Thank you so much for the support and patience. It has definitely encouraged me to keep writing, let alone keep publishing.
Notes:
#1 I hope the final chapter of Roommates is not too disappointing. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope (again) that you'll be satisfied with the ending and enjoy reading the whole thing (even just a little).
#2 I believe it is time to say that before I post anything else (and I certainly will, as my insiration never seems to abandon me), I'll finish working on the one-shot I promised to the readers of House Of Chaos. Moreover, you will not have to wait too long after updates, since all published stories will be completed first.
Words: 10,986
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Suzanne Collins.
Update: 09.03.2013
Six: Always
September, Week Two
One would think he would have grown accustomed to all this after being here for what seems like the umpteenth time.
The bleach white uniforms, the annealed walls, the uncomfortable light green seats, the sterilized linoleum on the floor smelling of cleaning solution. The way he moves around makes it evident he has been here in the near past. He knows where to go. He knows how to face the stairs instead of the elevator to get to the second floor, his primary destination.
But he hasn't grown accustomed to coming here alone. Never alone.
A welcoming smile is painted on his lips before he has the chance to realize it. The red-headed nurse smiles back at him, offering an acknowledging nod. She halts right before him and he mentally braces himself for her usual greeting.
"Good morning, Mr Mellark," she says kindly. If only everyone working in this hospital had her mood.
"'Morning, Lavinia." He lifts his one hand a little, shaking it in a half-wave.
She arches up a light eyebrow questioningly. "Here for Miss Everdeen?" she presumes. He nods, confirming the fact. Apparently, nobody else is used to seeing him in a place like this alone, either.
The woman in front of him peers over his shoulder in bewilderment, almost absent-mindedly. She looks at him moments later, eyes narrowing.
"What about Katniss?" she asks, probably hoping she is not touching a particularly sore subject. "Is she alright?" she adds.
Somewhere between his visits with his roommate and their rare conversations at home (there is no lack of communication in general, although she has been far more timid to dig into her younger years since her sister's accident), he discovered the connection between her and Lavinia. They had been schoolmates during high school, and even shared most of their classes together.
"Sure," he dismisses her concern, albeit comprehending it. Katniss has been talking to Prim pretty often. Maintaining her composure was not always among her plans, which was where he usually interfered. (He has improved at breathing comforting words in her ear. In return, she has improved at relying on him.)
"I had to make a personal delivery in town." He shrugs. "I thought I'd stop by."
The corners of her lips turn upwards after this. "You did very well."
He can't help the disappointment that floods him at her words. They mean nothing has changed, and that no significant news for him to transfer to Katniss exists.
His determination hasn't changed, either. He is here to speak with Primrose—as Katniss does nonstop every single time they visit—and he will.
"Have a good day, Peeta," Lavinia says casually, walking away while he repeats the phrase, gaze locking on the hallway (better yet, the room) he's interested in.
Once he has pushed the door closed, letting go of the handle, he—unknowingly—leaves Katniss's spot on the chair that's a couple of feet beside the hospital bed vacant. He just stands there for a moment, unmoving, collecting his thoughts.
Half a minute later, he finds himself walking close to the chair—mostly out of habit. He grips the back of it in his one hand until both his fingers and knuckles protest from the uncomfortable, almost painful, pressure.
He doesn't quite know how to do this.
He breathes a sigh of relief, feeling the nervousness fade away little by little, thankful that the weight is somehow taken off his shoulders.
He can do this. It's Prim. Sweet Prim who did nothing but make him smile and laugh, who has kept the sister he adores sane after all this time, who he knows better than his brothers. Easy to read, like an open book.
He clears his throat.
"I guess this is kind of weird," he says, his voice clear and stable. He chuckles at the absurdity of hearing himself like this, considering he's all alone. It's been different every time Katniss was here with him.
Maybe because you've never spoken a word to the girl, he reminds himself.
His look drifts to the ground. "Today was one of my aunt's good days." He doesn't explain the definition of 'good days', as Prim used to be an insider of the mayor's wife situation. "She remembered me," he adds surprised. "Somehow. She asked for my dad's cinnamon rolls." He shrugs. "This is basically why I'm here."
He eventually decides against standing behind the chair, sinking on it once he's moved around it. "I didn't—have the heart to tell her about my father. I said my family was busy. There was no other way to make her understand why I was the only one who visited. Or the one who really made the rolls."
"Madge left us alone after the first couple of minutes. She misses her mother," he whispers the last part. "She misses you, too. A lot. And Katniss and I. And Rory."
He shakes his head. There is a large list of people he could name that care about her.
"Honestly, I don't know if you can hear me," he admits. The doctors don't. He is in no position to tell. "I don't know if you hear Katniss talking to you. You need to wake up."
His lips curve upwards, sorrowfully. "I will not lie. She is getting much better." He pauses, forming different phrases in his head, trying to pick the best one. He miserably fails, his restlessness all but gone. "But she isn't the same without you. I can do nothing when she craves to hear your advice. And I won't pretend to understand what missing a sibling feels like, because I don't. I probably never will."
He runs a hand through his hair. "She's right, you know. This isn't fair to any of you. It is never going to be."
He risks taking a look at her pale face. The delicate blonde waves form a crown around her head. The bright halo makes it simple enough for someone to confuse her for an angel.
The evidence of the shame his next planned words fill him creeps up to his face, coloring his cheeks ever so slightly. But he has to tell someone. He has to tell her. He feels like he owes it to her.
"And—although I try not to be selfish, I can't help all those egoistic thoughts. Because when you come back to her and she manages to regain her normal, I want her to remember the things she felt for as long as she couldn't have it." He forces his eyelids shut, before quickly reopening them, his gaze focusing on Prim's form.
"If she doesn't, I'm afraid I won't know what to do with myself."
Self pity is what he's been most sick of as the years after his crucial loss (his father) passed. Falling into a vicious circle is easy—maybe too easy—to achieve. Avoiding it, however, probably requires more strength that he knows he can muster.
"I really wish you could talk to me," he confesses. "Speaking of this to Katniss—it will only make her feel worse." He's aware that keeping things from her doesn't make him insincere. Though, it doesn't make him honest, either.
Words start flowing of his mouth. Words covering the varying gaps of months, the details Katniss has purposefully missed mentioning. Words he had unknowingly kept inside for too long, feelings he has been suppressing for the sisters' sake. (He adores Katniss. That much is pretty obvious to everyone but her. But then again, even if she did know, he wouldn't get the chance to properly express it.)
By the time he is ready to go, the weight he didn't know if ever existed is nearly lifted off his shoulders. He grips her fingers after a minute of inner debating, speaking valedictory words as he exhales loudly.
He turns around one more time as he reaches the door, a guilty expression plastered on his face.
Who was this visit for really? Her or himself?
.
.
The routine he and Katniss have fallen into lately is something he has grown to dislike. The more he thinks about how things were when they barely dared to articulate a few words to one another, the more anxious he feels.
Anxious that things might never go back to the way they were before he opened his heart to her. Anxious that she might never stop throwing her arms around his neck every time he walks through the door, holding onto him as if he is her silver lining, scared that—somehow—that could be the last time she sees him. Anxious that, sometimes, her depression might emanate from her frequent visits to the nearly vacant hospital room.
The two of them could be creative, if they wanted to, if they tried. They have read her favorite books together. They have attempted to follow his father's recipe notebook step by step, eyes narrowing at every single word that needed particular attention. They have painted on his middle brother's old, forgotten canvas together, smearing the leftover colors over their clothes, his hair, or the parts of her nose and cheeks he likes pressing his lips to when he considers it okay to do so.
This is when he forgets all about his selfishness and wishing to keep her with him for as long as he can. This is when he prefers seeing her go to watching her mourn over the sister who isn't dead, but whose brain is utterly lifeless.
Today is different. When she wordlessly, as usual, wraps her slender arms around his middle, instead of timidly reciprocating the gesture, he embraces her form without a second thought, resting his chin on the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
Once she purposefully deprives him of the intoxicating heat her body emits, he can't help wondering what might have given him away.
He notices a change to the way she all too often confronts him. She narrows her grey eyes at him in newfound suspicion. A flicker of mixed emotions contorts her facial features. Eventually, her expression softens, as if recognition dawns on her.
"Bad day?" she questions with an almost non-existent frown of thoughtfulness. The gesture of her thumb leaving lazy, blazing trails on his jaw seems surreal to him. So surreal that he waits for the reddening of her cheeks, the evidence he needs to feel the smile creep up the corner of his lips.
He nods, watching her hand fall back to her side. "You could say that," he tells her. "My aunt. She wanted—" He sighs.
"I know," she rushes to reply, sparing him from having to rephrase the thoughts in his brain. "Madge called. I figured she'd have to tell me something important, so…" she trails off, implying the rest. "She was crying," she murmurs sadly.
He nods again. Replaying the image of his emotionally wrecked cousinin his head will get him nowhere at the moment. (He already knows it is going be a part of what will steal his sleep when he lies in bed tonight.)
"Can I do something?" Can I do something for you? "Anything," she promises, a grimace of determination plastered on her face.
"I'm good," he says, indirectly declining. He leans forward, placing a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be back in some minutes."
He walks away, heading for what will lead him to the upper floor. Katniss doesn't stop him. He doesn't look back. He does, however, return.
September, Week Four
They lie in his—now their—meadow, her head resting on his lap, the upper half of his back supported by the tree truck behind him.
He's playing with her hair, pretending to practice at the (usually nervous) habit he has picked up; making knots. Katniss has found herself watching him tie the laces he has ripped off his shoes more times than she can possibly count. The way nearly invisible wrinkles appear on his forehead as he concentrates on his task at hand, the way his lips press tightly together, the way he sometimes bites the inside of his cheek has her narrowing her eyes at him for reasons she can't quite name.
The soft tugging she has been feeling on her scalp suddenly stops, her senses slowly awakening as his hands still, buried in the hair that is free of the practical braid.
She becomes all too aware of the white dandelion she has been keeping in-between her fingers. Bringing it closer to her face, she examines it for a couple of moments. Finally, she mercilessly crushes it in her palm. There is something oddly relieving about seeing the small flower—weed, really—languish before her very eyes.
"You could have made a wish," Peeta offers. If she wasn't feeling so darn lazy, she would have turned her head to the right angle, facing him.
But she doesn't. Instead, she only opts for moving her shoulders, knowing he'll be completely capable of feeling her shrug.
"Would it have made a difference?" she challenges. He seems to consider her question for a minute, before he matches her nonchalant shrug.
"I guess not," he mumbles.
She shifts a little, moving upwards, closer to his face until the right side of her face is firmly placed on his chest. He relaxes after realizing she isn't abandoning their peace any time soon.
He takes her hand, idly drawing a bizarre pattern on her complexion. After this repetitive action of his, after his mouth briefly connects with the back of her palm, she recognizes the gesture; the thoroughly-shaped heart.
It is the way her father used to say goodnight to his girls. It means "thank you". It means "I love you".
She doesn't panic like she first did when she felt his index finger follow the unseeable traces on her skin. She remains silent, accepting the idea of being wanted, fully embracing it like she has learned to.
Her eyes flutter closed, her curious urge to memorize the sound of his heartbeat under her ear overcoming her.
"I wish—I wish I could freeze this moment right here, right now, and live in it forever," he whispers, knowing she'll hear him.
She remains unmoving, unresponsive for a pretty long time. She murmurs an incoherent phrase he can't quite catch. In the end, she agrees with the declaration he has chosen to make.
"Okay," she says to him. She'll allow it.
October, Week Two
Peeta has never run like this before in his entire life. Not when he was first taught to. Not when his father's eldest sister gave birth to the little cousin he had been anticipating to see. Not when he almost missed the school bus the year they had moved to town. Not when his brothers had stolen his drawings—the outcome of his doodling—laughing with and at him, threatening to show mother, to scare him.
Even if he did have no problem using an elevator, his patience is wearing impossibly thin, too thin for him to find the courage to wait. He almost stumbles on the fourth stair, refusing to pay any kind of attention on the patients (or the people who are accompanying the patients—this is a more familiar title) who must be shooting him curious looks, if not more.
He needs to find her.
He knows where to go, knows where to keep running to. But he still needs to see her, have sufficient proof that the message he received was not a lie. That it's the pure truth.
Katniss doesn't realize the effect this entire situation—let alone her suffering—has on him, he muses. She never has and probably never will.
His hope that Primrose has indeed opened her eyes for the first time after months of being in a comatose state starts diminishing as he spots the brown-haired girl pacing furiously in the hallway. His anticipation, however, only grows.
Unable to wait any longer, he calls her name, the sound of it a sanguine melody passing through his dry lips. He watches her turn her head to his direction, her pupils dilating in a matter of seconds, before the relief starts taking over.
He feels his heart hammer unsteadily, loudly inside his chest as soon as she forms his name and confidently begins to close the distance between them. He would have done literally anything to discern that invincible intensity in her gaze, her fire that might never cease causing the all too familiar inner turmoil in his head, consuming and burning up his insides.
She begins to walk, then stride, then jog, then run towards him, matching his frenzied tempo. As much as he tries to prepare himself for the force of their bodies' collision, it still sends him a couple of feet backwards. He nearly stumbles.
He exhales against her hair, his open palm firmly supporting her back. She momentarily tightens her hold around him, before letting go, facing him, grinning at him. The urge to reach out and touch that smile of hers (the smile he hasn't seen in a very long time) bubbles up out of the blue, but doesn't surprise him at all.
"You came," she pants, gripping his biceps in order to balance herself.
He nods several times. "As soon as I got your message," he promises. "Things were pretty crazy this morning at the bakery; this is why I didn't—" He pauses at the shake of her head. "I would have—" She presses a finger on his lips, effectively silencing him.
"It's okay. You're here now."
He wraps a hand around her wrist, holding her extended arm against him. "How's Prim?" he finally asks the question he intended on asking from the moment he stepped foot on the hospital.
"Resting," she replies. "Lavinia said she needed sleep," she explains. "She didn't speak to me. But she recognized me, Peeta. She's going to be okay. If we give her time, if we follow the doctors' instructions carefully, she's going to heal. For real."
Unable to form the words dancing in his head, he pulls her to him once more, coaxing the sound he has missed so much—a genuine laugh—out of her. He, unexpectedly, spots Madge watching the exchange between the two of them, suppressing a smile. She offers an acknowledging shake of her head.
Thank you, he mouths at her.
There is no use in elaborating further. She understands he is thanking her for staying by Katniss's side for as long as he physically couldn't. For arriving hours before him, for keeping the brunette company when she needed it the most.
"There's something more," he hears Katniss murmur sheepishly. He visibly tenses, distancing himself from her, gazing at her confused.
"Is something wrong?"
She reads his body language, hastily fixing up her bad choice of words. "No. It's not about Prim," she lets him know. "It's about things I've wanted to tell you for a while. Things I've been thinking about a lot when I probably shouldn't have—and things that sometimes made no sense to me," she blabbers.
This time, he takes another step towards the other direction, without her following him. He quickly masks the frown in his face. Her talkative mood scares him a little (to the point of believing her sister's waking up might be affecting her too much, forcing phrases out of her mouth that she might not quite mean in the near future.)
"We'll talk about it later," he says, his voice soft. He can't be sure whether stopping her is a wise option, even though he can't help hoping to do whatever is right by her.
She makes a grimace which pains him, although he attempts not to show it. She looks disappointed, apparently not expecting him to deny.
"It can wait," he assures her.
"No." She gets in his way, hopefully preventing him from moving towards his cousin. "Peeta," she whines stubbornly.
He rolls his eyes. "Katniss." He mimics her tone, his persistent warning not going unnoticed by her. "We will get to it eventually. Just not right now. Prim—"
Frustrated, she takes the elastic ribbons of the jacket covering half of his form in her fists, roughly drawing him to her. He gasps, startled by her indignant action.
Before he has the chance to react, to decide whether she is trying to measure his reaction to her or not, she drapes an arm around him, her hand grasping the blond locks on the back of his head, pushing him forward. Her mouth captures his in a frantic, urgent kiss, and before his mind and lips have a chance to just comply, she ends it.
He feels as if he might actually explode. He tries to speak, but falters.
"It can't wait," she insists. "I've been wanting to—I need to know if that's wrong. If you haven't changed your mind about…" She blushes furiously, her fingers brushing the side of his neck as she withdraws her hand. "About this," she finally tells him.
She sighs. "I'm not very good with words."
"I figured as much," he teases. She looks down in embarrassment. "Hey," he calls, attracting her attention, meeting her eyes. Katniss openly showing affection in public—he remembers the hospital and his cousin—warms his heart in a manner he can't shake, even if he wanted to.
"If you don't consider now a bad time to talk about this, then…you should know I have not changed—and will not change—my mind about you. That's impossible."
She opens her mouth and closes it again. She nods, relief washing over her face.
"Are we good?" he inquires hopefully.
"Yes. We are." She bites her bottom lip, fidgeting. "I'm sorry I sprang on you," she apologizes, the corners of her mouth curving upwards on their own accord, his constantly widening smile contagious.
"You sure did." He chuckles at her false expression of guilt. He gestures to where Madge is sitting, signaling they should probably move. "Come on," he encourages.
It takes Katniss a moment or two to keep up with his intentions, but when she finally does, she quietly hops beside him, holding onto his free hand. He clears his throat, tilting his head to the side to face her fully, the soberness returning in his voice.
"Tell me what I've missed," he requests, a question hidden behind his words.
He soon enough receives an affirmative confirmation from her. "We'll fill you in."
And they do. But not before Madge's knowing—almost invisible—smirk dies on her lips.
October, End of Week Four
Although Primrose has been insisting she can indeed make it upstairs on her own, Katniss's thoughtful scowl refuses to vanish as she marches right behind her sister. She reluctantly offers little to zero support. That is, until there are no stairs to step on, and the blonde girl has turned around to mirror Katniss's facial expression.
Even her patience has started running low. She does recognize her fateful mistake (and that she should have probably listened to her sister for once) and she does know it will take longer than the time that she wishes to heal completely, yet she can't help getting frustrated every once and then.
Her memory is poor, her durability limited. She tires her body and brain out without realizing it, and then feels hopeless when she actually does.
Receiving help was never a big deal. But, somehow, she looks beyond frustrated as she tries her best to locate Katniss's bedroom—or better yet recall its whereabouts—in the second floor of the house right now.
Her angry gaze softens as soon as she catches sight of the small smile on Katniss's full lips. The dark-haired girl steps a couple of feet before her, effortlessly—almost blindly—making her way to the previously named guest room.
"Well," she begins to speak, making a gesture to show Prim the room around her one more time. "Welcome, I guess."
Prim nods twice in thanks, not finding any words in her. Katniss supposes she isn't in the mood, so she decides she will take whatever it is she can get for now.
"Would you prefer having the room to yourself?" she asks, her grey eyes widening in concern. She would grant Prim her bedroom in a heartbeat, if that meant keeping her safe, with her, for as long as possible.
Prim mulls what she has heard over her head for a while, before she shakes her head; hesitantly at first. "Where would you sleep?"
"The living room," Katniss answers. "Or we could carry the couch," she motions to where the furniture lies "to the room Peeta has kept empty." She shrugs, silently assuring her sister there really is no problem.
Prim only shakes her head again. She drags her feet to the bed, sitting on the soft mattress with an audible sigh. She bends down, slowly managing to pull the shoes off her feet. Katniss hurriedly searches for a comfortable nightgown (that will preferably not remind her of the hospital she has been kept in for long enough) in their things, handing it to her.
"Do you need help with it?" she volunteers. She sits beside Prim, starting to offer her assistance without waiting for a negative reply, because honestly the possibility of her sister snapping at her never crossed her mind.
"I can," Prim insists.
"Sure," Katniss agrees, creating a distance between them, unsure of what her future actions should revolve around. Prim shoots her an apologetic glance—maybe for her rightfully grumpy attitude, or maybe not—but utters no more words.
"We need to move closer in town. If there's an emergency or anything—" She pauses, carefully gauging Prim's reaction. "We need to be near the hospital," she adds. "For your therapy. We can make it—"
"—Katniss," she is sternly interrupted. "My head hurts," Prim confesses, self-consciously rubbing one of her temples with her index and middle finger. She closes her eyes.
"It's alright," she responds almost immediately. "We can talk about this tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. Whenever you feel ready," she blurts out, suddenly regretting speaking so much, after quite a long time.
"Get some rest," she prompts.
She sees it again; the look full of gratification in Prim's eyes, meaning more than thousands of phrases put together. She accepts it, nodding in comprehension, smiling in contentment.
She recognizes the warm, comfortable sweetness she feels inside her chest. Hope; that's what it is. Life might get better—good even—again, after all.
November, Week One
It is 5:20 in the morning.
She wouldn't have said a word out loud, if it weren't for Prim's baby blues practically begging her to break the comfortable silence between them. After returning to her room, Katniss found her standing a couple of inches away from the window, her form barely illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand.
Prim absent-mindedly observes the made bed, before her gaze flickers to Katniss once more.
"I'm telling Sae I'll quit my job," she announces. Prim subconsciously releases a startled sound. Being surprised to hear the news can be an understandment. Even though these had been Katniss's intentions all along, she chose to avoid sharing them with Prim only days after she returned home.
"When?"
"Today." She hears the gasp passing through her sister's lips. She shakes her head, correcting herself. "I'm just telling her today. I won't officially quit, unless I've found a new job in town."
Prim huffs. "Unless we have found a place to work, you mean."
"Wha—no," Katniss whispers baffled. "No, it won't be necessary, if I am careful with my choices. You don't have to feel indebted because you're not going to school."
She earns herself a lingering glare. "Stop," Prim demands. "Things will never be like they used to be," she reminds her ruefully.
"They can. You can go back to college. You are just taking a break from it all."
"I'm not saying this just for me, Katniss," she points out. "I'm not going to burden you with college fees again. It won't be fair."
Katniss's nose wrinkles thoughtfully. She honestly tries to understand that her sister wants them to be equals—like they once were—in all ways possible. Yet, there's a part of her desiring to object to Prim's reasoning, to express her disagreement. She longs for the word but to be heard.
"But you had agreed this is how it would be until you completed your education."
"Yes," Primrose confirms. "After Mom and Dad's accident. After much persuasion on your part. And before I fell into a coma. Everything is a lot different now, though. You can't keep sacrificing yourself for my sake forever," she reasons.
"I'm not—"
"Don't say you're not. That's a lie."
"I wouldn't lie to you," Katniss rushes to retort. "I'm not leaving anything behind. Really. We sold our house in Twelve years ago. There's nothing—"
"Please, let me finish," Prim requests. "You know how I feel about owing." Katniss nods, being quite familiar with what Prim is referring to. She does feel the same way, after all. "You're my sister. If we keep this up, I'll only start wishing to repay you for the favors you're doing for me. I don't want to call them favors. I want everything to come naturally."
"It is. No one is forcing me to help you," Katniss explains, a slight frown painted on her face. She had taken Prim returning to college for granted.
"I know. But it won't change much for me. I think it's about time I start being financially independent. Not by babysitting or doing part-time jobs. By actually working. I need to stop taking things from you."
"Things?" Katniss's upset tone betrays the extent of her frustration. "What kind of things?"
"Whatever matters. More free time. A workplace where you are truly respected. Peeta. What about Peeta?"
She sighs, even more perplexed. "What about him?"
"Have you considered what his reaction will be when he realizes you plan on moving to town? For my therapy."
Dead silence prevails for a brief moment. "He'll be alright with it." Prim arches an eyebrow in disbelief. "No, really. He already knows I hadn't moved in this house permanently. He'll be expecting it. He'll be okay."
She flinches, understanding that she has started to repeat herself. It sounds as if she is trying to convince herself, rather than Prim.
"I—I'll be late for work," she blurts out awkwardly. She fears whatever has sister has mentioned to her is going to chase her for the rest of the day at Sae's farm, if not for the rest of the night, too.
"You need to go." Her words jibe with Katniss's internal monologue.
"We can talk about this again. Don't be stubborn," the brunette advices. "You could always change your mind."
"Uh-huh, I could. I'm not going to," her sister insists.
Katniss rolls her eyes in the process of heading for her bedroom door. She puts one hand on the handle, gripping it, pushing it down. She offers a small wave to Prim's direction, who seems to be busy with searching for clean clothes to dress for the day.
With a long sigh, she hastily descends the stairs. She lets her roommate's willing smile warm her heart, even for a little while. In reality, she aches to hear that what she has assumed is true, that finding no time for him for a couple of months won't hurt him as much as it will bother her. (She, however, sure as hell knows he will be anything but indifferent as soon as he hears of her plans.)
Maybe she shouldn't have spoken on his behalf. Maybe leaving District Twelve will be the final straw for his patience to be utterly dissolved.
A thousand lifetimes could pass. Maybe she still wouldn't deserve him.
November, Week Two
She shouldn't tell him.
This is the thought buzzing nonstop in her head as she watches him turn the page of his recipe book, sitting on the other side of kitchen table. His gaze lingers on some words more than it does on others, thoroughly scanning the lines, narrowing at them.
Katniss shifts nervously on her seat, transfixed by his hand, which is slowly creeping towards the black pencil lying on the wooden surface. He grips the object in his palm, skillfully twirling it in between his fingers, before finally deciding to put it in use. He underlines a couple of phrases—or even sentences—adding some notes of his own when he considers it essential.
Her teeth unconsciously sink in the tip of her bottom lip.
She should tell him.
She replays the image of the way she greeted him at the hospital over and over again, when she first learned her sister would be capable of recovering with the family's help. Her cheeks redden a little at the memory, even though she is more than positive she regrets nothing.
However, she can't help wondering whether what she did, showing him what she really would have wanted from him, was wrong. Because he hasn't initiated a conversation to her about it. And because she has no clue of what he might have been thinking of her afterwards.
The scratching of the pencil against the paper stops. Confused by the nature of her strange silence, he places whatever held his attention only seconds ago down, and looks at her without a single warning.
Her breath hitches in her throat at having been caught. (But really, how could he neglect the fact that she has been staring at him without moving a muscle all along?)
"What's wrong?" he asks cautiously.
She tries to smile reassuringly, but in the end only manages to grimace, exacerbating the situation she has gotten herself into. Though, knowing she was the one who sat opposite from him while he was working on the first place, she doesn't complain.
She shrugs. He reflects her frown. "What's bothering you?" he encourages.
She swallows. "I…I just don't know how to say it," she confesses, embarrassed.
He leans forward, supporting a part of his weight on his one elbow, as if he is waiting to hear a secret. He most possibly intended for the sight before her to be laughable. A small, nearly inaudible, chuckle escapes her mouth.
"Well," he says. "I have all the time in the world to listen to you."
Big words for someone who is not worthy of them, as usual. Though, instead of feeling guilty hearing them, Katniss derives all the comfort she will need.
"Um. You have to finish with your work first," she reminds him.
"Or I can continue working when I'm actually at work," he suggests. "If that's what's holding you back, don't even think about it. There's no rush in what I'm doing. Nothing that I really have to finish," he explains.
She nods, suddenly feeling daring. "Can we go for a walk, then? I mean, it's not that cold out. I kind of need a break from being here."
Creases appear on his forehead. Since she isn't going to the farm today and Madge offered to drive both her and Prim to town, there is no excuse for why she stayed here. They are probably thinking along the same lines.
What he doesn't know is that Prim practically forced her not to leave with them. She knows her fears, the reasons of her hesitance, the recent neediness she has developed to keep sharing things with Peeta.
Prim said she should have faced him sooner than later. Whether she is right or wrong, there truly is no going back now.
He quietly hums in agreement. "That's a good idea. Let me fetch my jacket first."
She waits until she doesn't hear his footsteps anymore and follows the direction he did, copying his actions.
They take a different path today, Katniss notices. The meadow has started getting out of reach, but the village square isn't close, either.
"I'm ready whenever you are," he says, breaking through Katniss's tension, lightly squeezing the hand he's holding. He shoots her a lopsided smile, giving her stomach a funny feeling. She might never get used to those—they have a way of catching her off guard each and every time.
"Okay," she replies. "It's—about Prim's therapy." She shakes her head. "And me," she emphasizes. "Although I've been driven to face this much sooner than I originally thought, I don't want to put the blame on her. I'm not going to make this about her, because it really isn't."
He bobs his head in comprehension, urging her to go on.
"We're moving in town. We'll stay at Madge's for a week or two, but we'll eventually rent our own apartment." She feels the intensity of his stare on her as she keeps walking, looking ahead of her.
"I know," she murmurs. "This isn't one of the greatest decisions I have ever made, but there's not much Prim and I can do back here." She releases a breathy, humorless chuckle that barely reaches his ears. "I finally feel like I can understand my parents' logic. They had wanted us to have a better life. They hadn't imagined we could have achieved anything close to it here."
"That does make sense," he says. "For a family of four, I mean."
"Yeah, well," she answers. "We're not so many. But I guess we'll work it out."
She remains silent after that, confused by his reaction. Or maybe confused by his lack of reaction. There is no anger in his voice to infuriate her. But then again, there is no hollowness in it to intimidate her, either.
"So what you had to say to me…" He trails off, waiting for her to fill in the apparent gaps in his head.
"That was most of it," she declares in a tone that makes it seems as if it should have been pretty obvious to him. "I just thought you needed to know. Truth to be told, I was expecting you to be more—" She grunts, unable to finish that sentence.
"But I already knew," he replies. He looks away from her for a moment, trying to translate the unspoken words. Then, he observes her closely, until realization hits him.
"You thought I'd be mad?" he asks surprised. The small sound Katniss's throat unwillingly elicits gives him all the answers he possibly needs. "Why?" he inquires.
"Not mad. You once told me you'd be disappointed," she corrects.
"Yes," he confirms, clearly capable of recalling the conversation. Does he believe this doesn't mean a great deal to her? "I said that once."
She finally recognizes their surroundings. Her gaze travels over the tall green trees, while her memory travels years before this moment—all those picnics and treks and songs that made the birds' chirping stop all at once come rushing back to her. (Her father rarely took Primrose, who was too frightened by everything, out in the woods with him, but Katniss hadn't missed a single chance to follow his feather-like footfalls whenever he asked her to.)
"I can't disappoint you of all people, Peeta," she states. She keeps her eyes trained on her shoes. He stops moving altogether, and she has no choice but to do the same. (But she's still too much of a coward to hold his gaze when he craves for it.)
"You haven't," he tells her honestly. She buries her hands deep in the pockets of her coat as a violent shudder shakes her form. "Katniss, you haven't." His urgency is what prompts her to properly face him in the end.
"This is different. You aren't writing me off for no reason. I think it's safe to say I can understand."
"I'm not writing you off at all." He nods, perfectly aware of it. "You just won't tell me what you want," she adds. "It's not fair for you."
"No." He shakes his head. "What's not fair is you and your sister going through more than what you've already had. I get it Katniss. It's okay."
What breaks her, really? The fact that he means every single word coming out of his mouth? Or the fact that there is no self pity in his tone when he tries to convince her he understands? Maybe both, she decides.
He begins to retreat, signaling the end of their brief exchange. But she will have none of it. As soon as he realizes she is not there, walking right beside him, he halts, turning around to give her a questioning glance.
"What do you want?" she demands. There is absolutely no room for his selflessness now.
His shoulders slump at her words, and he gestures for her to approach him one more time. She stays rooted to the ground, stubbornly returning his stare until he has no other choice but to sigh in what can only be characterized as defeat.
"What do you mean?"
"Tell me what you want. Do what you want. Stop thinking about what I'd say for a moment." He opens his mouth to protest. Yet, she's quick enough to cut him off midsentence. "Don't tell me you can't. Everyone can be selfish, if they want to. Stop being so exasperating, just—"
She steps back in surprise, the words dying in her throat, when he strides forward, standing before her in only a matter of seconds, his blue orbs blazing with something Katniss cannot seem to name.
He whispers—maybe mouths—a couple of phrases at her, phrases she doesn't catch. Her eyes move upwards to capture his—he's not even that tall, yet she feels as if he's practically towering over her—but widen by the time they find no correspondence.
His attention is elsewhere. An unforeseen thrill of excitement rushes through her, making her toes curl.
He narrows his eyes at her lips, clearly debating with himself whether to listen to her or not. Wondering whether whatever he has in mind is right or wrong by her. It is always her—never him.
Growing rather impatient with him, she tilts her chin upwards in manner that is evident enough for him to get the hint she is offering. He barely moves as he gives in, managing to steal a peck from her inviting mouth.
He pulls back, looking at her with determination, instead of the hesitance she has been expecting. Had he asked her, she would have still granted him permission.
"I want to kiss you," he proclaims, just loud enough for her to hear. She doesn't nod, doesn't even have the time to blink at him.
He cups her cheek. He angles his head differently, correctly, tasting her lips again and again and again. He kisses her thoroughly, fully, not daring to leave a single inch of her mouth unexplored. He devours her until she's senseless, breathless.
And she refuses to let the newfound hunger, the conspicuous feeling of starvation, consume her. She refuses to allow her knees to buckle in front of him. She just refuses to remain passive, because she is that selfish.
So she kisses him back with all that she's got. She helps him memorize the way the heat radiating off her body feels pressed against his. Or that she awkwardly wonders where the heck to hold onto so that there will be no chance of her losing her balance. Or that she doesn't stop seeking for the curious satisfaction she has been anticipating till the moment he urges her to slow down and keep up with his moves.
His careful, seething, delicate moves that—frustratingly enough—leave her desiring more without being capable of truly clearing up what 'more' is in her mind. But, for once, she is sure this has nothing to do with her mind.
When he reluctantly pulls away, all he does is watch her; the vivid red of her lips as she tastes it one last time, the unmistakable blaze as she watches him, the almost violent rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in and out.
"Do you want to go back?" he asks her then, the sound of his voice strangely raucous. She does her best to ignore whatever this achieves to stir inside her.
She shakes her head no. He nods, while his hope turns into contentment.
They find their way into the dark, mesmerizing woods upon Katniss's request. To her complete and utter surprise he withdraws a small, practical pocketknife out of his jacket. Realization dawns on her once he reaches his goal, carving a single word on the tree.
(She remembers his willow.)
She steps closer, pryingly eyeing the wood once he seems to be done.
Peeta, it says.
A wry smile decorates his face as he steps back and hands the knife over to her. Her fingers close tightly around the base of it moments before she actually understands he wants her to carve her name next to his.
She thoughtfully runs her thump over the sharp blade. It takes her a while to come up with an idea and much, much longer to imprint it on the tree. (Her handwriting has been messy since she can remember.)But in the end, she knows she means it. Whatever she's been trying to tell him, that word seems to adequately cover it all.
Always, she writes.
December, Week Two
She's cold. Although this year's winter seems to be a lot milder than the previous one, she has as usual neglected to dress warmly.
And why should she? She'll live—lives, but still isn't any close to familiar to the change—two blocks down from Madge's house. She and Prim moved most of their furniture from the rather spacious basement of the Undersees (who promised to keep the all of their old things until Katniss came back—and she has now) to their new apartment a few hours ago.
Her blonde-haired girl friend opens the door only seconds after she hears the soft knock on it. She grins widely, and Katniss is greeted with a series of unexpected memories. The facts begin to kick in one by one as she accepts them, sighing loudly. She concludes that she had been standing on this threshold precisely one year ago.
"Well," she says. "Do you plan on letting me in?"
Instead of apologizing, Madge shakes her head mischievously. "Not a chance," she answers. "Unless, of course, you would like to have a hot chocolate."
"No, thanks," Katniss declines. "I've still got plenty of unpacking to do." And therefore a lack of spare time, she adds in her head what she is sure Madge is already aware of. She eventually offers her elbow, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Shall we?" It is what she came here for, after all. To lead the way (although she suspects Madge would have found it even without her help, one way or another).
Madge rushes inside to put on an overcoat that will prevent her from freezing and a pair of shoes. She closes the massive door behind her and soon anchors herself on Katniss's arm. They walk arm in arm towards their destination, barely exchanging a word with one another, like old times.
Unconsciously, Katniss smiles at the thought. Starting to bond with Madge again is one of the perks of her coming back home. Home. The word seems foreign to her now and will probably feel like it for a great amount of time. Peeta had become her normal, after all. He hasn't stopped being her normal, even though they have been out of touch with each other for almost three weeks.
The Undersees have been overly generous with the Everdeen girls thus far. They saved a room to host them since the last week of November and had absolutely no objection with allowing them to stay for as long as they needed to. The mayor's kindness originates from more than just a good heart, as Katniss has noticed. His openhandedness pleases his daughter.
Katniss will not say no to what he has to offer as long as it keeps her and her sister fed and clothed. She might have achieved to gain a new job for herself (as a diner waitress), but she appreciates the fact that there was no use for Prim to go through a similar procedure. Mr Undersee has assured them that putting a couple of good words for Primrose hadn't been that hard.
Having personal connections with a plethora of people who work on the market might have a couple of benefits, Katniss has decided.
Before she knows it, she has reached the third floor of the old building she has stepped foot on several times by now, Madge following closely behind her, panting.
"Slow down, will you?"
She smirks in response, despite the fact that she can distinctively hear the rapid beating of her heart as well. Her unsteady breathing doesn't go unnoticed by Madge, who rolls her eyes at her friend's childish behavior.
Katniss laughs, easing some the tension of the last couple of days off her tired shoulders. She is positive that if her exhaustion was nothing but physical, most things would be much easier to deal with.
"Are you seriously in the mood to unpack today? I would have waited until at least tomorrow morning." Katniss shoots her an incredulous look of doubt. "I'd only get my nightgown and toothbrush out," she adds defensively, earning a dramatic, mock scoff.
"You know how much I despise disorder in my room. My house now," she corrects herself. She buries her hand in the right pocket of her jeans, searching for what will open the door before her. "Besides, there is no better way to get your mind off whatever's bugging you."
She smiles triumphantly as her palm locks around the desired object. She faces her keys, hastily swallowing the aching longing as soon as she notices Peeta's spare key on the ring. (She had taken it off her locket once she simply felt safe enough to stop wearing the heirloom around her neck.)
"And what's bugging you, Miss?"
"Nothing." The frivolous answer comes too soon for Madge to give up. She only lets it go when Katniss stubbornly repeats the phrase, finally finding the key she needs. Instead of putting it in use, though, she has no choice but to place it back in her pocket.
Prim's surprisingly frustrated expression greets them both at the door.
"I can't find Mom's teacups," she protests. "Hey, Madge."
'Hi,' she mouths at her, waving.
Katniss's brow furrows. "What teacups?" she wonders out loud, confused.
"You know," Prim whines. "Her favorite ones. I've opened every box saying 'fragile', but still haven't found them. Why can't I remember where we put them?" If she starts panicking now, Katniss will panic more. She sure as hell hasn't learnt what buttons to press when it comes to her sister's condition, although she is aware Cinna—Prim's therapist—has labeled all these post-traumatic episodes, which keep stressing her.
Katniss shrugs nonchalantly, while in reality trembles with anxiety on the inside.
"I can't recall, either. Do you mean her blue ones?" Prim nods. "We'll open most of the boxes tonight, if not all of them. We'll find them."
"And I'll help," Madge interferes, in hopes of helping. "I have nothing better to do."
The declaration coaxes a small smile out of the blonde Everdeen. "Neither do I," she admits in defeat. She steps aside then, allowing the girls entrance. She gestures for them to move further inside, while she walks towards the place that is supposed to be their only bedroom.
Madge's eyes roam over the small place around her, examining the ugly-painted walls as well as the mess of personal belongings Katniss and Prim have created after moving in. Her attention returns to Katniss, who is apparently waiting for a reaction. Madge shrugs.
"I guess it's a little different from Peeta's house," she says.
Katniss raises an eyebrow at her words. A little? Her expression soon transforms into a neutral, nonchalant one. (Because that truly is not her real problem.) "It's different from Peeta's house, yes," she agrees. "But not at all different from what I've been used to since fourteen. It's not such a big deal."
They quickly become busy taking care of the mental list that has been written down on Katniss's brain so clearly. It has been her personal mantra all day long, what rescued her from feeling the need to let her thoughts drift elsewhere.
Working in silence is what Katniss usually indulges, no matter who the person contributing to her project is. Speaking whilst attempting to make accomplishments was not something she's been in favor of, as distractions all too often affect negatively—reduce even—her efficiency. And it's not personal; it's just a fact most people seem to ignore. This is when their choices, or better yet their lack of choices, start to backfire with full force.
This time, however, she is the one to derange the peace. Her question confuses Madge to the point of thinking too much, until she finally reaches an acceptable conclusion. A rather plausible conclusion.
"How do you make it work? You and Gale," Katniss clarifies. She locates a crumpled piece of paper on the narrow kitchen countertop and takes it in her hands, her eyes skimming over the clean handwriting—Prim's handwriting. In reality, she is only using excuses to present the current issue as an insignificant one.
"What do you mean?"
"How doesn't a long-distance relationship tire you out?"
Prim's relationship ended well, but ended nevertheless.
She feels the heat creeping up her face as she speaks, considering she has never discussed such a personal topic with Madge before. Of course there have been more private issues she has not kept secret from her, but initiating this sort of conversation with her is still a first.
"Well, for one it's no long-distance relationship. I can drive there whenever I please," she reminds her. "And then there's the fact that if you really want something, you do whatever is in your power to have it. You become creative. You start searching for loopholes, ways around the difficulties, regardless how magnificent they are."
Katniss's facial features rightfully contort until her suspicious frown is easily distinguished. The sight of her slowly trying to digest the information is what cracks Madge up. She soon recovers, though, muttering a soft apology.
"Why are you even laughing at me?" Irritating Katniss was never among her intentions.
Madge shakes her head dismissively. "It's nothing," she admits. "I'm just saying that if you are sure you want Peeta, then should be nothing holding you back."
"Wh-what? I never said anything about this," Katniss stammers nervously. Suddenly, holding Madge's gaze seems like the most unattainable deed on earth. However, she somehow manages to persuade herself she won't be the first to break.
"But you never actually asked me about Gale, did you?"
As the blonde girl pronounces the statement out loud, Katniss realizes how obvious she has been, although she never wished for it. And of course she wouldn't ask such things about Gale out of the blue; it is not her business to pry.
She replays Madge's words over and over again in her head, coming up with a decent enough answer to offer. But she doesn't want Peeta. Well, maybe she does, but this would be only one of the aspects that characterize her feelings. Physical attraction is not exactly what she has been obsessing over for as long as she has been apart from him. Every single emotion connected to it is.
(She clearly remembers starting to bond with him because of his way with words as well as deep understanding of what tormented her.)
Then again, Madge has seen nothing other than the brief, desperate exchange (the one she started) at the hospital between them. Although what she has inferred about them might be more than what she claims to know, she has chosen safe, valid words to confront Katniss.
Eventually, Katniss offers a small movement of her head, confirming the fact.
"I didn't think so," Madge responds knowingly. "I meant what I said. You should go."
"Go when? There's no time for that," she tells Madge with a frown. "I already have a never-ending list of things that have to be finished here before this evening. Tomorrow afternoon is my first shift at the diner. And I intend on supporting Prim for as long as she needs me."
"Make time for that," the mayor's daughter encourages. "Instead of worrying about what you can't do, focus on what you can do." Katniss parts her lips to protest. "You'd be surprised," Madge cuts her off.
Katniss blinks tiredly at her. Her bones might not ache in the way they once used to, but she does feel exhausted; tired of fighting what she wants.
"When's your day off?"
Katniss scratches the back of her head, processing the question. Disappointment floods her before she even utters the words. "I don't have any days off. I'll be working a few hours daily."
Madge's pupils dilate in surprise. "That can't be right. You must have at least one day off. Mondays? Wednesdays? What about Sundays?" she presses.
The brunette shrugs. "The diner isn't open on Sundays anyway," she states.
"Bingo! These are Peeta's free days as well. Tell me your shifts end early on Saturdays and it'll all be settled."
A quiet laugh follows her eagerness. "I'd wish," Katniss replies. She—of course—has no such luck. Not that she has any clue of what might be going on in her best friend's head at the moment.
"Visit on Sunday," Madge still insists. "I'll drop you there. It will be a good chance for me to keep my promise to Posy." She notices Katniss's odd glance. "Last time I went there, she asked me to show her my pink ribbons. I can't exactly decline," she reasons, even though it is pretty evident she thoroughly enjoys her time at the Hawthornes'. Her and Hazelle—Gale's mother—ended up getting on pretty well.
Katniss exhales soundly, averting her eyes one more time. "I'll think about it," she announces, turning on her heel, leaving Madge to smile widely all by herself in the narrow kitchen.
The words ring in her ears in the most familiar way possible. There is no doubt she has heard them before.
.
.
She presses her lips tightly together, concentrating on the sound of Madge's car disappearing somewhere in the distance. She momentarily holds onto whatever seems close to her while she tries to pack up the courage she needs to move forward, to reach the doorstep within her eyesight.
She approaches as much as her feet will allow and hesitates for a long moment, debating with herself whether she should knock and wait for him to invite her in or take the initiative and make her presence known in an entirely different way.
There's an ache in her chest when she remembers that she shouldn't have the rights and liberties she once used to in this house. So, she presses her balled fist to her mouth, clearing her throat and finally moves forward.
Her index finger remains pressed on the small button that will signal her arrival—the doorbell—for less than two seconds. She uncomfortably shifts her weight from one foot to another, unconsciously playing with the small thread escaping the seam of her jeans' left pocket.
She stands there, waiting, for a couple of minutes, before she considers the fact that Peeta might not even be home. Reluctant to ring the doorbell again, she allows the small expulsion of air to pass through her lips. She collapses on the first, lowest step, covering her face with both of her palms.
It's not like she feels she's lost her time by coming here. She just doesn't know what to do with it now her plans have been ruined. (Not that she truly had plans in the first place.) Calling Madge seems absurd for multiple reasons.
Her train of thought is unexpectedly interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open behind her. She turns her head in surprise, coming face to face with her equally taken aback former roommate. She instantly lets go of the tiny thread, never breaking eye contact.
"Katniss?" he calls, the uncertainty crystal clear in his voice. She nods twice.
"Why are you sitting down there?" he asks puzzled.
She squirms a little, managing to have a better view of him. "I thought you weren't here. I wasn't sure what to do about it," she confesses.
"Sorry it took me a while," he says in response. "I was upstairs." She bobs her head in comprehension once more. "Would you like to come inside?"
"Yes." Her answer might be too quick, too eager for her usual taste, but she has nothing to hide from him. She wouldn't have come, if she hadn't known she was sure about appreciating what he has done for her sake.
She balances herself on her feet, instinctively wiping her pants, making the wrinkles on the fabric disappear. She looks up to see that his back is to her already, for he is walking further inside the house. She doesn't hesitate to follow him this time, and he soon leads her to the living room, where he all too often hosts his temporary guests. (But also where they have a plethora of memories with each other.)
A pang of panic knocks the breath out of her lungs when she notices his hands—the same blood-colored hands she has dreamed of so many times since her sister's accident. He notices the veil of dread hovering over her and rushes to offer an explanation, the one that represents the truth.
"It's paint," he reassures her. "I've been painting," he adds for good measure, although she seems to have gotten the message by now. The last bit of information he just shared with her piques her interest.
"Really?"
A mixture of wonder and longing laces her voice as she recalls the last time she watched him paint. Even though this is definitely not something he tried while they were living under the same roof, his talent for expressing himself through art intrigues her. He might not have drawings and paintings to display, but the bakery is art. His love for decorating cakes, frosting cookies, or even molding the dough bread is made of is art.
Peeta shrugs in response. "I've got plenty of hours to kill today."
She is aware. It is one of the reasons—not the main one, but still—she chose to return to District Twelve on a Sunday morning.
Her fingers travel downwards. There it is; the thin, nearly invisible string hanging from her pocket. She almost hears herself asking for a pair of scissors.
Guilt eats away at her. She could help him fill up his free hours three weeks ago. She can do it right at this moment. But she still doesn't know how to tell him she can.
"So…" He trails off, maintaining the silence. He runs a hand through his hair, unknowingly revealing the extent of his jumpiness. He hastily lets it fall back down once he catches her staring.
"Make yourself at home. I need to scrub my hands clean." He examines his palms for emphasis. "I'll be right back," he announces. Yet he doesn't attempt to move his feet, which look as if they're glued to the floor.
He takes her in and she struggles to eliminate her urge to pull her bottom lip between her teeth. "Is anything wrong?" Although the worry is undeniable, his confusion overpowers it by far.
"No," she says. "Nothing. I just can't imagine spending my Sundays in town."
"Oh." He seals his parted lips, until her words finally register and his whole face breaks into an inevitable, contagious grin. "I'll be right back," he repeats. Instead of reaching one of the bathrooms, he heads towards the direction of the kitchen. Not particularly fond of making herself comfortable, as he phrased it, she walks to one of the orange curtains, gently pulling it aside to gawk at the backyard. She smiles to herself as she spots the small basketball court.
The sound of Peeta's footsteps snaps her out of her reverie. He returns, approaching her. The sheepish smile he gives her is all she needs to close the distance between them, embracing him tightly.
"I've missed you," she mumbles against him, feeling his arms envelop her as well. He brushes the small of her back.
"I've missed you more," he retorts. "The house has been empty."
She gazes at him apologetically after she drops her hands to her sides. "If you need help with anything…"
"Nah, it's alright. I'll live. How are you doing?"
Suddenly, she feels as if those three weeks she spent without him never existed. She remembers listening to him talk about a bakery he loves to run, and telling him about her usually uneventful days. The sweet, familiar coziness leaves a delicious tingling on her skin, warming her to the very core.
So after, when she admits she wants to try (because it is something she can do, as she has decided) and the hope flickers in his azure eyes, the anxiousness is long forgotten.
She promises to come back every Sunday. He promises to call every day. They agree to spend Christmas here, with Prim.
And when he kisses her cheek, she snuggles closer against him on the couch, forming one and only coherent thought in the head that is no more filled with unrest and distress. This is where she belongs.
Always.
~fin.