Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places belong to their respective owners. I only own my original content and creations. Big shout out to my lovely beta dandelionlass for helping out with this chapter!

Present

"I didn't mean it," he starts, "I just, I know you would prefer to be with him, to be with a man who you share things in common with, a man who knows you better than I do. A man who you have more in common with than a cheap screw."

"A cheap screw? You are the one who insisted this was more…?"

"It was for me," his forehead wrinkles, "you know that, but I'm not stupid, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise I know I could never have you if it weren't for the baby."

"That's-"

"It's true, we both know it," he sighs. "And one day, when we have that child in our arms, things will change, but for now…I just, I can't handle you resenting me."

"I don't resent you," I scoff, "it's not like this is your fault."

"My mother," he takes a breath, biting his lips, "she always resented us. Now, it was different for them, they were already courting and premarital pregnancies weren't as uncommon then, but she was already four months with my eldest brother when they wed. Granted, my mother would have probably married him for the money anyways, but that didn't stop her from taking every opportunity to blame us for her marital woes. It was almost worse than the black eyes and bruised cheeks."

"Oh, Peeta…you, you never mentioned that. I knew she hit you, but..."

"It seemed silly to complain when you…when you've lost your father and all."

"It's not silly," I say, reaching out for his hand. And it isn't, in some ways my mother's apathy towards me is worse than my father's death. Having a parent not love you, hold your very existence against you...it's almost worse than losing them. "I'm not going to be your mother, Peeta."

"Oh, trust me," his eyes widen mockingly, "you're nothing like my mother...though you are both unusually stubborn. She would definitely hate you, though, which in my book is only a mark in your favor."

I wrap my hands around his, my small fingers enclosing around his larger ones. "I want to be a good father," he says, sighing against me. "And I know in order to do that I have to be a good husband as well, that I have to trust you. I just-something came over me and I'm sorry, Katniss."

"It's fine," I tell him. "You'll be a good parent, you know, better than me at least."

He scoffs. "You practically raised Prim, look at how much she adores you. And one day, our baby will love you just as much as Prim does."

Three Months Prior

I can't dance with Peeta again. It's against the rules and seen as all sorts of rude, but that doesn't mean I don't bristle when a pretty blonde girl takes his hand and leads him to the floor. I wonder if he will sleep with her, take her back to his train and make her senseless under his touch. Not that it matters of course, I certainly have no claim to him.

I'm almost about to leave, disappear to the edges of the party, when a firm hand against my shoulder stops me.

"Gale." I breathe, years of hunting have made me keen to smell and touch. "What—?"

My friend's eyes flit downward as I turn around to face him. "Mind joining me for a dance?"

"I was actually going to head home, but…"

"Please," he says with a desperate edge. "Just one dance, okay?"

I bite my lip and sigh. "Sure, Gale," I say, letting him wrap his hands around my waist and pull me into the line of people.

His strong hands aren't as knowing as Peeta's, but Gale's a good dancer, always in beat with the rhythm and a great lead at that. Though I don't think that's the reason why the girls in town always want to dance with him.

"So," he comments as he swings me backwards, "you and him are friendly now, I hear. You and Peeta Mellark."

It's not a question. No, his words are a tightened statement, harsh and flat and dangerous "He's not like you'd expect him to be," I say with a sigh, "once you get to know him better."

"Oh really?" he laughs derisively. "Towards you, perhaps."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as he swings me out.

He rolls his eyes. "Let's just say I don't think Mr. Mellark would be so friendly to me, even if I did 'get to know him better.'"

I keep silent the whole way home, carefully ignoring Gale as our families walk back to the cabins. Arms crossed, I shuffle heavily through the stretch of woods, avoiding Gale's half hearted attempts to reconcile.

His insinuation, however true it may be, stung. Besides, last thing I need is Gale knowing about Peeta. Whatever he would do in retaliation, most likely something that would involve the flying of fists, would surely jeopardize his livelihood.

By the time we get back to the house I nearly pass out on the bed, a mix of frustration and exhaustion overcoming me.

Like after every Harvest Festival, people talk. Abuzz with stories of vice and folly, the town lights up in a connection of church ladies and old widows. It's the first time I have been the subject of said gossip, but I know from the odd looks I get at the general store that the town has latched on to the story of our disappearance.

Luckily, by some stroke of fate, it's not even a day after before it comes out that the milliner is having an affair and suddenly any rumors about me are old news.

I only see Peeta in passing over the days that follow the Harvest Festival. We're careful to be polite, but not too polite, when we see each other. No need to fan the flames of busybody old ladies.

I don't have much time to meet up with him anyways. With the townspeople having spent all their money on the festival, there aren't many people left to purchase luxuries like meat or fur. By the end of the week I'm already breaking into my meager savings in order to buy flour.

But then, one day, early in the morning when I get up to milk our goat, I spot a little note on the doorstep that says noon, meet me at the edge of town. Even though it's unsigned, I know immediately it's Peeta's from the thick cardstock paper and long, swoopy lettering.

He's carrying two boxes in his hands when I meet him later in the day. One is a red plaid lunch tin, shiny in a way that makes it clear the thing is a recent purchase. The other is a larger paper box, a pretty, floral, blue patterned octagon with a pale pink ribbon tied around it.

I eye him suspiciously as I take his appearance in. Aside from the unusual boxes, he's wearing clothes far more casual than he normally would. In fact, he's not even wearing a suit jacket, just brown slacks, a white shirt, and suspenders.

"We should probably head out," he says, not bothering to explain anything about his appearance, "before anybody sees us, that is."

"Head out where?" I ask, raising my eyebrows at him.

"The woods," he explains matter of factly.

"The woods?"

"Yes," he says, peering out towards the mountains, "I figured we could have some lunch, go for a hike."

"A hike?" I laugh. "You want to go on a hike."

"Oh, Katniss, how you insult me. I will have you know that nature is terribly trendy at the moment. Besides, can't a man ask his girl to have a picnic with him? Nothing harmful about that. Now," he laughs, "stop looking at me like I'm luring you to your death."

He holds his hand out for me and I accept it with a little roll of my eyes. We walk in the direction of the woods, still hand in hand, before finding a spot to settle down in.

As the surrounding foliage turns from dust covered plain to lush green terrain, we come across a little empty patch, not that much different from the one where we first consummated our relationship.

"Is this good?" Peeta asks, shaking out a red and white blanket he produces from the lunch tin.

I nod wordlessly, letting him set up the boxes before collapsing on the fabric covered grass. The past couple of weeks have been mostly rain and slush, but today, for once, it's bright and sunny. The sky above me is a vibrant blue, but we are already getting more cold days, soon enough it will be winter again.

"It's getting chilly out," I say absentmindedly as Peeta sits cross legged beside my outstretched body.

"You want my jacket?" Peeta asks, setting the plaid tin top off to the side and pulling things out of the box.

"No," I tell him, turning over on my side so that I'm looking at him, "I'm good."

I take him in for a moment, stare at him as he arranges the food with a fervent concentration. Little wisps of blonde hair fall over his face, his forehand wrinkling as he carefully pulls the dishes out from their various containers, releasing a sweet aroma into our little patch of paradise.

"Here," he says, holding a plate with an outstretched, expending hand. When I don't immediately accept it, he places it on the ground beside me. "Take it."

The plate is a fine white porcelain edged with gold. Real gold, I'd imagine, given that it's Peeta. But it's the food that's truly impressive. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

I stare blankly at the splendor for a moment. "You didn't have to do this," I say, frowning. There's something wrong about this. Maybe he's put too much preparation into it, maybe it's just cost itself.

Pulling my head up, I rest my head against his knee and run my hand along his inner thigh. "Maybe we should abandon the food," I ask, as sultrily as I can muster, "do something else instead?"

He laughs in response, muttering something to himself as he brushes my hand away. "What?" I ask, scowling back at him.

"Nothing," he says, the corners of his mouth still turning up in that tell-tale grin. "Just eat, not everything has to be about that, you know? Unless," he frowns, "you don't like it. In which case, we can always head back and I can grab something…"

"No," I interject, "it's fine." Taking the fork he hands me, I take a bite of the chicken with orange. The meat practically melts in my mouth. I haven't had food this rich in years, and all we have been eating this past month is squirrels and stale, hard bread.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, eyebrow raised, as he pops the flower shaped roll in his own mouth. I glower at him, sticking my tongue out in response.

"So, why haven't you married Gale?" he asks all of a sudden, as I'm just staring on my peas.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he says, "you're of that age and I saw the two of you dance together. Gale's a respectable man, and I'm sure if you made even the slightest indication of interest he would gladly give you his hand."

I frown. "What are you asking, exactly?"

"I guess my question is, what is a pretty girl like you doing lying a field with a man she barely knows. Why aren't you at home with your husband in a house overflowing with babes."

"I don't really plan on marrying," I tell him.

He squints at that. "Why not?"

"When my father died—" I stop myself, swallowing. "I can't put myself through that. Not here, not in this world. As for Gale, I told you it isn't like that. Besides, both of us are responsible for our own families already and there isn't enough to go around as it is."

"Oh," he says, "I didn't know."

"Yeah," I say, carelessly picking at some of the flowers on the ground beside me. "There are a lot of things you don't know."

"Would it be different?" he asks. "If things were better for you...financially. Would you marry then?"

"They won't be," I say decisively, taking a bite of the pudding. "I know all the merchant boys around here, and trust me, I don't have plans of marrying any of them."

He must find something about my response funny, because he bursts into laughter. "What?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "You done?" he asks as I set my empty plate to the side.

I nod, sighing at my now full stomach. At that he gives me a half smile and reaches across my body to grab the pale blue ribboned box.

"Open it," he says as he places it in my lap.

I bite my lip, carefully pulling apart the ribbon and sliding the top off. "Oh," I let out, frowning in confusion as I stare at the box's contents.

Some of the items are obviously for his benefit, skimpy, lacy undergarments and a little ribboned thing that I am under no circumstances wearing, not even for Peeta. But it's not those that bother me. It's the things tucked below them, the light blue cotton dress, the set of factory made black stockings, and oh, the shoes, perfectly made black leather boots.

"I can't accept this," I say firmly, unable to look at him. My face burns with shame. Is this some form of charity? His attempt at do gooding?

He frowns, placing a hand on my wrist. "Why not?" he asks. "I'm certain they'll fit."

"It's not that," I say, shrugging his hand off of me. "It's too much, it's not appropriate."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "Appropriate? I don't think anything we have done is appropriate. Let's not start enforcing some grand sense of morals now."

I scoff. "I don't care." I shove the box back in his direction, "I'm not accepting these."

"If you're worried about people finding out, it's not like I purchased them in town. I sent away for them, had a train come into town with a few shipments I ordered. Nobody will be the wiser."

"Oh yeah?" I raise an eyebrow. "And what about my mother? You don't think she's going to notice if I come home with a whole new dress?"

"Then at least take the stockings," he sighs, "your mother won't notice that."

I laugh. "Peeta," I say pointedly, "I haven't had the money for brand new stockings in years. My mother would notice a purchase like that. Don't be an idiot."

He blinks a little, then sighs. "Am I supposed to apologize or something? Good grief, woman, I was trying to do something nice."

"Well," I sniff at him, "I don't need you to do anything nice for me." Reaching to stand up, I shake my head. "I should go."

But before I can run, he catches on to my wrist. "Wait, Katniss," he says, softer this time. "Just, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I really did want to do something nice, I swear."

"And that thing that would barely cover my breasts," I say, tugging on my arm, "that was you being nice."

"Well no," he chuckles, "not that."

He produces a flask from his pocket and presents it with a proposition. "Just stay, join me for a drink." He laughs. "Maybe it will make you a little less pissed at me. My friend Johanna says ten minutes with me makes her want to down a bottle of scotch."

I narrow at him, but sit down nonetheless, accepting a swig of the vile liquid. "And this Johanna," I ask, "what kind of friends are you, exactly?"

"Oh god!" He laughs at the thought. "You don't mean me and Johanna." He grins, "Heavens no, we tried that once, didn't work out so well."

I lean down beside him, let him pass the flask between us as the day goes by. I've never really drank much before, never had the money to waste on things like that, but I accept Peeta's offer anyways, and it's not long before my fingers are dancing along his thighs, not long before I'm touching him just like I did that rainy night that seems so long ago.

I palm him gently through his trousers, enchanted by the way his body reacts to my touch. Moving my body upwards, I place my fingers on his pants button.

"Wait—" he says, stopping me. "I need to tell you something. Uh, that train I mentioned—I'm leaving on it tomorrow night."

My eyes widen in a mix of shock and confusion. "You're leaving?"

Author's Note: BOOM! What did you think of that ending? How do you think Katniss is going to react to that bit of news? Let me know in the comment section below and don't forget to follow/favorite/kudos/whatever.

This chapter was "three months prior" heavy but never fear, the next chapter will have a lot more in the "present" setting.

Big shout out to Alma, who consistently reviews a few of my fics. I can't reply to you because you post as a guest, but I just want to let you know I do see and appreciate all your comments!