Ubeta'd(!)Thank you to everyone who has been so patient or/and added the story to their alers/favs/reviewed.
Notes:
#1 There are no words for me to express how sorry I am this has taken forever. Life has gotten in the way, and the update had to be delayed for a bit. I promise you this is the last work-in-progress I post without completing it on the computer first.
#2 In this chapter, Peeta and Katniss are twenty and turn nineteen respectively. Keep that in mind.
#3 Fluff ahead! Although things didn't go as I wanted them to go from the very start, this was meant to be a light story.
#4 I will gladly welcome your opinion as long as it's not criticising me (instead of my story) or as long as it's not a flame. The preview for the next chapter will be on my profile when it's ready. If you don't have an account, you'll still have access to it. Happy holidays!
Replies to anonymous reviews:
Guest: thanks a lot! I'm sorry this couldn't be soon enough, though.
Words: 10,645 (Normal word limits: 8,000-14,000)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close.
Update: 27.12.2012
Four: April, May, June and July
April, Week One
Tiny black spots cloud her vision while she makes several efforts to stand on her feet, looking at him without feeling as if the whole world is going round. She grabs his arm and holds onto it for dear life.
This time, he gets off the motorbike instead of watching her from as far as possible—as far as he considers it safe to watch her. This time, he laughs instead of showing the unexplainable worry he first did. And this time, she laughs along, the sound a strange melody drifted by the wind, ringing in his ears, satisfying them both in odd, foreign ways.
"Will you fall?" he asks.
"A minute," she whispers through ragged breaths. "Just give me a minute." It sounds like a promise. In a matter of seconds, her inhalations as well as exhalations manage to subside.
Even though she says she's okay, he doesn't seem to believe her. "Should I catch you?" He tries to raise an eyebrow, but ends up arching both of them in the process of teasing her.
She shakes her head in refusal. "No, I'm okay," she confirms. Peeta recognizes a counterfeit seriousness in her voice, his incredulousness only increasing. His assumptions are confirmed as soon as the muffled-by-her-palm giggles are heard.
"Uh-huh," he feigns agreement. "Are you? Really?" The wide grin stretching from his one ear to the other only betrays him.
"Haven't you felt lightheaded before?"
"Oh, I have," he lets her know, his brows finally furrowing in concentration. "You could have told me to stop." He would have done that; he would have stopped the bike whenever she asked him to.
"I couldn't quite see where we were heading to. My eyes," she trails off, leaving the completion of her unfinished sentence to his imagination.
To her surprise, he fills in. "They were closed." Before she has a single chance to wonder how he can see her while riding the bike (honestly, she's behind him, not in front of him), he continues. "My father had a bike. I once used to be scared, too."
He suggests he'd been keeping his eyes closed as well.
"But they were shut too tight," she explains with a slight frown. He nods in comprehension.
"That's no problem. You'll have to take that into account the next time," he simply says, shrugging, moving back to his bike with one single step.
"Next time," she whispers the repeated words. She likes the taste of them on her tongue—she likes to know there is a future full of good moments ahead of her. However, she can't be sure whether she's willing to live that fear—or her fears in general—over and over again.
She opens her mouth, and closes it, realizing there's not much she can say. If he senses her hesitance, he chooses not to speak to her about it.
"You'll call me after you're done." Katniss sees how this is no requirement on his part, for an odd kind of question is included.
"Peeta—" she begins to argue with him like she always does (even though she's becoming terrifyingly weaker and weaker—more and more breakable in the way the majority would define as good). Though, she doesn't make it until the end of the sentence she hasn't formed properly inside her head.
"You will," he tries to convince her.
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Don't let me disrupt your daily schedule," she advises. Understanding crosses his features. She continues. "I called Prim last night." She isn't lying. She couldn't, even if she wanted to. "She said it's nothing. Thom wouldn't have allowed me to come to work, had it been serious," she reminds him.
"You're no nuisance. I'm only helping you because I want to," he assures her, his eyes hiding a silent plea. It might have taken him a while to clear things out in his head, though, he's been positive that, for now, all he needs is company. Her company, that is.
She's been so acceptable to his silly, playful, fruitless or even affectionate comments lately, he can't truly afford to give up on trying to approach her—approach her until he can't get any closer. He just has to get her to trust him as much as he trusts her—he is aware there is no time she hasn't told him the truth.
Peeta quickly pushes these thoughts in a dusty corner of his mind. Even though he is not embarrassed for letting them invade him all the time, he knows she would be, if he ever shared them with her. They've told each other so many things, and yet they've told each other nothing. There are questions he hasn't dared or found appropriate to ask her, answers he hasn't taken and refuses to take for granted unless he hears the sound of the spoken words reach his ears, unless he watches her lips move as she pronounces them with care, fear or hesitation.
Katniss senses he has misunderstood the meaning of what she has chosen to say, deciding against leaving him to figure everything out on his own. "I like walking," she explains. "I was hoping to walk home tonight rather than have someone transport me."
He nearly doesn't think before replying. "I could walk you home, then," he offers.
She eyes him in disbelief as she hears her own sharp intake of breath. As soon as he notices, his face breaks into an unexplainable smile.
"But," she starts to object, exactly as expected from both him and herself. "You would need to close the bakery a whole hour early," she adds, attempting to understand his intentions. There's really no point in him coming here just to go home afterwards.
"Yes," he agrees. "However," he adds after a long pause. She rolls her eyes, amused. "How about we don't follow tradition tonight? I'd like to walk with you." She quirks an eyebrow. "Just this once."
Katniss sighs in defeat. "Just this once," she repeats. "But this is the last time," she rushes to say, then. "I'm saying this for you."
He hasn't gotten used to seeing that she cares about him in her own way, but he could. He could, and maybe—just maybe—he could find himself (his old self) again. Maybe he could win life, like his father used to say. He could follow Mr. Mellark's footsteps in all the right ways, and Katniss could actually help him.
He recognizes him mistake—the mistake to dream, to make plans about a future he might desire, but never really have—long before she speaks. So, it's a heavenly miracle when, instead of offering a dry excuse about her duty to work for Sae, she dismisses him with a promise to meet him after her assistance is not needed at the farm anymore.
The suggestive smile he earns is by far the sweetest one he has ever seen painted on her full lips. He notices how her cheeks are decorated with a shade of red, darker than normal, and how her grey eyes have gained what has been missing all along; a spark of happiness, a spark of fire fuelling her strength as well as determination.
He blinks at her as the corners of her mouth curl upwards to form an unknowing smirk. He feels like a goner.
"Yeah," he whispers, his voice like gravel. "I'll see you tonight."
And maybe he already is a goner.
April, Week Two
Her back collides with something unfamiliar—better yet, someone—but the scream of surprise dies in her throat by the moment she turns around. She comes face to face with the person she never quite expected to see here. Although the farm could also be considered Johanna's property, Katniss has never seen her before and can't come up with an adequate reason to justify her current presence.
Katniss's palm rests over her heart. "I didn't hear you come," she confesses, focusing her attention on her job one more time. She has no reason to be distracted by her employer's family members.
"You mean I scared you," the woman interprets.
"I mean you startled me," the brunette corrects, her expression supporting the difference between the two words. "Everyone else is walking loud enough for me to know they're coming."
"Oh, well, I guess I'm not, Brainless." Katniss frowns at the new nickname. It doesn't bother her that much, though, it isn't how she'd like to be called on a daily basis, either.
"Don't take it personally," Johanna advises and Katniss instantly recognizes the slight indifference in her empty words.
"Is there something in specific you had wanted to talk to me about?" For all Katniss knows, this might be a blunt, awfully awkward introduction to whatever is in this woman's head. She hasn't seen Greasy Sae (only Thom) today. Johanna might have been sent to transfer a message.
But she's not. "I'm talking to you now, Brainless. That is, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I have noticed. And I'm still wondering whether there is something important you had wanted to talk to me about," she clarifies.
Johanna shrugs. "You probably need another break. And I probably need some company to keep myself from slicing my veins out of boredom."
"Your mother has been quite generous with my breaks," Katniss replies. "I'm not sure whether I should take advantage of that."
Johanna snorts. "Touché. But that is also a terribly corny way to decline."
Katniss huffs in despair. She honestly can't tell which the most beneficial decision is. She hasn't even realized what Johanna wants from her. Clearly, the good side of the woman before her doesn't last long when there is no good reason. Katniss does her best not to cringe by the time she is reminded of what she believes in and how she acts. None of them seems to be such a "people person".
Johanna pretends the rejection was never mentioned. "Has anyone given you a tour of the village?" Katniss opens her mouth, but gets the chance to say nothing. "A proper tour of the village."
"I've given a tour of the village myself," she tells her honestly. She never stays in a place for too long—not longer than intended. She knows she will earn nothing but prying glances.
Moments later, Johanna's tongue elicits a clicking sound of mock disapproval. "Not even your boy?" she asks incredulously.
"My boy?" the girl echoes in a tone that betrays the extent of her bewilderment.
Johanna raises an eyebrow, doubting the fact that she really has to explain this. She does nevertheless. "The baker." She shrugs. "Staying home has its perks. You have the time to mind other people's business." She gazes at her nails, pretending to examine them. "You hear about where they go. You hear about their interests. Their preferences. Our fellow villagers still gossip, you know. This is probably never gonna change."
Katniss shakes her head. She has been aware of that.
"Thom happens to visit the bakery quite often. Your boy talks a lot about you. He made me think that, maybe, you're nicer than you seem."
"His name is Peeta," Katniss corrects. He is not her boy. He's more than this—she doesn't own him. "We're roommates," she explains, then.
Johanna shrugs. "Fair enough. Thom and I are roommates, too. I bet he talks a lot about me." She winks. Another shiver shakes Katniss's whole being, despite the hot weather.
"It's not the same. You two are married." She and Peeta are most definitely not. The blush coloring her cheeks is too deep to allow her to voice her last thoughts.
She briefly wonders whether she should want to know (because she does) what Peeta would say about her. He's talked about himself, and she's done the same, but there's something missing. She hasn't asked him about the reason he accepted her in his house in the first place. She should have.
To her utter and complete surprise, Johanna snickers. "I see," she mumbles under her breath. She clears her throat, raising the volume of her voice. "I insist on showing you the place."
The idea will probably never stop being ridiculous. Katniss has been living here for four whole months.
"Oh, come on," Johanna presses. "You can work on Sunday. It's a day off, isn't it? I'm sure Mother wouldn't mind."
But the problem is that she can't work on Sunday. She has promised to Peeta they will spend the day together. He wants to teach her how to bake bread on her own—she can be useful to things in the kitchen, if she tries hard enough—and she wants to learn. After speaking of books, and books, and books, she feels selfish. She thinks she owes it to him.
Katniss's expression is guarded and sceptical—the woman before her reads it almost immediately. She might have inferred there are already plans, as her next words ring more satisfactory in Katniss's ears.
"Or I could speak to her now. Have you ever paid a visit to the bakery?" Katniss doesn't answer—she only gazes at Johanna quizzically, waiting for her to continue. "Uh-huh," the latter adds indifferently. "Your unawareness only fuels my imagination. Now I know where we shall start from."
Katniss's confusion doubles. "What are you talking about?" she manages to say.
Johanna presses her lips, which form a thin line. "I'm talking about that break I referred to earlier," she answers in a matter-of-fact tone, making everything look as well as sound strangely apparent.
The girl opens her mouth to protest. Johanna, however, beats her to it, interrupting her by speaking first. "Ah, ah, ah." She wiggles her index finger. "I'm not taking no as an answer from the first time I ask you to accompany me out of here."
"I can't work on Sunday," Katniss tells her stubbornly. She is determined to finish the tasks she has been assigned with now, if this means she can stay home when the end of the weekend comes.
"I understand that," Johanna replies. "You'd better wash your hands. We'll stop by your house, if you need clean clothes."
"You are pretty confident," Katniss points out. She almost wants to laugh.
"Maybe because I know when I should be and when I shouldn't."
Fair enough. Judging by what she'd heard even before she got the chance to meet Thom's wife, Katniss knew how much of Sae's love Johanna has earned. She doesn't blame the old woman. Johanna's way is abrupt, but earnest. She never seems to say things she doesn't quite mean. She doesn't talk much, unless she feels like messing with one's peace—like what she is doing at the moment.
Katniss might truly opt for escorting Johanna after all.
.
.
Eventually, she realizes there are shops and people (mainly the owners of them) she really hasn't met, or even seen yet. She allows herself to stare at every new face for a good couple of seconds—only when they are unaware, clueless of her gaze—, as this is exactly what Johanna is doing. Instead of lingering more out of the small shops' windows, though, Johanna's left hand captures Katniss's fingers, both of their feet picking up speed.
Katniss doesn't get the chance to consider what the woman has planned for her, nor is she capable of hindering the events that will follow. She is pretty sure she doesn't want to stop Johanna, as curiosity gets the better of her.
Before she knows it, she is dragged towards the path Johanna clearly wants to take her to, watching the road ahead of her, and preparing herself to turn left as soon as she realizes this is what is expected of her. She barely has the chance to see what and who is around her anymore, in case she needs to memorize the way for later.
She isn't irritated—she isn't annoyed at the least. She feels like laughing. A giggle—a sound she rarely makes—escapes her, betraying her mood. Johanna slows down momentarily, offering a brief explanation, which is accompanied by a nonchalant shrug.
"I'm hungry." Katniss doesn't blame her. Peeta's baking makes her feel hungry even when she thinks she truly isn't.
Her hand soon disconnects with Johanna's, and she stays back, her feet planted on the ground. She stares at the massive crimson sign, her eyes scanning it non-stop, her lips silently forming the name.
Mellark's.
A smile spreads unconsciously across her face. He has told her he has inherited the bakery from his father. Although she recalls him saying this has been the second home for his family for over sixty-five years, she realizes there might have been several changes as the years passed. The sign, for instance, looks pretty new and well-reserved.
"Well? Are you coming or not?"
She shakes her head. "Yes."
They push the door open and the bell above their heads signals their presence. Katniss frowns at the sight of the dark-haired boy behind the cash machine. His expression is welcoming, his eyes sparkling with eagerness she can't relate to. Disappointment floods her unexpectedly. This is certainly not Peeta.
"What are you doing here?" Johanna inquires, narrowing her eyes at him. "Ditching school again? Does your brother know this time?"
The smile slides from his mouth in a matter of nanoseconds. His brows furrow in exasperation. Katniss infers there must have been details she has missed. She simply ignores the fact, as she has no reason to be involved.
"Just because you caught me once doesn't mean you have to rub it in my face every time you see me," he says in response. "And, no, I am not ditching. We just finished early today."
Johanna dismisses his comments with a quick gesture of her hand. "I was teasing, Vick. You're so much like Gale." He huffs, encouraging her. "No need in getting worked up, though. I'm harmless."
He eyes her protruding belly. "Well, obviously." He smirks. His attitude is so much like Gale's, it is almost terrifying. She remembers Prim telling her how Rory—the second brother—was nothing like the eldest Hawthorne. It is still difficult for her to digest the connection between Peeta's best friend and Prim's boyfriend.
"Ugh, just give me something to eat, will you?"
Vick bows dramatically, moving to the glass where Peeta keeps his baked products. "Why, take a pick, ma'am. There is a wide variety of—" He cuts himself off, laughing at her impatient expression.
Their continuous bickering has Katniss clearing her throat so that she will be eventually noticed. Indeed, Vick's gaze betrays he had completely forgotten about her presence there.
"You must be Katniss," he says to her, eyeing her—or more like her hair—carefully, waiting for confirmation. She nods her head, smiling ever so slightly. "Peeta's roommate, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then, it is nice to finally meet you." His words only confirm Johanna's earlier blabbering. Alright. He might be talking a little about her, after all.
"This." Johanna points at something behind the glass. Vick puts on a pair of nylon transparent gloves that was forgotten on the counter. He reaches to fetch it for her. All Katniss can process, however, is the permission he is just giving her.
"Peeta's frosting a birthday cake. He'll be glad to see you." He gestures towards the direction he urges her to go.
She parts her lips, hesitating for a brief moment. "I—thank you," she replies. She walks past the cash machine, past Vick, past the door she supposes Peeta works. She ignores Johanna's intense stare when she feels it piercing the back of her head. She doesn't look back, until Gale's brother reminds her of her duty to close the door behind her.
She feels the change of the temperature as long as she is seven feet separated from the place which always stays in the customers' view. She touches the back of her neck with a long sigh, thankful her hair is in a braid once more. She has no idea how Peeta works so many hours in the bakery without suffocating.
Katniss spots him almost immediately after her thoughts have nearly come to an end. His back is to her, his dark blue shirt visibly clinging to it as he leans over the cake Vick mentioned. She clears her throat, quite unsure of how to get his attention, but soon realizes it's a miracle the sound manages to reach her ears.
She shakes her head, ready to move beside him, only to be interrupted by his voice.
"Go home, sunshine. I'll be done in no more than ten minutes." She doesn't see him roll his eyes, but his tone helps her paint a picture of his expression in her head.
She presses her lips together thoughtfully. "Uhm…" She trails off.
He turns his head towards her in a matter of seconds. His blue eyes are wide as saucers. He drops the piping bag awkwardly right next to the cake. "I thought you were Vick," he explains.
"This is how you call him?" She arches an eyebrow, disbelief written all over her face. Her gaze is more challenging than she probably realizes.
"Sometimes," he admits, smiling wryly at her. He shrugs, receiving her nod in return. Just when the silence is about to stretch between them, he makes the first move to break it. "Did you come here by yourself?" He sounds surprised. He sounds as if he admires her for what she's achieved.
Even though she hates to destroy this impression he has made of her, her answer is truthful. "Johanna—Thom's wife—showed me the way actually. Vick said it was okay to come in."
"Of course it is," he tells her, as she looked like she was waiting for his approval. "I would ask you to stay so we'd go home together, but after that cake is finished, I'm afraid I'll have to deal with sending Vick to rest." He breathes out, turning his back on her again. "He already works on Saturdays. Hazelle will accuse me of wearing him out."
"Maybe he likes it here." She walks around the table he has placed his work on, and studies his features. Small wrinkles appear on his forehead while he attempts to concentrate.
"Hhmhm," he mumbles, pulling the corner of his lip with his teeth, causing an unexpected turmoil inside her chest.
"Maybe he likes your company," she clarifies. Her inference makes sense, doesn't it? Doesn't everyone around him enjoy his unique attitude? Hasn't she learned to do so in this last month?
She presses her temple with her index and middle finger, rubbing in small circles to clear her head. Her internal thoughts have started to drift to where they have never been before at a pretty dangerous rate. The problem is that she never seems to be able to push her emotions away, or slow them down for that matter. Doing so feels just wrong.
"Maybe," he agrees. "I guess I'm very interesting." His words don't match the teasing in his tone, and that's what makes her laugh.
"I guess you are." She suddenly gets the chance to ogle what is in front of her. She is amazed by the scenery as well as the detail of the cake. It is evident Peeta has put much effort to it—the bakery is undoubtedly one of his greatest passions.
"It's beautiful," she praises.
He looks up, his eyes meeting hers in gratification. "Thanks." His averts his gaze one more time. "It's for Leevy's little brother."
Katniss fumbles with the material of her shirt, speechless. She doesn't want to go yet (all she wants to do is sit across from him and watch his hands dance over the little boy's birthday present), but she doesn't know whether he'll be distracted by her presence, either.
"Thank you," he says out of the blue, startling her.
She examines his face thoroughly, clearly baffled. "For what?" she asks.
"For coming," he answers simply. "I wish I could have time for you. Though, the sooner I finish here, the sooner I'll come home. I'm trying to ensure myself a free afternoon," he clarifies. "That is, in case you had something in mind."
No. She didn't—doesn't—have anything in mind, although she is positive she can figure it out later. Madge is visiting the Hawthornes tonight. (She kept complaining about how Gale's sister wanted to meet her, and wasn't sure about her abilities to make an impression to his whole family. Katniss supposed the little girl—Posy Hawthorne—was responsible for that big step in the relationship of Gale and Madge. She isn't precisely familiar with neither the events nor the ups and downs in it.) Thus, there are no second thoughts.
"Okay." She nods, emphasizing what she said. "Johanna had wanted to take me for a walk around the village. I should probably give you space."
"I really do hate pushing you out like this," he insists with a sigh.
"Don't feel guilty, Peeta. Don't make me regret coming to see you." His previous smile turns into one she can't quite name, bringing her urge to shudder to the surface. She adores and fears this new expression of his all the same. It is as if he has developed it solely for her.
"I'll keep that in mind."
She bids him farewell and leaves the room. Johanna is looking expectantly at her, while Vick acknowledges her with a curt movement of his head.
"What took you so long?" Katniss shrugs as they walk out of the bakery. "You still say he's not your boy?" The woman earns one of her most murderous glares. If looks could kill, she would be pretty much dead by now.
Johanna jogs to keep up with her pace, and Katniss immediately slows down, silently reminding herself of the former's condition.
"You're only fooling yourself," she sing-songs. Katniss rolls her eyes. "And him."
"I know," she lies. "I am brainless," she quotes. Eventually, she manages to hide her amusement.
May, Week One
"Why do you think District Twelve is named the way it is?"
The surprise that is now written on his face was expected from the very start Katniss's thoughts had started drifting towards that direction. She had been asking herself the same question over and over again, but considered it too meaningless to share it with anyone else.
The deafening silence was what prompted her to wonder out loud, with nobody but Peeta as an audience. To her luck as well as gratification, he doesn't remain passive. Instead, he seems to mull over what she mentioned, probably attempting to provide her with a decent enough answer. The attention he is giving her, however, is more than enough for her.
She never thought the time when she would ask for it could ever come. As a matter of fact, she never was the one who desperately desired to be noticed. (Quite the opposite actually. All she ever tried and wanted to be was discreet. It wouldn't be too bizarre to say she has partly achieved that.)
But here she is, remaining by Peeta's side, doing laundry. The first time they tried to do this she felt quite weird, as they were both used to taking rows when it came to doing their chores. Though, when she realized that the more practical working with him was, the more time they earned for themselves, she kept finding excuses to be near him.
"I think it's safe to say I'm not the one you should ask," he replies. "I've never been good with figuring these things out." He sighs, fishing one of his T-shirts from the pile of clothes. "That name is not mentioned in any of the history books differently. It seems like it's always been District Twelve."
"Yes," she agrees. "Yes, I know. But why twelve? Why not eight or three or—whatever?"
He chuckles. "I would be lying, if I told you I haven't thought about it. It's either because there were other Districts we don't know about in the past, or just because they wanted to highlight the triviality of a small village."
Tiny wrinkles appear on her forehead. A loose strand of chocolate brown hair escapes her braid, softly falling to the side of her cheek, and Peeta has to remind himself he shouldn't just reach and brush it away. He swallows as he watches her tuck it casually behind her ear.
"Well, I choose to believe the latter."
"That's what I chose, too. The former sounds more like a fairy tale."
"Y-yeah—uh. Uhm. I—" He shoots her a puzzled glance. He examines her face, noting how her cheeks and nose are now painted in a familiar shade of pink. He considers himself incapable of understanding the reason why she's embarrassed until his questioning gaze lands on her lap. She is clutching one of his boxers tightly in her fists, not really knowing what to do with it.
Peeta wants nothing more than to laugh at how differently they tend to act under similar circumstances. Coming across her underwear was nothing unusual or extraordinary, taken what they're doing, yet her reaction now that the roles are reversed surprises him. Katniss might be clever and nothing close to naïve, but she certainly is pure. She is so pure, it's actually adorable.
It seems like she has started getting worked up—irritated with her inability to find a way out of this.
"Oh," he exhales, pretending that he hadn't noticed anything seconds ago. "I've been looking for it." He opens his palm, waiting until she carefully places his undergarments on it. "Thank you."
She clears her throat, not fully trusting herself with her voice at the moment. "No problem," she answers. His smile is what eases her agitation, as usual.
"So," he starts.
She looks his way, her left eyebrow barely raised.
"Your birthday is coming up."
Startled, she replies, "You remember?"
He nods, confirming the fact. "The eighth of May, am I correct?" It is her turn to respond with an affirmative shake of her head. "I was wondering whether you had any wishes."
"Wishes?" she asks confused. "As in presents?" she guesses randomly.
"Wishes for presents, yes. I've been trying to come up with something to get you—anything—but it seems like I've finally run out of ideas."
He's not telling her the truth, and she remains completely unaware. He doesn't like lying to her, though, there really is no other option right now. Several gifts have crossed his mind. (Flowers, the kind of jewellery Madge prefers—small and simple, drawings, or anything he has learned from his former female friends that a girl likes.)
The thing is that Katniss's choices and preferences aren't easy to predict. On the contrary, he suspects an expensive or magnificent present will make her feel as if she owes him, as if she needs to pay him back in any possible way. The first step is keeping that in mind and smartly avoiding it from happening as well.
"I don't want a present, Peeta," she says determined. Her tone suggests she is most possibly scolding him in advance. It is like she already knows he won't listen. "I never got you one," she adds.
"That's because we had just started hanging out back then," he reminds her patiently. His birthday was on the third week of March, two days after he first took her to his meadow.
"This is no excuse," she insists, breaking eye-contact. She continues to collect the rest of her clothes in the basket in front of her. She moves much more hurriedly than before. Peeta has no clue what would make her stubbornness fade away for even a couple of seconds.
He skilfully sidesteps the phrase she has uttered. "Come on," he presses. She can practically hear the smile in his voice. "There must be something special. Something you are craving for."
"Well…" Her hands still. His whole face lights up. He has obviously stricken a nerve here. "If you really have to…"
"I want to," he corrects. "It's not a liability."
She sighs, mumbling her answer. He tries his hardest to listen carefully. "A profiterole. One of those little cups you keep at your bakery," she confesses guiltily, her bottom lip meeting her upper one.
"I had no idea you liked profiterole."
"I haven't tried it before," she tells him. "Not from your hands. I—I've wanted to see how it tastes like for a while."
"Why haven't you told me anything before?" She opens her mouth to reply, but closes it once more, knowing fully well his intention to interrupt her. "You should have."
"Do it," she encourages. "Just not today. Or this week."
"The next one," he agrees.
She stands from her kneeling position, bending back down to grab the basket with her soaked clothes, hugging it close to her chest. "I'm taking them to the dryer," she announces. "Don't be too late."
"I won't," he promises. And he isn't. He follows behind her moments later, his own hamper pressed tightly against him. A stripy sock escapes from her bunch of clothing, falling to the floor while she keeps walking towards the staircase.
"I think you missed something." She turns around as soon as he acknowledges her, her eyes automatically drifting to the floor.
"Oh," she breathes. She stares at it for a long time, probably debating with herself about what she ought to do. Her ashen eyes travel from her occupied arms to the abandoned sock.
He gets rid of what he's holding, almost kneeling to the floor to reach it for her—before she has the time to make her decision. What he doesn't know, however, is that she has decided and that she has also started to reach for it.
The top of his head bumps against her nose as he rises. She hisses in surprise, the sound sending a painful pang of guilt through his stomach. He takes the basket from her hands, then rests his palms on her shoulders.
"Hey." Her three middle fingers instinctively fly to the sore spot. She doesn't meet his eyes until he speaks again. "Katniss, hey," he calls. "You okay?"
She shakes her head, surprising him by releasing a soft giggle. "Yes. I'm okay."
Relief washes over him. His thumb brushes her nose, before following the path down the silky, olive complexion of her cheek. He unconsciously pulls her towards him, still staring at the side of her face his finger caressed, her chin, the line of her jaw, her lips.
"I'm sorry." He watches her gulp. He would have let her go, if it weren't for the fact that she—herself—chose to scoot closer.
"It's okay, Peeta." She doesn't sound frustrated. Just when he's about to wonder what could possibly affect her to this point, her legs give out under her. The distance between them is almost non-existent now. None of them gets to take advantage of the situation.
Her huff attracts his attention once more. Blue collides with grey. He sees that again—that spark of fire he ignited—and feels warm inside. He stares back with equal fervor, equal intensity. Instead of watching her give up on the silent fight of their gazes smoldering one another's, he watches her embrace it, attempting to make the battle hers (and hers only).
The sound of the phone buzzing against his pocket breaks their brief, invisible—yet strong—bond, making them both antsy. He digs his hand in the case of his pants, cursing himself in the process.
Gale.
Peeta presses the red button, dragging his finger across the touch screen. There. All done. He catches Katniss as she notices the name.
"I'll call him later," he tells her. "You need help with those."
"No, I don't. Call him. I got it from here."
He curses himself for a second time in half a minute. Maybe he wasn't the only one who realized what he was about to ask her. Permission for his mouth to melt against hers, that is.
May, Week Two
He's been thinking about it all week; the incident right before the staircase. He's been thinking about her blush and her curious, blazing eyes and her unpredictable laugh and her lips and—
He runs a hand down his face, exhaling soundly. The breath he releases isn't the only thing he has been holding thus far. He has been holding his words and his urges—all of his emotions. He's been trying to cover up any traces of old Peeta—the one who nearly vanished after his father's death—all over again.
Only, this time, he's doing it for an entirely different reason. It's not for himself. It's not because he doesn't want anyone to find out how he's feeling. No, this is for Katniss. This is proof that she has—unconsciously, yet effectively—taught him how to respect choices that aren't his once more.
Today is Sunday. It is her birthday. It would be for the best, if he didn't overanalyze his reaction to every single time they come close to each other (there have been plenty of those moments lately). For now, he needs to be practical. He needs to make sure everything's in order.
But first of all, he needs to relax. Katniss is at work. He has plenty of time.
.
.
She's silent as always. He hears neither the sound of her keys on the door, nor her footfalls as she approaches the opposite direction from the one he's heading for. He catches sight of her retreating form as he glances at the staircase. In the end, he decides against calling her.
He knows her schedule. He knows her next move.
He waits for her—as she most possibly showers—in the living room, the profiterole cake placed in the middle of the coffee table. He doesn't regret making those preparations for her. He wouldn't want her to return to an empty house, just to find out that no one is there to celebrate her nineteenth birthday with her. He wouldn't want her to go through what he did (repeatedly after his father's death).
Less than twenty minutes later, she reappears in front of him, meeting him in where he has been all along, only to stop, keeping a couple-of-feet distance between them. Her now straight hair is soaked and darker than usual. The lighting of the room falls in her examining eyes in an angle that enhances every different shade of smoky grey.
His stomach flips and he blinks at her. He has a weakness for beauty, it seems.
"Peeta," she begins to protest whilst scanning the place. She hasn't forgotten it is her birthday, even if it might look like it. It doesn't take a genius to realize Peeta hasn't forgotten, either, he thinks.
He smiles sheepishly. "Candle or no candle?"
"Wha—But I didn't do anything for you when you had your birthd—" He holds a finger to his lips, effectively silencing her. Katniss crosses her arms over her chest, clearly displeased with her unexpected obedience. He rolls his eyes at her stubbornness, and for a minute, they both seem incapable of giving in.
"Really?" he says after a while, one of his eyebrows arching up. "Is that all you think every time someone tries to surprise you? That you haven't done anything for them in return?"
"Well, not exactly, but—well—yes." She growls once she catches sight of his knowing wry smile. She momentarily presses the back of her palms against her closed eyelids. "I mean—ugh, thanks."
"You're welcome."
"No, Peeta. You don't understand." Her pupils are wide. "Thank you." She takes a deep breath, still watching him from where she stands. "I was with my family every single year and–and I thought that today—I thought—" She shakes her head, for her voice is suddenly unwilling to compromise. She doesn't get emotional pretty often, but when she does, she doesn't like having an audience.
Peeta is not an audience, she reminds herself. Peeta remembered her birthday. Peeta remembered her wish, or that cake wouldn't be here now. And finally, Peeta remembers that her parents are no longer with her and her dear sister. Unlike everyone who seems to forget just like that (how can they possibly forget?), he remembers.
He remembers how she feels, even though she's barely told him a thing about the last six months of her life. Everything he knows concerns the past, when she could effortlessly consider herself content, if not happy.
Although Katniss opens her mouth to talk to him, to explain one more time, he manages to speak first.
"It's okay, Katniss." She inhales, then nods. "How about you try to convince me my first attempt at a profiterole cake isn't that atrocious?" He gestures towards the short table.
She eyes him in disbelief. "First attempt?" she repeats.
"Technically, yes. I only have profiteroles in plastic cups for the bakery. Nobody has ordered a cake before." He shrugs.
She doesn't tell him that he shouldn't have done this for her, as she is already aware of the fact that he will smoothly dismiss her.
"Alright," she breathes some moments later. Before he can question her, she makes herself clear. "I'll do it. Rightfully so. That cake is mine." She points and smiles to herself at his quiet chuckle.
She walks, combing her fingers through her wet hair in the process. She doesn't look back for him from the moment she sits cross-legged on the floor, in front of the table, her back pressed against the lower part of the couch. She reaches forward, for the red box with Peeta's family name on it.
"Impatient, are we?"
She snorts. "Oh, shut up." She smirks and leans forward again.
A part of the olive skin of her waist is exposed and, suddenly, all Peeta wants to do is identify the feel of it under his fingers. He looks away.
It's not long before she notices the troubled creases on his forehead.
"What?" she inquires. He shakes his head, silently promising nothing is wrong. He looks at her to reassure her. She believes him.
He walks and takes his place on the floor, right next to her. He watches her take the box in her lap, before he bumps his shoulder against hers. He does it one more time, until she turns to her right to face him fully.
"Candle or no candle?"
She stares at the small blue object in Peeta's hand for a long time. Eventually, she accepts the offer, the tips of her fingers tickling his palm.
.
.
"This isn't fair," Katniss muses. She speaks with her head bowed, but loud enough for her roommate—her best friend, really—to hear.
She has been thinking about telling him for a very long time. She has been making efforts to gauge his possible reaction. She has been wondering whether her situation would have such a great effect on him—she would be lying, if she ever said his didn't make her feel for him at all.
Peeta seems interested in what she has to say, yet he doesn't look eager enough to pressure her. She should be thankful about it, although she believes she could make it better, if she had a little help from him.
"I mean—it's like I know you better than the back of my palm, and I still haven't told you anything about my family." That is not entirely true. She's talked about her twin sister, Primrose (the one he met), to him, but that's all.
"Don't go there." He sighs. "You need to stop trying to do things for me because you think you owe me. If that's what you're worried about, you don't."
Frustrating him was not among her intentions. However, instead of settling for a simple agreement, she fights back. After all, she has never been the one to back down.
"I am trying to reciprocate, Peeta." What is the point in a friendship, when only she benefits from it?
"You just have to understand. I don't want to know, if you don't want to tell me."
Katniss bites the spoon that's been in-between her upper and lower lip, her teeth against the metal creating sounds which would normally make her shudder. She lets out a quiet grunt, not caring about appearing superior, or inferior for that matter.
"Well, maybe I wanted—want—to," she says after putting the spoon on the table. (Her appetite is gone.) He opens his mouth to object. "Maybe, I want somebody to know." He closes it again.
She hates the way her voice cracks. Better yet, she hates that her voice cracks because she may have been rejected. This is a kind of rejection she hasn't experienced before. Madge always lets her show that she's thankful.
"Don't be upset," he advices gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. "I will hear whatever you have to say as long as it's not forced. And I will ask you whatever I've wanted to as long as you want it, too."
"You've been thinking about—about what?"
"Bikes," he admits. "Your fear for bikes," he clarifies.
"You never told me," she complains.
"Would you be ready to answer?"
She breaks eye-contact. She hasn't been doing that lately—she's been capable of meeting his gaze with no fear. It's not that she's afraid. It's that she knows he's right.
"I am now," she insists.
He has no reason to stop her. He lets her tell him about that day of early November and the party she and Prim attended. He lets her tell him about how she had been having a terrible time at Delly Cartwright's house (she and Katniss didn't even hang around with each other in high school—Delly was Prim's friend). And about how she had called her parents (who weren't at home, but promised to be available for their daughters regardless) to pick her up. And about how she was waiting and waiting and waiting, until she had to contact with them once more. Unsuccessfully.
"Dad was always careful on the road. But there was fog and he didn't—he couldn't—see the motorcycle. It crashed against the car. The man fell off—he fell off the cliff. The road was just so narrow and he—" She takes a deep breath, finally realizing she has started repeating herself.
The worst of it all is that none of her parents was dead after the accident. Her mother's injuries were much more severe than her father's, though, she was still breathing and there was still hope.
Katniss claims that Peeta can't have known what all that wait felt like. How torturous it was for her to expect something or someone stronger than her to fix the mistake she'd done. (If only she had stayed at the party a little longer, if only she had called them one, two, even three hours later.)
But of course he knows what the wait felt like. He still does—the memories will never fade. He's been anything but unfamiliar with hospitals as well as losing the only person who truly cared for him.
"And I'm scared, Peeta," she says in a small voice, pulling her knees to her chest, curling like a ball against the couch. "It's my fault that man's life was taken. I don't want to see this happening again. I don't want to be any guiltier."
He assures her this is not her fault. She couldn't have known. She believes him, even though she already knows the weight of that damn phonecall will be on her shoulders for the rest of the life Peeta will be absent from.
He smiles at her, effectively distracting her for a brief moment. "You can take a break," he promises. "You have the right to think about happy things on your birthday. Everyone does."
Her face contorts into a deep grimace. "I can't think about anything else. Especially today." He recognizes defeat in her voice. "I used to spend Prim's and my birthday with her and my parents."
She's not trying to pretend she's fine, like she always told him at the very start of their blooming relationship—friendship. She isn't okay with this.
"It's awful," she whispers.
He swallows. "I really don't wanna leave you. But—"
"—you're leaving?" Surprise and fear. That's what he hears when her wide grey eyes stare into his blue ones.
"No, no—I'm not leaving home. I just forgot something. I'll be back in a minute."
She nods. "Okay." She takes the previously abandoned spoon in her hand, burying it in the leftovers of the profiterole cake, stuffing her mouth with chocolate. She wishes she could just concentrate on the taste of it—she could eat this forever.
By the time Peeta is back, she has finished her third spoonful.
He sits back beside her, nudging her side with his elbow. She prepares a reply for this move of his, but she stops, her mouth hanging open in query. She notices the light blue parcel in his lap.
"Happy birthday." He hands it to her, half-expecting her to protest about his gesture.
But she doesn't. She slowly accepts it, her left hand moving towards him. Her timid expression asks him what her voice can't, and he offers an affirmative movement of his head, encouraging her. She begins to open it, her fingers working carefully and meticulously on the paper wrapping what's inside.
Moments later, she comes face to face with a book—the book. The one she's been so crazy about, the one she's been yearning to acquire for weeks, the one she's been constantly blabbering about.
She holds her breath, as if a single flutter of air will make what's in her hands fade away. She can't take her eyes off the cover, reading the name of the title over and over like a mantra inside her head.
She almost forgets that Peeta is there—that he is the reason why she's feeling so…overwhelmed. His voice is slightly nervous as it breaks through the silence.
"Do you like it?"
Does she like it? Hell, no. She thinks she's in love.
Before she has the time to foresee or realize her actions, she throws her arms around his neck, breathing the words into his shirt, catching him completely off guard. It's not long before he manages to unfreeze from the welcome shock, wrapping his own arms around the middle with a laugh.
The contact—the way they're pressed against each other—makes the warmth spread in Katniss's chest, surrounding her whole being. From the moment the first spark of electricity she has never felt before pulses through her veins she knows. She knows she is not brave enough to be the first to let go.
When her nails begin to sink in his shoulders, when she thinks she might be actually hurting him, it comes; the first hiccup. It is what wrecks the moment, what makes him slowly push her away from him. His look of concern calms her instead of stressing her.
"Are you okay?"
She holds her palm in front of her mouth, trying to suppress the sounds escaping her throat. She shudders again, her body shaking.
"Do you need some water?"
"N-no." He stands up, towering over her. Her hand grasps his forcefully, tugging it down. "No, Peeta, it's alr—"
This time, both hands fly to her mouth.
"It's not like it will put me in trouble," he argues with her unspoken monologue—the one reassuring him he should stay. "Perhaps, then, I would consider it."
She very well knows that's a lie. She might have believed him, if he told her that after she moved in this house. He could be a lot of things, and he could have a lot of flaws, though, he isn't selfish. But then again, his whole attitude has changed ever since they visited his meadow for the first time.
"I'll just get some water."
From the moment he is out of her sight, she leads the back of her right palm to her eyes, rubbing the skin furiously. The tears are invisible and elusive—they obviously do not exist—but she feels like crying and that's somehow even worse. (Her hiccups will never come to an end then.)
When he is back for an umpteenth time, and she has drained the last drop of water from the glass, Katniss surprises herself by leaning to the hand he has extended (but hesitated to put on her). She watches his eyes turning wider as his fingers brush against her hair.
She almost asks him what he's thinking about. (She doesn't.)
She is seized by another round of hiccoughs. She can't bring herself to be frustrated anymore. He pulls her to him. He rubs her back until her ragged breathing matches his steady one.
June, End of week Four
An absolutely silly conversation is to blame for the start of an absolutely silly fight.
Katniss can't—she just can't—understand why he would take her words so much to heart. It's not like she hadn't taken this decision of hers for granted before she and Madge knocked on his door for the first time.
It's not like she intends to stay with him forever.
It's not like he can stop her from moving out.
It's not like she came here for him in the first place. Things started getting pretty heated—in a bad way—after she told him so. And she was telling the truth. She came here for her sister, and her sister only.
He just happened. As cruel as it sounds to him, he wasn't part of her plan and he hasn't forgotten. So why the heck would he feel insulted, or upset in the slightest? Why would he make her feel bad—guilty even?
She bites the back of her pen, a habit she thought she'd given up on a couple of years ago. In the meantime, it connects with her head several times. She has started getting worked up over nothing. She should be scribbling down notes to complete her to-do list for when Prim arrives.
The pen moves smoothly over the paper for about five seconds. The next moment it flies across the room, crashing to the wall, eventually falling to the floor.
"Ugh."
She pulls at her hair, until it's falling down her back. She re-braids it.
She jumps from her chair, rushing to reach her half-closed door, pushing it open with her palm. She locates his room as she walks, narrowing her eyes at it.
She storms in without even asking for permission. The fact that he doesn't acknowledge her presence—doesn't address her—has her fuming. Instead, he remains focused on the screen of the laptop in his lap.
"I don't understand why you won't understand. Or—whatever," she says.
He finally, finally, looks at her. He pushes the computer aside, cocking an eyebrow as he meets her blazing gaze.
"I thought you said there's truly no point in having this conversation anymore, Peeta," he repeats word for word, mimicking the tone of her voice.
She folds her arms in front of her chest.
"You know I didn't mean that," she replies.
"Actually, I don't. You kind of left me there without another word. You came upstairs." She huffs. "Just—what exactly was I supposed to make of this?" he demands.
"You were supposed to understand me from the very start. I do want your support." He shifts to a sitting position on his bed, but refuses to get up. She, however, won't yell at him. (Not again.)
He runs a hand through his hair. "You'll have it."
She stares at her feet. "Are you ever going to tell me why you're mad at me?" she asks, not daring to get any closer just yet.
His sigh is heard even from where she's standing. "I'm not mad at you, Katniss." She plays with her fingers. "Only disappointed."
"And mad," she mutters under her breath. When he laughs, she can't help looking up. It is a good-natured, genuine laugh.
"A little," he admits.
He closes the lid of his laptop, patting the empty spot beside him on the bed as soon as he sees her approaching him, realizing her intentions. She jumps on the mattress, squirming until she's comfortable enough.
"Why?" she repeats.
"Because you're more than my roommate," he says. She notices how he pronounces the phrases carefully, refraining from expressing himself freely. "And because I care."
"But when I came here, I didn't plan to stay for the rest of my life," she reasons. She wishes she knew why it is so important he understands.
"I know," he assures her. "I do. And I have no right to make your choices for you." She clasps her hands together in her lap. "But cutting me out after you've moved away from Twelve—I think that means the feelings are not exactly mutual."
This time, she knows better than to consider his chuckle an actual laugh. She had no idea. She had no idea he'd need reaffirmation.
But of course he would. She proved to him whatever it is they have is one-sided, despite the fact that she believes—rather strongly—it's not.
She releases a deep sigh, his name caressing her lips.
She supports her weight on her knees as she takes one of his hands, squeezing it tightly, almost painfully. She keeps her gaze focused on his slender fingers as she speaks.
"I care enough to be here," she tells him.
She wants to take that back. It isn't adequate. It isn't right. She tries to fix it in the only way she can.
"I never said I wanted to cut you out. I haven't thought about anything other than how things are now." She squeezes one last time, but in the end decides against losing her grip. He remains unmoving. "I'm sure I feel what you feel," she adds hopefully.
"Yeah," he mumbles numbly. "I don't know about that."
She blinks at him, speechless. She doesn't know how she ought to reply, when she doesn't even know what he means.
"You want me to trust you," she reminds him after a while. "So, why can't you trust me?"
She doesn't like how this angers her, the effect it has on her. What is one-sided now? Who should be worried?
She wants to turn away, to hide, to flee.
He brings their entwined hands closer to his face. Her palm is flat against his cheek, while his covers it.
"I trust you," he promises. "This is different, though."
"What is different, Peeta?" She withdraws her hand, her fingers slipping through his. "Show me because I don't get it. This is so damn confusing and I don't—"
It is perplexing until suddenly it isn't.
He kisses the skin right next to the corner of her lips. She freezes. She relishes the familiar waves of electricity rushing through her, almost blindly locating the source of her foreign excitement.
The way he refuses to create a distance between them, testing both of their boundaries, the way his breathing changes, the way he looks at her through blond eyelashes—everything makes her feel dazed.
The answer to his unspoken question (is this alright?) is the spontaneous dive towards him. It is his relief and her nearly inaudible gasp, his thumb flowing over her neck and her innumerable thoughts that cease to run wildly inside her head.
His lips move against hers gingerly as if a single snap of fingers will break her. Before she finds the chance to be irked by the way he's confronting her, and before she has the time to take the initiative, he draws her close until she can retaliate the pressure.
Her fists close around tufts of his golden hair. She makes a miserable attempt at explaining all this, but she can't even form a decent sentence. All she can seem to think about is how she has waited for six whole months to feel this. To be consumed by this.
She gasps again. She pushes his chest, hindering him from proceeding any further. Her eyes are wide—almost panicked—and her breathing heavy.
"Shh," he whispers, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Calm down."
She begins to protest. "It's—"
"—Prim, I know. You told me she'd come."
Her sister is calling them from the lower floor. Katniss had given her keys. He stands from the bed, combing a hand through his head. He presses his lips together as if sealing the kiss, and she just shamelessly stares.
"I'm going. You calm down first." His face breaks into a grin.
"Yes," she agrees. She closes her eyes. "Yes," she echoes.
By the time she's reopened them, he has disappeared.
She feels…giddy. (Which is not precisely her, but she likes it.) Peeta's right. She needs to calm down. And then figure out how on earth that just happened.
July, Week One
It is Wednesday. A day off. That can only mean one thing after last night.
Last night.
Her sister must have noticed something had changed between her and Peeta. Prim's glances and small smiles betrayed the extent of her knowledge about that something.
Yet she didn't say a word. For once, Katniss couldn't bring the issue up or even discuss it with her. She needed time. She needs the time to know what this means, to ask herself what it might have been for Peeta, to prevent herself from freaking out.
And it is good. Because she doesn't need to let the grief engulf her anymore. She can be anxious about other things—less important, almost impractical things. She can escape from the cruel reality of having to earn so that she and her sister can have an acceptable life. She can remember that the little money Prim has collected from babysitting her best friend's niece are enough and believe it.
By the time the clock strikes noon, she has reached the middle of the book Peeta gave her on her birthday for a third time.
The phone rings several times, before Katniss remembers she's alone in the house. Peeta is at work, while her sister promised to be back in a few hours. She closes her book without bothering to find a bookmark—for once she doesn't mind being interrupted. She hadn't been paying much attention to the book anyway.
She touches the receiver against her ear, leaning lazily towards the wall.
"Hello?"
"Katniss, thank God! I've been trying to call you for hours! What's wrong with your mobile?" She must have known by now that Katniss isn't that consistent when it comes to charging her phone.
"Madge?"
"Yes!" she screeches. Katniss winces. She recognizes the sound on the background. Her frown deepens.
"Are you driving?" She tenses. Why would she call her while driving?
"Yes, I'm on my way. I'm coming. I'm—just be ready in five minutes, okay? I'll be there." There's a pause. "Katniss, can you hear me?"
"I can," she confirms. "What's wrong?"
"Prim," she breathes. Katniss doesn't like how she pronounces her sister's name. There's something behind it—something that has her pulling her lower lip between her teeth.
"Is she with you?" she asks carefully.
"No, she isn't. Damn it, Katniss. Get. Out of there. She's at a freaking hospital."
"Wha—she's—what?"
"You weren't answering your phone. Her friend called me and told me about—"
She feels as if she's underwater. Every single trace of nervousness and happiness combined has come crumbling down. She only catches a couple of words through the phone. They are enough to make her knees buckle.
Wanted to try. Motorbike. Hit her head. Hospital. Five minutes.
It is happening again.
She's going to watch her sister—the only family she's left—die. She won't survive this. She can't. She was only lying to herself. Life simply can't be good for some people.
She is one of those people. She had been ignorant—she had been kissing Peeta, for heaven's sake. Hell, why did she kiss Peeta?
She wants to scream, but her throat is too sore. Sore from the unshed tears, the tears that will never fall.
The five minutes are over. She can hear the horn from outside. Madge, like always, has kept her promise.