo was struck, to get Peeta out of serving as tribute. But I'm trying to atone for a sin, pay off a debt. And I intend to pay it.

Though, with our bet, I'm beginning to wonder how long it might take until my debt is paid in full.

Caesar bounds onto the stage with youthful energy, and the sit-downs begin with Glimmer, the tramp from 1.

I hardly pay any attention until we get to District 11. Marvel, the dolt from 1, cracks lame country jokes that nobody gets. He talks with a lisp. Cato struts around like a peacock, seeming to expect the Victors' Crown. Clove, and Foxface after her, are sly and elusive. Thresh gives a mixture of monosyllabic answers and grunts to every question.

A hush falls over the crowd as Rue seems to float in, everyone taken by this wisp of a tribute who nabbed a seven – a three-way tie for… fifth place in scoring and an excellent score for one so small. When Caesar asks her how she can win, she is strikingly confident in her answer: "I'm fast. If they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," Caesar hugs her.

I sit up, quivering, as Prim now takes the stage. Caesar starts with a softball question: "What's your favorite thing about the Capitol?"

"The lamb stew," Prim blurts out, though her voice seems to wobble just slightly at the outset.

"Oooooh, the one with the dried plums?" She nods, clearly nervous. "Why, I eat it by the bucketful!" Caesar groans, holding his stomach. "It's completely ruined my waistline! Tell me, folks: does it show? Have I put on any weight?"

"No, no!" The audience catcalls from the cheap seats.

"Now, Prim: your training score was quite good, same as young Rue's. How exactly did you get it?"

I watch as Prim bites her lip, hedging. I can't imagine it would be a good strategy to give away your strengths, the way Rue sort of did earlier. Thankfully, my sister is smarter than that. "I had to go against everything I've ever been taught. And a tribute who can do that is quite dangerous, Caesar."

"A bold statement!" Caesar looks intrigued. "How do you mean?"

Prim grins softly. "Now, it wouldn't be fair to give that game away, now would it, Caesar?"

"Very true! Very true!" The host lets it go, perhaps figuring some mystery will make the betters study Prim all the more. Being her sister, however, I have a feeling I know what Prim is implying. She's been training under our mother to become a Healer for years. She's become so adept at saving life, only now she has to learn how to take it. Thankfully, a Healer who knows how to mend the worst wounds also knows how those kinds of wounds start. If Prim can apply the inverse of her specialty, then maybe….

The buzzer is sounding, and Prim is being replaced by Gale to thunderous applause. I shiver as I feel Peeta squeeze my shoulder. "She did well," he murmurs low in my ear.

"And here is the best for last: Gale Hawthorne, District 12!" Caesar calls. "Gale, Gale… I've been meaning to get you alone all night…" A wild, fangirl shriek emanates from somewhere in the darkened studio audience, causing both Gale and Caesar to look out with simultaneous timing so perfect, I have to wonder if it was practiced. "No, not like that!" Caesar makes a face, causing everyone to roar with laughter. Gale smirks a little. It has been strange to watch him as a figure of fascination here in the Capitol. Given how much he hates the Games, how often he railed to me against the government, he's been taking this surprisingly well. Yet a part of me still fears he might go something seditious to draw the Gamemakers' ire. He can't go acting like a hothead – tributes who don't play the Capitol's game do not last long in the arena. And they never become Victor.

"Tell us about yourself," Caesar finds his footing. "Only child? Any siblings?"

"I'm the oldest of four," Gale gets out.

"And do all the boys look as handsome as you? Unless they're all sisters?"

"No," Gale grunts out. Another ripple of laughter. Gale allows the crowd a devilish wink. "Rory and Vick have a lot to learn if they want to be like me." I notice both of his aforementioned kid brothers are now slouched in their seats, and I have to give them a pitying smile. Their big brother is only teasing….

"Now, Gale, I know many people won't like me asking this, but… Do you have a girl back home?"

Gale blinks, shrugging. "Not at the moment."

"Uh….. you don't?" Caesar lifts a loaded eyebrow, not believing him. "OK…. Then what's this?"

Before I know what is happening, a closed-circuit video feed is being played back on the jumbo screen. The footage shows Gale kissing me in his holding cell in the Justice Building… and from the way my eyes are closed, it could be construed that I am kissing him back. For some reason, I chance a stricken look at Peeta. He is standing perfectly still, his expression unreadable, even in profile.

We cut back to Gale, who looks stunned, and (though he hides it well) a little angry that something so private has been streamed far and wide. He recollects his face into the imposing mask that has left the city all a-twitter for the better part of the last week. "She's just a friend."

"She also happens to be your district partner's older sister," Caesar dishes out the scoop. "According to my sources. Such scandal! Such intrigue, folks! Tell me, Gale: how do you think your lady friend will feel if you come home in place of your sister?"

A muscle in Gale's jaw ticks. "She won't."

"Who is she? She won't what? Be specific, Gale. We're dying to know!"

I take smug pleasure in how Caesar doesn't get the chance to hear Gale elaborate, for just then, the buzzer sounds. I hurriedly leave Mother in the lurch in my haste to get out of there.

I can hear his footfalls following me up the path to my home in the Seam. I feel hot moisture pooling at the back of my eyes, and the strangest sensation of feeling almost… unfaithful somehow.

"Katniss, wait!"

I slowly turn, dreading the conversation I suspect is going to happen. Peeta slows down out of a jog, stooping a little and panting to catch his breath.

"Peeta….."

"I know it's not my business, but please: are you seeing Gale Hawthorne?"

"No," I answer immediately and honestly.

"You're not? Because I just saw…"

"I didn't kiss him back," I cut across him abruptly. He stammers off into silence. "Gale kissed me; it was unexpected. He seemed more frustrated than anything else, when he did it."

Peeta looks like he doesn't believe me, much less believe how Gale could be frustrated about anything, at least in the way he's imagining.

"OK…." He draws out slowly. "But… why wouldn't you want to kiss him?"

I bristle at the question, even though he raises a fair point. Why indeed? Most of the girls in Gale's year at school and many in Peeta's and mine openly pine after him. And I've heard some rather graphic stories of Gale taking willing Seam girls out to the Slag Heap to…. to have…. sex.

"People don't usually kiss each other when they're angry or fighting, Peeta," I point out.

"You kissed me. The night of the Reaping," he parries back. "And you were pretty pissed."

I huff exasperatedly, rolling my eyes. He's missing the point! "If you must know," I grind out. "Right before he kissed me, Gale and I were in the middle of an argument about you!"

That takes Peeta aback. "About…. me?" he asks, bewildered. A beat, and then:

"…. Why?"

I falter, glancing down at my shoes. In Gale's holding room, I had been angry with Gale for volunteering for Peeta at all – a position that, in hindsight, I deeply regret taking. It would have been ideal if Peeta had never gotten Reaped in the first place, or that Gale would have never been put in a position where he thought he had to volunteer. It isn't fair! None of this is! But, the one thing that still makes me angry, even now, is that I have no idea why Gale volunteered for Peeta, seeing as it would seem to go against every position he's taken on Merchants. And when I'd confronted Gale on it, he wouldn't give me a satisfactory answer.

Meeting Peeta's gaze again, I have to wonder what he must be thinking. That he somehow caused a rift between Gale and me, that he's made Gale feel…. jealous perhaps? And even if Gale was jealous of Peeta for some reason, what exactly does that imply about me? I'm not comfortable coming to an answer.

So I decide that I have to, can only, answer as honestly as I can when I say, "I…. I don't know." My eyes make a shy, squirming sweep of his physique, and I flush pink.

If Peeta notices, he doesn't let on, accepting my answer at face value. "Night, Katniss."

"….. Goodnight."