Haymitch flips another pancake, and this time, I'm sure to make mental notes as to how he does it. Flipping pancakes can't be quite as hard as archery. Or can it? Haymitch flashes me a cheeky grin.

"What's the matter, sweetheart? Why the pout?" Dammit, Haymitch.

"I just don't get it," I admit, and Haymitch cocks his head, hair swishing about his face, looking as mischievous as ever. Conflicting with all cognitive thought processes is the fact that it is quite hard to ignore how attractive Haymitch is. It's just simply there, and for the moment I can't elaborate.

"How do you…?"

"Yes?" He presses, the same familiar and playful expression on his face. This look, fraught with possibilities, is one that was seldom ever seen on Peeta's face, and almost never on that of Gale's. For once, in my vulnerability, I have nothing to lose.

"How do you flip pancakes?"

He motions for me to join him once more, and I do, no, rather, I can't resist. He has no idea the effect that he can have. I wonder if he will ever know. Can he sense it? Can sense that the feelings we have for each other aren't just a fleeting fancy or a bored lust?

"Okay, here we go," Haymitch announces, and in spite of myself, a tiny smile forms on my face. Haymitch is now entering "mentor mode."

"What?" he asks.

"Hmmm?"

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"I'll take your word for it," he says, a tad sarcastically, and I can't help but feel that I am evenly matched.

"So," he continues, pouring batter into the pan. "Hold the handle with both hands –"

"Why do I have to use two hands? You only use one," I protest.

"I only use one hand because I'm actually good at it, and, besides I've been doing this for a while. Anyway –"

"But that doesn't mean anything. You could have learned quite a long time ago, and still fail phenomenally at flipping pancakes."

Haymitch looks at me incredulously, and I smile because I've bested him. "Okay, Katniss, you win. But still, use both hands. Okay?"

I acquiesce, gripping the pan with both of my hands, feeling a bit smug and, perhaps, what I believe the girls at my school referred to as "flirtatious."

"Now, kind of… thrust forward. With your arms, with your arms," he says exasperatedly, noticing that I'm cracking up. Sometimes, I am loath to admit, I can be incredibly immature among friends. "Gosh, Katniss. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"But the gutter is comfy."

"Focus," he says firmly, but I see the corners of his mouth twitching. I attempt to thrust the pan forward, but to no avail.

"Try more of a scooping motion. Like so." He gestures awkwardly and I burst out laughing. He smacks his forehead. "Dear Lord: why?"

"Okay, okay," I say. "I want to have another go."

He extracts the badly burnt pancake and tosses it in the trash before setting me up for another try. This time, however, Haymitch is behind me and suddenly I feel warm all over. I sense that I'm reading too much into this simple action; it's only platonic and for teaching purposes only, not to seduce. Although, I reason, that I wouldn't resist. His hands close over mine gingerly, and suddenly, I'm fabulously endowed with the ability to flip pancakes.

The process gains a steady rhythm, and I feel safe and sound. I feel as if there exists only Haymitch and me, and that we've been together like this for years.

"Okay, I want to try to flip a pancake on my own," I announce confidently, regretting the words as Haymitch shifts away from me. My emotions are in a constant tug-of-war with this one. The relationship between Haymitch and me is not as black and white as the relationship that I have with Peeta. Yes, I have mixed feelings, but at this moment in time, as much as I feel for the boy with the bread, I don't want to be bothered. Haymitch is something else entirely.

"Don't get cocky," he warns, his signature smile in place, but his admonition is useless. We all know that cocky is my middle name.

I take a deep breath, hands on the handle and eyes on the prize. And…

With a splat, the pancake leaps gracefully out of the pan…

And onto the kitchen floor.

There's a grave silence… Before we both burst out laughing.

It's so easy with Haymitch. I don't have to pretend to be anything, I don't absolutely have to doll myself up and be perfectly decorous for him to like me. He's seen me at my very best and at my very worst. So has Peeta to some extent, but he's ruled solely by his heart rather than by his head. The problem with Peeta is that he is grossly biased and isn't satisfied with just merely being friends while I sort myself out. These things take time. This Haymitch understands, too.

The morning is bright, and painted with the palette of life. Haymitch and I sit across from each other in the buttery yellow sunlight, knees brushing comfortably as we dig into delicious pancakes; in my glass is milk and in Haymitch's glass is coffee, rum and whipped cream. And in this moment, for the first time since Prim has passed away, I can honestly believe that perhaps this life is worth living.

"If there's a place that I could be
Then I'd be another memory.
Can I be the only hope for you?
Because you're the only hope for me.

And if we can't find where we belong,
We'll have to make it on our own.

Face all the pain and take it on,
Because the only hope for me is you alone."

– "The Only Hope for Me is You" by My Chemical Romance