Author's Note: First, I need to apologize. This was no supposed to take this long! I had ever intention to update weeks ago, but writer's block attacked me hardcore and everything just started to pile. What a mess. But I promise to keep this ball rolling and hopefully get another chapter up within a week or so. Second, we're heading north of the Mason Dixon and please remember: I went to Duke University. I am taking a lot of creative liberty with settings. Especially living quarters, I don't know that situation for OSU so please forgive me if you attend there and this is completely wrong. I'm basing a lot from my own school.

As always, Court81981 makes the world go 'round. The encouragement during my whiny, lack-of-writing times and her speeding editing make all things possible. Thank you darling! And thank you to everyone who continues to support this story. You make this all worth it! Now..be warned, we're building. This is not all rainbow and sunshine. Enjoy!

Summary: There are also three types of people in Dawson, Texas: those who are trying to flee, those who embrace their small town fate, and the Mellarks. Mellark Ranch; largest cattle ranch South of Dallas, employer of ranch hand, Katniss Everdeen, and home of Ohio State Buckeye running back, Peeta Mellark. And Peeta Mellark is coming home today.

Lone Star State of Mine
Chapter Thirteen: Keg In The Closet

"We went to class just to pass the time."

Fall.

In some places physical changes are obvious. The leaves change, sweatshirts become common accessories, and tan lines start to fade like the long daylight hours. In some places the rain sets in until it turns to snow while others enjoy crisp sun with cool temperatures. The fields have been plowed, and what remains looks like a forgotten battlefield that will soon frost over and become a haven for scavengers. For some, fall is a time to prepare for hibernation, time to put away the grills, lawn furniture, and cover the pools. Windows get shut and locked until the first flower blooms next spring. Fall is cold, but it's just a warning of what is to come. In some places, fall is simply the preamble to winter.

But in other places — places like Dawson — the physical changes aren't as noticeable. Sure, the temperatures become more bearable. Layers are needed in the evening and on the occasional night we'll even forgo the outdoors for an indoor fire, but those are rare. The noticeable changes aren't due to the weather. The atmosphere changes around here. There is a shift in the air. The work is no longer maintaining the bounty that the spring and summer have brought us, but more about protecting what's left for the following year.

Farmers have plowed their fields and have locked away their large combine harvesters for winter repairs. Their large trucks are being seen on the roads as they take their collections to the nearest grain elevators. Those in routine commutes hate this time of year because nine times out of ten they're late to their destination. They have lived here their entire lives, and they have yet to realize leaving early during harvest time is essential to arriving on time. But they become a part of the familiar fall atmosphere all the same.

Children aren't swarming the rundown public pool while their babysitters chase after them with sunblock. They're now racing down the hallways toward their new assigned seat, and excited to be another year older. Teenagers no longer beg for odd jobs around the town or flaunt their raging hormones proudly. They now flock the small schoolyard begrudgingly as they await their first dreaded assignment. And those who are heading toward a higher education have long since left for their respective dorms, waving to their parents, shaking their friends' hands, and kissing their girlfriends goodbye.

It was never something I thought I'd care about. The change from summer to fall really never had a true effect on me. Sure, my workload differed and I usually had to scrap together some funds for Prim's supplies. But those were minor changes. Those weren't the kind of changes that kept me awake at night or left me feeling on edge during the day.

Peeta Mellark changed all of that.

He changed a lot of things. And it wasn't the subtle types of changes you expect with a Texas fall, but the sudden, life-altering changes you get with a northern winter.

I used to like the tired ache of my muscles after a long day on the ranch; now all I feel is the need to have Peeta's strong hands rubbing out those aches. I used to enjoy dinners at Greasy Sae's with Gale, and now I continually look toward the door whenever someone else entered the old diner expecting Peeta to walk through. I used to roll my eyes at the girls who complained about the temporary distance between them and their boyfriends, but now I am that girl. Of course, I wouldn't be caught dead speaking of such an attachment in any way. But that doesn't stop my mood from souring easily.

And I used to treasure the stillness of a Saturday morning, but now I fill that time by flipping through past postcards and letters from Peeta. When I received my first postcard I couldn't help but comment on the cheesiness of the gesture that night when I had him on the phone. Now I looked forward to skimming through my mail at night.

I mindlessly tossed junk mail into the trash bin while I look for the images of the Ohio State University campus that I've began to recognize like a familiar piece of the ranch. Instead I find my name written across a white envelope in Peeta's scratchy handwriting. A letter? An actual letter. Peeta will usually write several sentences on his postcards, but he says what needs to be said over the phone.

Curiosity is a quick motivator and soon I'm dropping the rest of the mail on my small table as I tear into the flap of the envelope. I pull out the folded piece of paper. A plane ticket falls out to land atop the rest of my mail. My heart beats rapidly as I look down at the note that's dwarfed by the size of the paper. My eyes go wide and my breathing is shallow. I reread the simple note over and over, making sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me. It's not until the muscles of my cheeks start to feel sore that I realize I'm grinning ear to ear.

You can be your stubborn, independent self later. Just get here.

-Peeta

The airport experience is new to me. Not surprisingly, my worldly travels are limited to the state lines of Texas and really mostly the county lines of Dawson. One time my parents did take Prim and myself to Dallas for a small vacation, but Prim was young enough to still be pushed in a stroller and I hardly had any interest in anything that wasn't candy.

My anxiety is high as I make my way through security, repeating the tips Samantha has shared with me silently in my head. I slip my shoes off, tuck everything into a plastic bin, and step toward the metal detector. As if on instinct, I hold my breath when I walk through, like air in my lungs is somehow going to turn my body into a walking iron rod. No noise is made and I am shuffled along with the rest of the crowd, in a movement that seems oddly familiar to the ranch, and I start my search for my terminal.

I made Gale drop me off nearly three hours before my flight was scheduled because I have read it's important to give yourself plenty of time. Add in my given nerves for this whole experience, I figured I needed double that time. When I find an empty seat in my assigned pasture I set my bag down and take in a deep breath. I let it all sink in. Just two days ago I received my plane ticket. Just a day ago I was pacing on the porch of the Mellark house waiting for either Mr. or Mrs. Mellark to join me. Fortunately for me it was the former I had to share my sudden vacation plans with. And apparently this wasn't news to him at all — his son had already prepared everything for me.

And as much as it frustrated me to know that Peeta had taken it upon himself to alter my life in more ways than a sudden vacation, I welcomed the change. Dependence is something I avoid and in my honest moments I know that is exactly what I've come to do with Peeta. I don't depend on the things he can offer me, the things I could never do on my own — such as flying across the country on a whim. I depend on his kindness to pull my out of my perpetual negativity. I depend on his understanding to see me through a particularly bad mood. I depend on his infectious laughter to brighten a mundane day. I depend on his hands to bring me to an ecstasy I've never known.

I've come to need everything that Peeta Mellark represents in my life.

My tight smile reflects the anxiety I feel as I hand my ticket to the lady behind the counter before I board the plane. My nerves about flying are only trumped by my longing for Peeta. My mind is in such a fog that I have to check my ticket several times to remember my seat number. Uncertainty fills my mind as I finally take my seat and stare out the window.

My nervousness about seeing Peeta mixed with this distance has brought more fear than I'd like to admit and as I chew my nails to the beds I watch the distance shrink beneath me and the fear grow larger.

My eyes scan the clouds and my stomach churns every time we hit a piece of rough air. Everything in my mind screams to me how unnatural flying in a large metal tube is and how it's just a matter of time before we hit land harder than expected. And the only thing that can bring my mind away from that fear is to focus on the nerves I have about meeting Peeta after nearly two months.

I think about the bubble we'd allowed ourselves to hide in over the summer. How nothing else seemed to exist when it was the two of us and how much I adored that bubble. Now I wish I had been more realistic, that I had forced myself into some distance with him. Not because I truly wanted it, but because we both knew this would be the outcome. Peeta would go back to the bright shining life in Ohio, and I would be left at home looking like the other girls I used to pity. The ones whose boyfriends would go off to school and leave them behind with promises of returning.

Why would Peeta return?

My negativity told me I wasn't enough. That summer flings happened all the time, even for someone as kind-hearted and innocent as Peeta seemed to be. Peeta said he loves me, and I believe him, but what do we really know about love? It's not like either of us have had our share of experiences in the matter. My boyfriend list dies off after the seventh grade, and Peeta's relationships always seemed to be put on the back burner for family and football.

He pushed everything aside for the family that was overrun by their matriarch's distaste for her children and bitterness towards her husband's generosity and hospitality. He has sacrificed much for the things that he cares for and only one has ever seemed to pay off. Dawson, Texas had only ever produced one good, constant thing for Peeta Mellark: football. It gave him his way out. It gave him something to become more than the punching bag for his mother. It gave him something to run toward.

And I slammed on the brakes.

My eyes stare hard at the wing of the plane as I realize just how selfish I'd become. Continually making puppy dog remarks about Peeta's impending absence. Clinging to him for his attention the weeks leading up to his departure. Becoming distant myself when I realized it was only a matter of time. And now I'm coming here to remind him just how much I miss him.

But he invited me here. No, he brought me here. His must miss me as well.

I can't help but smile slightly as we start to descend to the ground — to the state where Peeta stands waiting for me. And my thoughts go back to the numerous conversations we've had over the phone. Conversations that hardly seem to focus on him, but more on me; I would ask him a question and he'd somehow manage to turn it around on me — to make me the topic of said question. His insistence that I talk about myself annoyed me greatly, but yet I did so because I could practically hear the smile across the wires with every little comment.

I have become his world.

My stomach lurches forward and I'm not sure if it's the landing or the realization of such dependency that causes it. My mind pulls from the clouded thoughts as I look around at the other passengers slowly gathering their things and fidgeting in their seats. Their anticipation to move out of this compact space hangs in the air with my own and I cling to my handbag until my knuckles turn white. It's a matter of moments before I see those bright blue eyes I've been dreaming about, and suddenly two months seems like two decades.

When the plane has made its final stop, everyone starts to stand and file out row by row. I do the same, but I'm too anxious and knock my elbow into the panel next to me. I groan at the dull ache. Do these people not understand that my nerves are at their wits end and remaining in this seat a moment longer is like sitting atop an erupting volcano?

Finally, it is my row's turn and I all but bolt into the aisle and make my way down the cramped walkway. I give a small smile to the stewardess wishing me a nice day and start toward the baggage claim. Well, I start following those who I assume are heading toward the baggage claim. I'm beginning to believe the town of Dawson could fit into any airport, and the size overwhelms me. Everything seems to overwhelm me today, but yet I push forward. I push forward because I know what awaits me and it's all I can do not to start into a dead sprint.

I reach the baggage claim soon enough and my hands feel clammy as I rub them across the fabric of my old jeans. I spot my flight's particular baggage carousel and make my way toward it. The place is crowded as I realize we're probably not the only flight to land recently. I duck between several people, bumping into one unceremoniously. My apology falls from my lips as I continue on my way, finally reaching my destination.

Scanning for my old, torn suitcase I notice I've seen many of these bags once before. My heart rate increases at the idea that they've somehow managed to lose my suitcase in this one plane trip. What am I to do for an entire weekend wearing the same jeans and old Dawson t-shirt? The panic reads on my face, for that I am certain, but as I look frantically around in hopes someone has grabbed mine by mistake I stop an undeniably familiar set of mischievous blue eyes.

My heart rate spikes for another reason entirely as I head towards the owner of those beautiful eyes. He's grinning from ear to ear now and he looks completely relaxed. Not the boy with stress lines across his forehead or the hunched shoulders that come from a lifetime of always expecting a backhand. And I falter for a moment as I realize that maybe this is where he belongs. With his OSU t-shirt and sunburnt forehead and the muscles of his biceps more defined from months of training and jeans that hang comfortably low without a belt. He looks at home.

He looks like my home.

And my steps quicken once again until I'm close enough to drop my bag and throw my arms around him. My grip must nearly choke him, but he says nothing. Instead I hear my old suitcase hit the ground and his arms are instantly around my waist, lifting me up off the ground. The moment is cinematic as I pull away just enough to place my hands on either side of his face and pull him into a desperate kiss.

When our lips finally break apart the grin he wears is mirrored by my own and slowly he lets my feet touch the ground once more, but his hands don't leave my hips.

Peeta speaks first. "You know, I thought about tossing the suitcase entirely. Figured if you had no clothes for the rest of the trip you'd be forced to stay in my room. With me. Naked."

I open my mouth to say something, but Peeta reaches down to pick up my suitcase and purse with one hand and reaching for my own with the other. He easily leads me out of the chaotic baggage claim and toward what I assume in the exit.

"Come on, we've got about a half-hour drive for you to yell at me for buying the ticket." Peeta leans over and places an easy kiss on my cheek. "And then we'll enjoy the rest of the weekend."

"I guess I better get busy." I laugh, pulling myself closer to his side.

I am not sure what I expected, but when Peeta pulls his truck up to an old looking house with a large OSU banner hanging from the front porch I find myself staring. Peeta had mentioned he lived with teammates, but I had always assumed it was in a dorm-like setting. The house was rather nice looking, with a manicured lawn and old brick charm. But the presence of college boys isn't far hidden within the charm. There are empty Solo cups sitting on a table on the porch, a basketball laying in the yard to go along with the rundown hop in the driveway, and several sports bags with what I assume to football gear laying around. And that's just the front lawn.

Peeta jumps out first, reaching in the truck's bed to grab my suitcase and coming around to the passenger's side. I am already standing on the side of the street with my eyes scanning the large home when he reaches me. His eyes go to what mine are looking at and he laughs.

"If you want me to lie, I'll say we just cleaned because we knew you were coming."

"Don't lie," I say, glancing over at him.

"I think Thresh's mom ran a vacuum when she stopped by several weekends ago."

"She named her son Thresh?" I ask, following Peeta up the front steps.

"She named him Jackson. Football named him Thresh," Peeta corrected, opening the front door and allowing me to walk through first.

Again, I think I was expecting a constant party to be happening inside a house full of college boys, but instead I am greeted with an empty entryway that leads straight into a large living room with mismatched sofas and chairs. There is a television on for a nonexistent crowd and an empty pizza box lying across the coffee table. Off to the right is the tiled kitchen that probably with a stove that has yet to be run once this year.

Peeta closes the door behind us just as I hear someone descending the stairs. My eyes meet one of the biggest men I have ever seen. He is easily pushing seven feet tall and has the build of a man who can hold up the framework of his enormous house. His cocoa complexion looks exotic against the white of his Henley shirt. But what really makes him stick out is his baby-like face. Even with his massive size, his face has a sweet, rounded expression to it that makes me pause. And the bright smile across his face only helps in making him approachable.

"Red!" He shouts loud enough to shake the windows as he lands in the entryway and steps closer to us. "And this must be the future Mrs. Red."

Both my and Peeta's eyes go as wide as saucers at his comment, but he doesn't seem to notice as he pulls me — rather unexpectedly — into a massive hug that I have no choice but to reciprocate. I fear for my vital organs when he squeezes me for a moment before letting go.

"I'm Thresh," He continues, reaching over to pull Peeta to him with one strong arm. "I protect your pretty boy's ass from getting smashed every week. And let me tell you, sometimes I think it'd be easier to let him eat grass from time to time."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Kat —"

"Katniss." A voice from atop the stairs finishes my sentence and I look up to see a brunette with a crew cut hopping down the stairs easily. His shirtless torso holds several different tattoos across its toned planes. The only thing that breaks his hard looking exterior is the grin that plays on his lips. "Red hasn't shut up about you since freshman year. It's a wonder we haven't hung him on the flag pole yet."

"Katniss, this is Mitch Howard." Peeta points in the direction of the man at the bottom of the staircase while still tucked under Thresh's arm.

"Starting quarterback," He finishes, reaching out to shake my hand.

The confidence oozes from him and I'm slightly amused. I shake his hand and then get a good look at the three men in front of me. How they respond to Peeta and how they obviously care about their teammate swells my heart and breaks it all at the same time. This truly is where he belongs and I'm not certain I fit into this game, but before my negativity has a chance to take over Thresh is yelling again.

"Pollux, get your ass down here!" He calls up the steps, "We got a lady in the house!"

Within minutes a small — in comparison to Thresh and Mitch — man appears at the top of the steps. He slowly makes his way down to us, an American Literature book tucked under his arm and headphones hanging around his neck. He somehow looks younger than the three of them, and I wonder if he's a freshman. His green eyes stand out again his caramel-colored skin, and I instantly know his smile probably lights up a room — if he ever smiles.

Instead of saying anything, he simply comes to a stop next to Mitch on the bottom step and gives me a small wave. It's not unfriendly. It's shyness. And I find it hard to believe someone as attractive as this man is has a problem with being shy, but he doesn't even really look me in the eyes. Instead his attention goes towards Thresh, as if he were some kind of mentor to the kid.

"And now you've met Pollux — Jordan Pollux, actually. He's our resident statue." Thresh grins, looking over at him. Pollux smiles, but says nothing more. "Needless to say, he'll probably never become the motivational speaker for the team. But he's got a sick boot to him."

The room falls silent for a moment before Peeta picks up my bag again and grabs my hand to head towards the stairs. He looks up at them with a smile, "Okay, well now that that's done, I think we'll be heading upstairs now. Thank you for the embarrassing Welcome Wagon."

"Anytime Red," Thresh grins. "Now get your business done before eight tonight. We're heading to a party. And you and Mrs. Red aren't missing this one on a technicality. You have all weekend."

Pollux and Mitch clear the way, and I can see the reddening in Peeta's cheeks spreading down his neck. I feel a familiar stirring low within me when I realize I'm the only one who knows exactly where that blush stops. Once we reach the top of the stairs, Peeta leads me down the hallway to the last door on the right, opening it up for me.

When I step into his room, I can tell he's a lot cleaner than his roommates. Of course, there are still t-shirts thrown across the desk chair and empty Gatorade bottles in random places around the room. But his bed is actually made and I take the opportunity to flop down on the edge, glancing over at the open window nearby.

"So, Red?" I ask with a smirk.

"Redneck." Peeta laughs, closing the door behind him and the click of the lock does not go unnoticed by me.

The nickname makes me laugh, but my laugh is nearly a choke in my throat as Peeta easily pulls at the collar of his t-shirt and removes it. I am left admiring the toned lines of his abdomen that I have missed these last few months. I notice the blush that stops just above his bellybutton and itch to reach out and touch it as he toes off his shoes.

"So what's on your agenda for today?" I ask, leaning my arms back to prop myself up on the bed as he saunters to me.

"For the next few hours —" His voice is low in his throat as he starts to position himself above me, letting me lay beneath him. "You."

Pulling me out of bed that night was like yanking a child from under the covers on their first day of school. I am sure the only way Peeta convinced me to get up and get ready was to shower right along with me. Of course, this persuasion technique causes us to leave much later than originally planned. I hadn't realized just how much I missed being connected with him until I felt it again, and now that I had it I wasn't about to let it go at all this weekend.

It is well after eight when Peeta and I finally leave the house and everyone else has already gone. I hold tightly to his hand as he leads me down the sidewalk of the different dorms and houses in which the students stay. I hang onto his words like an excited tourist as he pointed out different places that were really of very little meaning to anyone but him. But if they mean something to him, they mean something to me.

I could spend the entire evening walking along the quiet path with him, but soon I'm hearing the boom of a nearby base and loud laughter coming from three houses down. And then we're here, although I'm not sure where here is. Peeta wraps a warm hand around my waist and his thumb slips beneath the material of my flowing top. The contact chills me and I suddenly want to race back to the cocoon we've made out of his bedroom.

"One hour," he mumbles into my temple. "And then you're all mine again."

"One minute?" I counter with a smirk.

"Katniss!" A female screams before Peeta can respond.

We both look toward the house where Johanna stands at the top of the porch with a Solo cup in hand. Her features are flushed and her fitted black t-shirt rides up to reveal the dragon tattoo on her left hip she'd shown me over the summer. She moves slowly down the stairs, cautious of how much alcohol she's obviously had, before breaking into an awkward run to greet me.

"I have missed you so much!" She grins, wrapping her free hand around my neck. "Peeta is so greedy wanting you all to himself this weekend. I just think that's unfair, don't you?"

I open my mouth to respond, but she continues, now practically leaning on me to hold her up. "But I get you tomorrow during the football game and there is nothing he can do about it!"

"What number are you on, Jo?" Peeta asks, laughing as he reaches over to take her from me so I'm not completely capsized by her weight. He lets her hand go around his neck as he grabs her waist.

"Seven." Johanna looks into her Solo cup before downing the rest of its content. "Eight!"

She raises the glass in the air triumphantly as we head toward the house, Peeta practically carrying her through the crowded doorway. I am overwhelmed once again by how many people are crammed into this house. People are dancing on tabletops and making out in corners. There is beer pong set up in the living room and keg stands in the kitchen. Apparently the college party cliché is a cliché for a reason.

"Peeta! I want Katniss to meet some people. Can I borrow her for a second?" Johanna asks, looking at Peeta like a child begging their parent to play with a new toy.

"I suppose that's up to her," Peeta smiles, glancing over at me.

"Sure," I agree, unsure of how these interactions are going to end.

Before I can think anything else, Johanna moves her arm from Peeta to me and we're heading toward the kitchen. When I glance back at Peeta, several people are already greeting him and offering him drinks. He is in his element here, and I am so far out of mine.

That realization makes me reach for the drink Johanna is offering without a second thought. And before I've even started to drink, she's introducing me to face after face. Most just give a friendly greeting before going back to their current state of partying, but some — mostly girls — seem highly interested in finally meeting Peeta Mellark's girlfriend. I try to ignore the glares I feel like they are giving me and come out of my own shell a little bit.

By the fourth drink and several rounds of people later, it's a lot easier to simply enjoy the party. I don't let Johanna far out of might sight, but I do branch out enough to get my own drink or talk to someone on my own. I've seen Peeta several times throughout the night. Each time he seems spot me from across the room and gives me a knowing wink. And each time it heats me to my core.

I am halfway through a game of beer pong when I realize I'm actually enjoying myself, that maybe I'm not as far out of my element as I had originally thought. I give a blurred toss of the ping-pong ball, and it lands in my opponent's cup easily. The room cheers and I throw my hands up triumphantly. That's when I feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around my waist and a pair of lips rest against my ear.

"Are you ready to get out of here, Champ?" He practically purrs, and the smell of beer hits my nose. Peeta's been drinking just as much as I have. And I suddenly couldn't care less about the game I'm in the middle of. I pick up the nearest cup and empty the contents down my throat.

"I think she's gonna have to forfeit this one," Peeta grins as I'm already pulling him towards the door. The room erupts in knowing cheers, and I know I've had too much to drink because it doesn't even embarrass me slightly.

"I think I could get used to it here," I say once we're outside, turning to press myself against a flushed Peeta.

"I could get used to you being here." He replies, his lips crashing into mine.