Chapter 14: I Don't Feel Like a Lady

I find Peeta in the kitchen Saturday afternoon after I've returned from my hunt and my regular Hob visit. He's exuberantly pounding out a slab of dough, and for a moment I watch him, thinking he's angry about something. But then I notice the smile on his face.

"Hey," I greet him, shrugging out of my jacket and slinging it over the back of a dining chair. It's mild out, but sweat has already dampened my shirt during my walk home. When he looks over his shoulder at me, his face splits into an even wider smile. "What's got you so happy?" I ask, a faint smile already teasing my lips. He stops kneading the dough and snatches a towel off the counter to wipe the excess flour off his hands.

"I talked to my parents earlier," he starts, and immediately his words have me on edge. He notices this and shakes his head. "No, it was—it went well, actually. My mom finally agreed to let you come over. I mean, she invited both of us to dinner. Tonight."

I'm a little dumbfounded; I'm not sure how to react. While it's nice that his mother is finally willing to acknowledge my existence and presence in Peeta's life, I'm still not sure I'm ready to confront the woman, not yet. For some reason, Mrs. Mellark intimidates the hell out of me. "Tonight?" I hesitate, pulling my braid over my shoulder to stroke it anxiously. "That's...it's such short notice."

Peeta steps toward me, his expression hopeful. "You can get cleaned up now, there's plenty of time. I'm gonna make some dessert to bring; you don't have to worry about anything else," he says placatingly, and I chew on my lip, doubtful. "Please? I feel like this is our only window of opportunity, and if we back out, she definitely won't be willing to reschedule. I just want her to meet you and see what I see in you."

At that, I cut my eyes to him, my face twisting into something sardonic. "Peeta, you know as well as I do she'll never see me that way. Not after everything."

He purses his lips together but relents, his face softening. "No, you're right. But she can at least accept that you're not horrible," he jokes, and I scoff.

"Such high standards," I grumble, but I smile despite myself when he pulls me against him, resting his hands loosely on my hips.

"It'll be okay, I promise. And if it's not, this is the only dinner we ever have to do with them, okay?"

I take a deep, steadying breath before nodding my acquiescence. "Okay, yeah," I agree, reaching up to peck his lips before untangling myself from his embrace. "I guess I should get a headstart on scrubbing all the Seam grime off me, huh?"

Peeta shrugs. "I like the Seam grime. But yeah, you do smell kind of bad," he teases, laughing when I shove his chest before stalking off to the bathroom.


I've changed outfits for this dinner four times, rotating through all the hand-me-down dresses Mother has given me until I've found one suitable for a meeting with Peeta's mother. "Suitable" means the least amount of holes and noticeable stains. The green dress I've finally settled on, a relatively simple cotton frock that tapers at the waist to give me the barest semblance of curves, only has one small hole, where the threads are unraveling around a seam, but I'm able to stitch it back together before we leave for the bakery. I don't want to give Mrs. Mellark any more ammunition to hate me, and I have the distinct feeling the woman is the type to hold a grudge over threadbare garments. It's nerveracking, being the deciding factor that will determine the course of Peeta's relationship with his mother. Under any other circumstances, I'm sure I wouldn't care about appeasing her, or any other Merchant, but I know how important this night is to Peeta, and I don't want to cause anymore upheaval in his family's life.

Now, as I walk side-by-side with Peeta to the bakery, my hand securely tucked into his, I nervously smooth down the flyaways of my elaborately braided updo with my other hand; the stares the two of us get as we stroll purposely through Town do not go unnoticed by me, though I'm not sure Peeta notices them. I don't think him stupid, and we've discussed the matter before, but he didn't grow up under the staunch oppression I had in the Seam; I sometimes think him naive to the fact that the Merchants don't just judge us for the circumstances of our relationship but for my class, as well. Naive maybe isn't the right word either. Unconcerned, rather. The attention still rattles me, however.

But this time on my trek through town, their stares are the last of my worries as we near the bakery. Once it's in sight, I inadvertently squeeze Peeta's hand. He glances at me and smiles. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine," he whispers, but his words don't conceal the anxiety in his eyes and the creases over his brow. Oddly enough, I'm somewhat comforted by his nervousness.

My heart is in my throat once we step up to the backdoor of the bakery, and I reluctantly release his hand so he can knock. I briefly wonder if it is weird to him that he has to knock on the door of his childhood home, so unwelcome by his family now. It's a tense moment as we wait for someone to answer the door, and Peeta flashes me one more smile for reassurance before the door finally swings open to reveal his father.

The Baker's hair is a dusty blonde now, and his face bears the harrowing marks of age, making him look older than he is, as living in Twelve does for anyone, but his eyes warm at the sight of his son. "Hey, son," he greets kindly, pulling Peeta into a hug. I shift uncomfortably, nudging a loose pebble off the brick steps with the toe of my boot, but when Mr. Mellark's eyes switch to me, I manage a more genuine smile. "Hey, Katniss. It's good to see you. Welcome to our home," he says as he releases his son. For an uncomfortable moment, the three of us stand there, and horror washes over me as I realize I'm not sure if I'm supposed to hug him or shake his hand. The Baker makes no move to do either, uncertainty flashing in his eyes, and an awkwardness begins to settle between us.

Luckily, Peeta breaks the standoff, thrusting the container of strawberry shortcakes he'd made into his father's hands. "We made dessert," he offers. He's being fairly liberal in his statement as I spent all afternoon preparing myself for this encounter, not helping with dessert.

"Ahh, the old Mellark family recipe," Mr. Mellark appraises, then he steps back to let us inside. "Thank you. Come on in. Your mother is finishing up dinner now."

I follow Peeta over the threshold, and as I pass by Mr. Mellark, I suddenly realize I haven't even spoken yet. "Um, hello, thank you," I mumble hurriedly, embarrassed, but he nods at me with another gracious smile.

"I hope you two like pot roast," he says as he trails us through the bakery kitchen to the stairwell that leads upstairs. Peeta casts a surprised look over his shoulder at his dad.

"Pot roast? Mom didn't have to go through that much trouble—" he starts, but Mr. Mellark waves him off, shooing us up the stairs.

"This dinner's important," is all he says from behind me. I'm as equally surprised as Peeta, as his mother most certainly had to go to the butcher to buy the fairly pricey meat, but I have a sinking feeling that Mrs. Mellark indulged on the dinner to remind me of my status; that sort of thing is more important than her resentment for having to cook a nice meal for "Seam trash."

Once inside the modest-sized living quarters over the bakery, I take a moment to discreetly survey my surroundings. Their home is nice, even nicer than the house we live in, but the furniture and walls show signs of years of wear and tear. The Mellarks seem to take a keen interest in decorating, something neither of us really bother with. I'm curious about his childhood room but don't think it a pertinent time to ask to see it.

Peeta turns to me when his father disappears into the kitchen to put the dessert away, his eyes wide with concern. "You doing okay?" he asks quietly, and I nod, forcing a broad smile for his benefit.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I reply, and once he is reassured, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss to my lips.

Unfortunately, Mr. Mellark returns at that second, his wife at his side. When she sees us, she clears her throat scornfully, causing both of us to jerk apart. I get a glimpse of Peeta's red cheeks, sure they mirror my own, before he spins around to face his mother. "Mom, hey, thanks for having Katniss and me over," he says, striding over to hug her. I stay rooted to the spot, frozen underneath the icy stare of Mrs. Mellark.

This was a bad idea.

"Well, it's what you wanted," Mrs. Mellark sniffs, barely sparing Peeta a glance as she offers her cheek for him to kiss, her gaze still fixed on me. There is nothing welcoming in those eyes, eyes so similar yet so different from her son's. I used to think Peeta resembled his dad the most, but now, seeing his mother up close, it's obvious whom he takes after. How could someone so cold produce someone as warm as Peeta? It's unfathomable.

If Peeta is bothered by his mother's tone, he doesn't show it; he is probably used to it by this point. Nervously, I smooth my hand over my braid before folding my arm across my stomach. I don't know if Mrs. Mellark is going to greet me—it doesn't seem like it, despite the glare she's leveling at me—so I swallow thickly and square my shoulders back. "Um, hello, Mrs. Mellark. The roast smells good," I say carefully, enunciating each word clearly.

The woman's eyebrow twitches as it hikes up her forehead, just barely. "It should," she says coldly, dismissively, and I stare at her wordlessly, at a loss over how to respond to that.

Sensing the tension, Mr. Mellark sweeps his wife back into the kitchen. "Why don't we finish the food while Peeta and Katniss set the table?" he suggests, gesturing at the stack of plates left on the dining table.

Once the two are out of the room, Peeta grabs my hand to steer me over to the table. "You okay?" he asks, divvying up the plates for the two of us to set out. I take a deep, steadying breath.

"You already asked that," I mutter, slowly circling the table as I place the two plates in front of seats.

"We won't stay long," he reassures me, as if he can already tell dinner is going to be painful. I just nod, helping him set out the silverware as well.

His parents return after a moment with the dishes of food, Peeta and I assisting them with the food as well. I make sure to avoid direct interaction with his mother as each time she passes me, the older woman levels me with a steely gaze that makes me feel like that helpless 11-year-old again, digging through the woman's trash for scraps. I hate how intimidated the woman makes me feel, but I'm beginning to understand how Peeta lived a life completely kowtowed by his mother.

"Please, have a seat," Mr. Mellark instructs us once the table is set. He smiles at his son and me as we round the table; I look to Peeta to tell me where to sit. "We're interested in hearing more about you, Katniss, though Peeta's already told us so much." There is a jarring screech of wood as Mrs. Mellark pulls her chair out sharply, and Mr. Mellark glances at his wife warily before turning his attention back to me. "Oh, let me take your jacket for you."

Surprised, I look down then quickly shrug my jacket off and reach across the table to hand my coat to Peeta's father before settling down in my seat at the table. There is a sharp intake of breath to my right, and my eyes dart to those of Mrs. Mellark. The look in her eyes makes my blood run cold, and I freeze in alarm. What have I done now?

Mrs. Mellark suddenly slams her napkin down on the table, rattling her plate and cup. "You slut," she hisses, eliciting appalled gasps from her husband and son. I just stare at her, wide-eyed. Peeta is the first to jump to my defense.

"Mom, what the hell—"

Shooting to her feet, Mrs. Mellark nearly knocks her chair back as she fixes her son with a deathly glare. "How dare you disrespect me and your father like this—"

"Disrespect you? Us?" Peeta asks incredulously, his voice rising in anger as he stands up as well.

Mrs. Mellark continues, raising her own voice over his. "How dare you knock this Seam slut up and bring her into our house!" she yells. Her accusation renders the both of us speechless, and we can only stare at her mutely as we try to process her words.

"Honey, what are you—" Mr. Mellark tries to intervene, weakly, but his wife fixes her glare on him.

"Look at her tits! They're huge! They're full of milk, Farren! He's knocked her up!" she screeches, then she whirls back on us. Self-consciously, I cross my hands over my chest as my cheeks burn in humiliation. "After everything you've done to this family, this is the worst—"

"Mom, she's not pregnant!" Peeta yells over her. "You're insane!"

"I had three sons! You think I don't know when someone's pregnant?" she sneers at him. Peeta looks at me helplessly, and when I feel their stares on me, I shake my head weakly.

"I'm—no, I'm not pregnant. We use..." I trail off, embarrassed I'm being forced to discuss my sex life with these people. "I'm not—I'm not."

Mrs. Mellark slams her hand down on the table so suddenly, I jump. Peeta's cup rolls off the side and shatters on the floor. "How could you do this to your family? It's one thing to sleep with a Seam bitch, but to get her pregnant? Do you know how that makes us look?" she demands.

"I don't give a fuck how it makes you look!" Peeta growls. "I don't give a fuck how it makes me look. Why are you doing this? She's not pregnant! Why can't we just have dinner—?"

"Because you ruined this family!" Mrs. Mellark screams. "You ruined our reputation! And look what you did to poor Analise! Who do you think is going to marry a barren, divorced 30-year-old woman?!" At that, Mrs. Mellark's eyes home in on me, narrowing into slits. "And all for this-this slut," she spits, leaning over to shove me. With a gasp, I tip backward but am immediately pushed forward by Peeta catching my chair. He slaps his mother's hand away, hard.

"Don't touch her," he threatens, advancing on her as he pulls himself to his full height, but then his father inserts himself between his wife and son.

"Peeta, leave. You two need to go now," he says quietly, and though he is only just shorter than his son, Peeta backs down. A wounded look flickers across his face before he sets his jaw, helping me – dazed - out of my chair.

"Don't worry, we won't be back," Peeta spits out, his hand clasped tightly around mine as he leads me away from the table. He snatches my jacket off the couch and stomps down the stairs. I have to hold onto the wall, the rush of adrenaline making me lightheaded as Mrs. Mellark's screams follows us out onto the back loading dock.

Black spots begin to pepper my vision, and I have to physically force Peeta to slow down. "Peeta, not so fast," I gasp, still stumbling behind him and squeezing my eyes shut. He slows to a minimal pace but keeps walking.

"I'm sorry she touched you," he says tightly, sparing me a glance as he leads me home, but his eyes are glazed, his neck blotchy with anger. I stay quiet, keeping my head down to stop the rush of blood and to watch my step so I don't trip. "I'm sorry I brought you there. I should have known...I should have known she'd..."

We don't speak the rest of the way, trying to hurry as quickly as we can and dodge the prying eyes of neighbors, though even through my haze I can feel their stares, hear their whispers. I know Peeta and I have to look a sight at this moment, both frazzled and stumbling in our haste to get through Town back to our house. I hope that Mr. Mellark has at least kept his wife inside the bakery and that she hasn't stormed out the back after us to yell more obscenities.

Once we're back in the safety of our home, Peeta angrily shuts the door before releasing a heavy sigh, then he turns to me, taking my face in his hands. "Are you okay? I mean, physically?" he asks, his voice thick with concern as he critically examines my face, my torso. I nod.

"Yeah, she barely—I've experienced worse," I try to reassure him, but I can't deny how shaken I feel by the encounter. I study his face, finally noticing the tremble in his hands, and I curl my fingers around them. "Are you okay?"

Something swells in the blues of his eyes, his face tightening, and after a moment he releases me, stepping back to rub his hands over his face. "I...I didn't mean to hit her like that, I've never—in all these years," he bemoans, his voice muffled by his hands. "I just...the moment she laid a hand on you, I couldn't see straight. I thought I was going to black out, I was so angry."

"It's okay," I whisper soothingly, advancing on him to stroke his arm and coax his hands down to his sides. Despite my words, I don't feel okay; my stomach is still twisted in a knot, my pulse pounding, but I swallow against the dryness of my throat. "What else could you do? She was out of her mind. I'm not—" I stop abruptly, thinking back to the moment, and I absent-mindedly touch my chest. "We haven't...had any accidents. I haven't been sick or anything."

Peeta's eyes focus on my face, and he falls silent for a moment as if he is only just then remembering what had sparked the fight. Then he shakes his head, his nostrils flaring as he inhales then exhales deeply. "I know. I think she just was looking for any reason to hate you. She's always been like that. I'm so sorry I brought you into that environment. I should have known better," he says contritely, but I pull him into a hug, putting his arms around my waist and then wrapping mine around his neck.

"It's okay. I'm sorry too," I murmur against his ear, inhaling deeply, dragging his familiar scent into my lungs to calm myself. After a few deep breaths, Peeta rocking me slightly, it seems to help. But something continues to tug at the back of my mind, weighing my stomach down like a stone, that I can't quite shake off.


I still can't shake it the next day, or the day after that. I try to put it out of my mind, but Mrs. Mellark's words haunt me. I forego my trek to the Hob one morning, instead lying in bed until Peeta leaves for the school.

Eventually, once I'm sure he is out of the house, I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of the mirror, taking stock of my body. My nightshirt still hangs loosely around me, and I gingerly cup my breasts through the loose material. Are they bigger? They feel like it, but I can't decide if it's a reality or just Mrs. Mellark's accusation shading my perception. I recall how much snugger the dress felt around my chest, only a minuscule difference in the fit that I haven't thought twice about before.

Chewing the corner of my bottom lip, I pull my shirt off over my head so I am standing topless before the mirror. Then I observe the reflection of my breasts, touching and testing the weight of them in my palms. If they are bigger, Peeta hasn't said anything—or noticed, it seems. I pinch a nipple lightly, furrowing my brow. Are they sore, too?

With a deep frown, I drag a hand down to my stomach to examine my belly. I stretch my fingers out over the plane of my abdomen. It still feels tight, flat, maybe the faintest swell. Closing my eyes, I exhale in frustration and dismay.

When was my last period? I force myself to do the mental calculations, but I can't recall. It has to have been at least a couple months now. That isn't necessarily cause for alarm; I've often had irregular periods, going months without a normal cycle because of stress or malnutrition. While my eating habits have improved over the years, especially in the last couple, my stress hasn't abated in the slightest.

Now that the germ of concern has been planted, I can feel the icy tendrils of fear seeping down my spine. Something is wrong. I need to see Mother.

I waste no time getting dressed and making the journey to the Seam, hoping Mother isn't off helping someone else. I don't bother knocking, flinging the front door open with frantic haste. Mother, who sits at the dining table sipping tea, startles at my entrance, her eyes going wide.

"Katniss?" she asks, setting the cup down. "What's wron—"

"I need a pregnancy test," I blurt. Mother freezes, her lips thinning into a line as we stare at each other. Then she very carefully, but resolutely, stands up from the table.

"Okay," she says simply before walking over to the hutch of medical supplies in the living room. I wring my wrists as I wait, only moving closer when Mother turns back to me with a immunoassay test strip. "You know what to do."

Quietly, I take the strip and head for the bathroom, grabbing a cup from the kitchen on my way. The next few minutes are a blur as I robotically go through the requisite steps. The time I wait for the strip to change seems to stretch on, and my hand shakes as I pull it out of the urine simple.

I stare dumbly at it for a few tense seconds, holding my breath, before I realize: I have no idea how to read it. I release the air in my lungs on a tight, short laugh, then I exit the bathroom. Mother looks up at me expectantly from the table.

"I don't know what it says," I say sheepishly, handing the strip to her. Mother takes it gingerly and studies it only for a second before sighing.

"You're pregnant," she tells me solemnly. I wince; the statement is a punch to the gut, despite how much I knew it already, deep down. Inhaling shakily, I cover my face with my hands.

"Shit," I say simply, the sound muffled. Distraught, I drop my hands to my sides, sure Mother's look mirrors my own.

Setting the strip on the table, Mother eyes me warily. "Peeta's?" she asks cautiously. My mouth twists into a sneer.

"Yes," I snap, indignation swelling at her insinuation. "Of course, it is."

Mother holds her hands up placatingly. "I just meant...do you two want...?" She leaves the question hanging, and I feel uneasy.

"No, we agreed... I mean, after last time, it just... He knows why I can't. And he agrees," I explain quietly, but even as I talk, I feel a more acute dread filling me. Peeta and I have discussed a handful of times about the impossibility of having children and bringing them up in this world; I know we are on the same page about that.

But I know how much hurt it had caused me last time to abort my—our—baby. And I know how hurt Peeta had been, even if he refused to say it.

And now I have to do it again? What sick joke is this? How many times will I have to be punished for my transgressions in the past? Swallowing a whimper, I close my eyes against the prickling tears.

"How far along are you?" Mother asks, and my eyes flutter open, blinking away the water.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "We were careful. I didn't even realize...I haven't had any symptoms, not like last time. I haven't been sick. I don't know how long it's been since my period...but at least a couple months. Three, maybe."

A veil of worry clouds Mother's eyes, but she moves toward the hutch. "Do you want me to make you the tea again? It's not guaranteed to work."

I nod, dazed, and watch Mother pull out the blue and black cohosh and the other supplies. But as she goes about preparing the tea, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, panic starting to squeeze my heart.

"Wait," I blurt, Mother stilling her actions. "I should—I need to tell Peeta first. I can't—it wouldn't be fair to do it before he knows. Right?"

Mother just nods, but her forehead wrinkles in consternation. "It's up to you. But we can't wait much longer if you want to abort. It gets less and less likely with each week."

I release a heavy breath I've been holding, swiping at an errant tear. "I'll tell him tonight," I whisper, and as I move to leave, Mother surprises me by pulling me into a hug. Although our relationship has improved over the years, I'm still caught off guard by this display of affection. I stand stiffly in my mother's embrace for a moment before the comforting strokes of her hand on my head relax me, and I bury my face against her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Katniss," Mother says, feeling the slight trembling in my limbs.

But all I can think is: You don't know that.


I sit on the couch in our living room as I wait for Peeta to return from the school. I've managed to gnaw my fingernails down to jagged, tender stubs as my anxiety mounts. I can't think about the thing, the life, growing inside me at the moment; it's too real. All I can focus on is informing Peeta about the abstract concept of the life inside me. Then it will be real. And then I can really let the panic set in. But right now it is taking everything in me to keep it at bay so I can manage as calm a conversation with Peeta as possible.

I know we are on the same page when it came to having children in District 12, in this environment. At least, I think we are. My past experience with Gale makes me wary now. And even if Peeta agrees with my decision, I still know it will hurt him.

It hurts me, too, if I'm being honest with myself, but I can't afford to think like that. Not now.

I jump when I hear the door open, and I shoot to my feet and spin around to face Peeta as he shuffles inside, shooting me a smile in greeting.

"Hey."

"I need to talk to you," I blurt, and he pulls back apprehensively.

"Uh oh," he jokes nervously. "That's never a sentence you want to hear." His face hardens suddenly, alarm sharpening an edge to his voice. "Wait—is it my mom? Did she do something again?"

I shake my head. "No. Sit down," I say quietly, gesturing to the couch. Confused, Peeta circles around the sofa and sits down. Stiffly, I sit back down beside him, avoiding his eyes as I summon the courage. I can feel my heart thumping against my rib cage then, my pulse spiking in sheer nervousness. My hand twitches on the couch, my nails scratching at the rough fibers of the upholstery fabric, and I take a deep breath before swallowing the lump in my throat. "I—" I croak and swallow again to force the words out. "I went to my mom's today. I—I'm pregnant."

For a second, I'm not sure he heard me; his expression doesn't change, his eyes still clouded with confusion and apprehension. Finally, he blinks. "What?" he breathes, as if he is exhaling the life out of his lungs.

"I'm—"

"Pregnant?" he repeats incredulously, and on the last syllable his expression breaks, a flicker of excitement lighting his blue eyes and upturning the corners of his mouth, just barely. My breath catches in my throat; it is what I've feared.

But just like that, his face drops. His whole body seems to sag in that moment. "Oh." A beat passes, and then he repeats himself uselessly. "Oh." I want to reach out to him, grab his hand, but I'm afraid. Afraid that I have disappointed and hurt him yet again. I didn't know how he was going to react.

Another tense moment passes before he asks, "Did you..." The words seem to stick in his throat, and he clears it a few times. He's getting choked up, I can tell, but trying not to show it. Sadly, I purse my lips together and shake my head.

"No, not yet," I say, her voice wobbling. "I thought... I wanted to tell you before..."

Peeta takes another deep breath and begins to nod absently, though I'm not sure if he's even aware why he's nodding. I'm not sure myself. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and shakily releases the breath he's been holding. "Um... h-how? We've been careful, right?" he asks.

I shrug. "I thought so. I don't know. Maybe the condom is too old now," I suggest wanly.

"Dammit," he whispers, his voice muffled by his hand. "Dammit. This—fuck, this sucks. This is bullshit," he swears, his voice rising as he suddenly stands up. I stare at him speechlessly, my grey eyes wide. Peeta shakes his head, tugging at his hair. "Sorry—I'm not mad at you. I'm just... I'm mad. I'm mad at this situation, at all of this," he grits out, gesturing wildly around us. "That we're forced to live like this! It's fucked up! How can anyone live like this?"

He's right. I understand his anger, but I can't help him.

Peeta sighs raggedly, rubbing at his eyes. "I just... I'm sorry. I understand what you have to do. I just... I need to be angry for a moment. Alone."

He doesn't wait for a response, storming past me out of the living room. A second later, I hear our bedroom door slam shut. The sound stings. I knew he'd be upset, but I didn't anticipate his anger. It's hard not to take it personally.

He doesn't come out of the bedroom for hours, and I'm too afraid and stubborn to venture after him. So I stay put, curling up on the couch and eventually dozing off despite the worried frenzy consuming my thoughts.

I'm awoken sometime in the middle of the night by Peeta softly stroking my hair. Blearily, I stare up at him over the back of the couch, furrowing my brow at the concerned, remorseful look on his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, too.

"You didn't come to bed," he whispers, pulling his hand back to brace himself against the couch. I frown.

"You said you wanted to be alone," I point out hoarsely, fighting the urge to pout.

He sighs, dipping his head slightly before looking back at me. "Sorry. I know this is hard for you, too." I look away, and he brushes some hair out of my face. "Come to bed, okay?"

I chew my lip for a moment before relenting, pushing myself up. To my surprise, Peeta leans over the back of the couch and pulls me up to hoist me into his arms. I cling to his shoulders, burrowing my face against his neck while he carries me into the bedroom. He helps me undress, his movements tender, then we climb in together under the covers. Reflexively, I curl up against him, feeling immediate relief when he wraps his arms around me. We are silent for a while.

"Sorry," I mumble against his chest, my fingers teasing the soft blonde hairs there, but Peeta shakes his head.

"Don't. I understand. It's... what I want, too."

It isn't entirely true, I know that, but I don't push it. We say nothing more, and after some time, drift off to sleep, where I dream of Meadows and lakes and children and somewhere we could be safe, finally.