Author's Note: Here it is guys, the chapter we've all been waiting for! It is my sincere hope that it's not too cheesy, although it very well may be. I plan to continue the story if the interest is still there. Thank you so much for your kind words and all the follows and favorites. Please let me know what you think of this chapter. Was it too much? Are you still interested in the story? Let me know in the reviews. That was a rather suspenseful opening so without further ado, here's chapter 7. Enjoy!
I wake up the next morning and stare at the ceiling, willing myself to get up and face the day. I decide that before anything else, I have to go over to the bakery to let Peeta know that Prim won't be coming to dinner. It's Saturday so I'm not working but Peeta will still be at the bakery and I feel like I should let him know about the change of plans. If he doesn't want to have dinner with me without Prim then I want to give him the chance to cancel.
I get dressed quickly and quietly leave the house. It's later than I usually get up but still early and Prim will likely be sleeping for a few more hours. I embark on the walk to the bakery and think of what I'm going to say. I don't know why I'm agonizing over the placement of my words so much but there's a sense of anxiety inside me at the thought of facing Peeta by myself when I'm not working.
I reach the back door of the bakery and knock hesitantly, shuffling from foot to foot as I wait for Peeta to answer.
He opens the door and I see the familiar flushed cheeks and curly hair, complemented by one of his cozy sweaters. He looks confused at my presence and also a hint worried.
"Katniss?" He says, his brows creasing in concern. "Is everything ok?"
"Everything's fine," I say quickly, not wanting him to worry for a second loner than necessary. "I just wanted to let you know that Prim isn't going to be able to make it to dinner tonight. She has a sleepover with a friend." I say whilst fiddling with the hem of my sweater, uncharacteristically nervous that he will not want to have dinner with me if my sister isn't there.
"Oh, ok. That's ok. Do you still want to come over?" He asks, his features mimicking the anxiety I feel.
"If you still want me to." I say, hating how pathetic I sound.
"Of course! It would be my pleasure." He says hastily, quick to reassure me that he still wants my company.
I smile at him, relieved that he still wants to have dinner and also embarrassed that I cared so much. It's going to painfully awkward, I know that much, but I still find myself looking forward to the prospect of spending time with him without the pretense of work.
"Great. Well, I'll let you get back to work. I'll see you at six?" I look to him for confirmation and find him beaming at me with a nervous but content smile.
"See you at six. "
"Goodbye, Peeta," I add bashfully, unsure of myself but not wanting to leave unceremoniously.
"Goodbye, Katniss," He indulges me with his customary goodbye, smiling happily at me as I retreat.
I make the walk home, my mood brightened by our simple but positive interaction. I go back to sleep for a couple hours until I'm awakened by Prim asking me to make breakfast.
The day passes lazily, as Saturday's often do. Prim and I read and tend to Lady and have a picnic together. It's all very nice and relaxed but there's a nagging voice in my head, reminding me of my nerves and how anxious I am about this evening.
Prim seems to read my mind and assures me on multiple occasions that everything will go beautifully and Peeta's crush on me is so great that I could say anything and he would still like me. I roll my eyes at her, unwilling to engage in her childish romantic fantasies. I'm still convinced that Peeta simply does not like me in that way and has never even thought about it. I don't know where Prim got her fantastical ideas but she's wrong.
Despite her gentle teasing throughout the day, she is very helpful when 4 o'clock rolls around and she's going to be picked up soon. She helps me pick out an outfit, a navy blue dress this time, with a rather defined waistline and delicate little buttons all down the front. Prim assures me that it looks lovely on me and that Peeta will be absolutely smitten.
She does my hair differently this time by putting half of it up and away from my face, securing it with one of her cherished ribbons. I must admit that it does look rather nice.
She has a way of putting everything together. Separately, the dress and the hair were nice enough, but together I find that there's a certain elegance about them. Prim has managed to make me look like I actually know how to dress myself, something that's no small feat.
When her friend's mother comes to pick her up I see her to the door and make sure she has everything she needs. I tell her that she can come home if she gets homesick, as this is her first sleepover. I'm worried about her being sad or missing me, but I know that she'll be fine. It's for the best that I have plans tonight, otherwise I would sit at home worrying sick about her all night.
By the time Prim leaves, I only have a few minutes before Peeta is set to arrive. I fiddle with my hair a bit and make sure that all the buttons are straight on my dress. With everything in order, I sit impatiently on the living room sofa, watching the seconds pass on the clock. It's all terribly pathetic and embarrassing.
In the midst of scolding myself for my foolishness, I hear Peeta's car pull up and force myself to wait for him to knock before I open the door.
When he knocks, I answer nervously, feeling terribly inadequate when I see him. Like last time, he's wearing a nice dress shirt and pants, both of which I'm surprised to find that he's ironed. He looks even more handsome than usual and consequently, I feel myself getting more flustered than I usually do.
He's nervous, as he often is, but obviously happy and beams at me with an excited grin. I can't help but return it, forgetting my earlier thoughts of inadequacy.
"Hi, Peeta," I greet him softly, smiling back at him.
"Good Evening, Katniss," He says, his formal greeting made sweet by his goofy grin. "Are you ready?" He asks, stepping to the side of my porch to allow me to come outside.
"Yes," I tell him as I leave the threshold, turning around to lock the door behind me and then following him to his car. Most people don't lock their doors but I'm always extra cautious, having known what it's like to not be able to afford to replace anything.
He opens the door for me and I climb in to his car, fidgeting a bit as he comes around to the driver's seat. He starts the car and leaves my little house behind, silence descending on the cab. There's a nervous tension about us, the previous easiness of conversation gone with Prim. There's more room on the seat now that she's not here, but I still find myself as close to the door as humanely possible. It's not because I don't want to be near Peeta, I just don't know what to do with myself and don't want to infringe on his space.
He maneuvers the car expertly, obviously a very experienced driver. As the ride continues, I find Prim's words about Peeta having a crush on me bouncing around in my head. I've easily dismissed those thoughts before, but I find myself feeling a sort of childlike hope that it's true. Logically, I know it's not true and I shouldn't even want Peeta in that way. But sitting next to him, I finally let myself want him. Physically, emotionally, romantically. Something about him both excites and calms me and I reflect on the time I've known him and everything I've learned.
As the silence continues, I think about all the easy conversations we've shared at the bakery, all the parts of myself that I've shared with him. Being with him is usually easy and fun, despite brief periods in which awkwardness seems to get the best of us. For the first time in my life, I actually care about what someone thinks of me and I realize that's why I've always felt so self-conscious around Peeta.
It's difficult to come to the realization that I would like to possibly date him, only to be faced with the cold reality that he doesn't want me. He's expressed just about zero interest in me and the thought makes me sullen, quietly introspective until we arrive at his beautiful home.
He clears his throat once he puts the car in park and does that adorable little jog to come open my door for me. He offers me his hand to help me get out and I surprise myself by taking it, desperate for any contact he'll offer me.
His hand is a little sweaty, something I can tell he's self conscious about. Once I'm out of the car, he withdraws his hand and tries to covertly dry it on his pants, his cheeks becoming ever redder in the process.
He guides me to the door, his anxiety rolling off of him in waves. I can understand him feeling awkward but anxious? I don't know why he would be anxious about having me over.
I find out why when he opens the door and steps to the side, watching me closely as I enter the house.
There are candles everywhere, the soft glow accented by the setting sun streaming through the partially covered windows. The table is set like before, but this time with two place settings and a lovely vase of wildflowers between them.
Everything is spotless and impeccably in order, the house even more stunning than the last time I saw it. His home is beautiful, no doubt, but it's taken on a sweetness that is uniquely Peeta.
I smell bread, fresh and delectable. Something sweet and something savory also tints the air, the aroma adding to the severity with which I've been pleasantly surprised.
I forget myself for a moment, walking slowly through the living and dining area, surveying the transformation that's taken place. I notice something that I hadn't before.
There are paintings tastefully placed throughout the area, a good number of them, each more gorgeous and realistic than the last. I realize that they are the same paintings from the bakery, the ones that I had first noticed on that cold, fateful day on which Peeta had offered me a job.
When I look over at Peeta, he's standing by the front door, an intense mixture of anxiety and hopefulness on his face. Something dawns on me, sharp and overwhelming. It feels like everything is coming together all of a sudden, the solution to the problems that have plagued me the last few days suddenly becoming painfully obvious.
I've been too blind, too oblivious, to see what's been happening this entire time. Peeta, sensitive Peeta, has worn his heart on his sleeve, patiently waiting for me to see it and realize what he's been trying to tell me all along. I can see it, plain as day on his face, the hope he feels that I will see what he's trying to tell me, that I will reciprocate.
Peeta's a painter. I don't know how I didn't realize that the same man that I spent so much time with had carefully created those paintings that I had appreciated everyday. Only someone as gentle and loving as him could see such ordinary things in such extraordinary detail. A dandelion, an overgrown meadow, a dilapidated barn. All rendered in a way that shows how differently he sees them. His paintings all show that he possesses a tenderness that allows him to see below the surface, to find beauty that no one had seen before. I realize that same quality of being able to appreciate the dull and the overlooked has led him to notice me, to seek out my attention, to draw me out of my shell.
Prim was right. Peeta does like me, he's liked me all along. I remember that day not so long ago when he told me that he would do anything for my sister and I, when he couldn't tell me why. I remember every little gesture of kindness and affection he's showed me, every painstaking effort to make me realize how much he cared. I remember every smile and nervous expression he's shown me, all the kind words and conversations.
I look at him, really look at him, and find all my thoughts confirmed in his face. The candles, the tidiness, the additional invitation to dinner have all been his way of telling me that he likes me, that he appreciates me for what I am.
His expression changes suddenly, instantly becoming one of worry and concern. He rushes over to me, hesitant to touch me but arms outstretched in an attempt to comfort.
"Katniss," He says, his voice laced with profound worry that he has done something wrong. "Why are you crying?"
I'm confused by his question, as surely I'm not crying. But my fingers come away wet when I place them on my cheeks to confirm. I am crying, but I don't feel sad.
I feel happy. I feel so overwhelmed with emotion that it has seemed to spill out of me. All the gratitude, all the astonishment, all the affection, the joy, it's too much to process and it appears that tears have arisen to act as an outlet for my feelings.
"I don't know," I say, unsure of how to explain all the different thoughts and feelings that have coursed through me in the last minute. "I think I'm happy."
He looks confused, rightfully so, and I can't explain, can't make him understand how clueless I am, how I've finally just now realized.
So I do the only thing that seems adequate and I hug him. I practically pounce on him, desperate to make him understand that I get it, that I know how he feels, and most importantly, that I want him too. I want him so badly.
He hugs me back, hesitant and baffled by my volatile behavior but willing to indulge me. I cling to him, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, not willing to let go.
His arms are wrapped around me, his hands resting gently on the small of my back. I move my face to burrow into his neck, inhaling his scent of cinnamon and soap. I feel the curls that I love so much tickling my forehead, their downy softness making me nuzzle further into him.
I can feel his pulse racing and feel momentarily remorseful that I'm holding him in suspense. But I can't let go yet, I can't think of the words to explain. We must stand like that for 5 minutes, me wrapped around him, him gently confused. At some point he starts rubbing my back, small tender circles that feel impossibly good. I squeeze him tighter, desperate to communicate what I've been repressing all this time, that I like him, that I want to be close to him.
After what feels like both an eternity and not long enough, I disentangle myself from him. I step back slowly, not wanting to part from the warmth and comfort of him. He looks both elated and confused, an endearing half smile on his face and drawn eyebrows looking back at me.
"Are you ok?" He asks timidly, unsure of how to approach me in light of my uncharacteristic display of emotion.
"I'm great," I say sincerely, smiling at him, gathering the courage to bring my thoughts and feelings out in the open. I take his hand, his big warm hand, and lead him over to the couch. He follows me like a confused puppy, eager to please but utterly baffled.
He stares at me openly, waiting for me to speak. I gather myself by taking a deep breath and look into his eyes, the hope there being all the encouragement I need.
"I'm sorry I'm acting so weird, I….. I just realized everything all at once. I realized that those paintings are yours, and Peeta, it just hit me. It hit me how gentle you are, how talented and sensitive you are. Just looking at those paintings and seeing how you're able to take something so ordinary, so ugly, and make it look so beautiful. It made me realize that you've done the same thing with me. You saw something in me and you offered me a job and your friendship, you drew me out of my shell, you made me feel things I've never felt before," I'm crying again, silent tears streaming down my face as I look into his eyes, willing him to understand everything I'm trying to say.
"Being here in your home, with the candles and the paintings and you all nervous, waiting for my reaction, it made me realize what I hadn't allowed myself to believe. For the past few weeks I've tried to suppress my feelings for you because they scared me but I think that you feel the same way I do? I hope so at least. You're just about the greatest person I've ever met and you've given me so much and I'm sorry I'm crying again but I've never felt so many things at one time before." The words fly out of me, no forethought or formulation to make me sound less unhinged or desperate. But I think it's ok, I think I said what I needed to. I think he understands.
He's looking at me with a burning intensity, adoration and admiration and something like wonder boring into me from his impossibly blue eyes. He's misty eyed too, not crying but close.
He takes my hand again and holds it in both of his. He looks exactly how I felt a moment ago, overcome with emotion, unable to speak. But he opens his mouth and never looks away from me, all the previous anxiety dissolved in light of my confession.
"Katniss," He says, almost as if it pains him. "Katniss, I've noticed you since we were little kids. I've wanted to be your friend, just to know you, forever. I saw you suffer silently for years and it killed me. I saw the way you cared for your sister and it made me feel such a profound respect for you. I wanted to help you about a million times, any way I could, but my own anxiety and fear of you rejecting me always made me stand by, silently wishing that I had the courage to approach you, to tell you how I felt, how I still feel." He pauses, taking a deep breath as a single tear falls down his cheek.
"You're the most beautiful, courageous, loving, strong woman I've ever met. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been the best experience of my life. I knew you were amazing but I had no idea how much, how funny and smart and capable you are. It's been so hard not having you know how I feel about you, but I was always so scared that you wouldn't want me in that way. And I value our friendship more than anything, I never wanted to ruin it. So I invited you here and tried to make it nice and was planning on telling you. And god, I was so nervous. Do you really like me, Katniss? Am I dreaming right now?" He finishes his speech on a sigh, visibly deflating from the vulnerability he's just displayed.
His words are so impossibly sweet and perfect and I can't believe this is happening right now, that he feels that strongly about me. This gentle, sensitive, incredible boy has just told me that he all but loves me. That every time I've felt inadequate or stupid, that he's felt the same way. I think of how silly it is, that I couldn't see what was right in front of me this entire time, that I couldn't end both of our suffering. But everything's out in the open now and I've never felt more relieved.
I reach out the hand that's not holding Peeta's, reaching for his face. I place it gently on his cheek, like I'm touching a butterfly that I'm terrified will fly away. I wipe his tears with my thumb and he leans into my hand, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath.
"I really like you, Peeta. I like you so much, you have no idea. And this is very real, at least I hope it is." We both let out a light, exhausted chuckle, both of us stripped bare and vulnerable for each other.
Peeta places the lightest kiss on my palm, unsure of himself, gauging my reaction. His lip brushing my hand is the single best thing I think I've ever felt, a tingling sensation spreading up my arm. If this feels this good I can't imagine what it would feel like to have him kissing me, his lips on mine, his lips other places.
I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. While I'm terribly relieved that we've both laid our feelings out in the open and mine are reciprocated, I don't want to push this too fast. I get the feeling that if I kissed him right now I wouldn't stop, and I don't want our first kiss to be in an emotional haze. I want to be fully aware, I want to have time to process everything, and I want to remember every detail.
I brush my thumb over his cheekbone once more in response to his kiss, all the while marveling at the impossible beauty of him. His eyes are closed and his long lashes, dampened by tears, are mesmerizing. His skin is so soft, everything about him so pure and perfect.
He gathers himself and lifts his head. He looks at me, all the raw emotion he just expressed clear in his eyes. He reaches out for me and gently enfolds me in his strong arms.
We sit like that, curled into each other, nuzzled into each other on the couch for a long time. And there's no place I'd rather be.
The only thought that comes to my emotion singed brain while I'm nuzzled into his neck is that Prim was right. She was so right.