When I open my eyes, I find Katniss staring at me. Her head rests on my shoulder and her grey eyes—so dark they're almost black—are locked onto mine. I brush the hair out of her face and behind her ear before I can stop myself. But she doesn't stop me; she just continues to stare.
"Nightmares?" I ask. I take in the rest of her body; her right arm is stretched across my chest and her right leg is hitched around my waist. Thank God I didn't get morning wood this morning or what would have been awkward.
"No," she whispers, blood rushing to her face. God, she looks so innocent when she blushes. I forget that she's only twenty. But she doesn't look it—and I'm apparently not the only one that thinks that considering she wasn't even carded last night.
"I'm glad."
She finally looks away from me and down to where her arm lies on my bare sternum. But she doesn't pull away, her grip tightens.
"I find myself wanting to touch you," Katniss says, avoiding my gaze.
My heartbeat picks up, now pounding in my chest. I want to touch her, too. And kiss her. And taste her. Fuck, I want to taste her so bad. But she's grieving. And clinging to the only companionship she has right now: me.
"You can touch me whenever you want," I tell her, trying not to sound too excited or too hesitant.
The truth is Katniss Everdeen is an enigma. She's cold one minute and hot the next. I never know what she's thinking. She changes her mind ever other second. She never reacts like I assume she will. She nibbles on her lip or fingers the end of her braid when she's nervous or uncomfortable—which seems to be all the time. She's unpredictable. She's half-insane.
She's different.
I like it.
But it makes me crazy too. I have no idea what's happening to me or to her and it's infuriating. But if she wants to hold me now, I'm going to revel in it. Because I understand that I don't really understand her, I get that she might not want to in ten minutes.
She nods into my shoulder, bringing me out of my head. "You can touch me, too," she murmurs as her body presses tighter against mine.
I wrap my arms around her bare back and just hold her to me. She doesn't have to tell me twice. I want to kiss her and taste her and take her, but right now, this is good enough. And maybe it always will be.
I turn on the TV so she doesn't get uncomfortable just laying here half-naked. She doesn't comment on it; she just turns her head to the small contraption resting on the dresser at the end of the bed. So wrapped up together, we watch reruns of Gilmore Girls and nibble on the final leftover pastries my father packed for us.
Katniss doesn't move away from me the whole time and I find myself watching her more than the screen. Her braid unraveled sometime during the night, her hair now elegantly cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Her right arm has three large freckles that form a triangle right above her elbow. Her eyelashes are lighter than her actual hair, but delicate and lush. She her bottom lip is slightly bigger than her upper one and I can see that she has a small overbite. Her thighs aren't thin, but muscled and toned. And her calves are spotted with tiny scars that have obviously been there for a long time.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," she says, breaking our comfortable silence and forcing me to tear my gaze away from her tiny deep purpled painted toes. She's not looking at me; she's watching her fingers as they dance back and forth on my bare chest, above my heart.
"You want comfort," I answer for her, moving my hand so it rests on her knee. I'm still surprised she hasn't moved to get dressed yet. "And I told you, I went on this trip to help you. If that means I hold your half-naked body against mine—so be it."
She turns her face to me, a soft smirk on her lips. "Good to know."
I chuckle. "But all jokes aside, I'm here, Katniss. I truly mean that. I want you to trust me—and I hope we're getting there. I mean, look at us now. You obviously trusted me enough to admit that you needed someone to hold you and help you fight off your nightmares."
"I can't explain it—but I want to tell you things," she admits, turning her eyes back to her hand. "And I'm not used to wanting to talk to anyone. Not since Prim."
I take a shuddering breath. "I want to listen." More than anything.
Unfortunately, our moment is cut short when we remember we have to check out of the hotel at eleven. I dress slowly, dragging it out, hoping this time it won't end with Katniss going back to being distant. Not after I've finally pierced the veil. But she's Katniss. Incalculable.
"Ready?" I ask when my clothes are back in my bag and my teeth are brushed thoroughly.
She nods her head. Silent. My stomach drops; I can already feel her slipping through my fingers, closing herself off from me. I walk past her and into the hallway, eager to get back on the road to distract myself. But as we stand in the ugly elevator, waiting for it to descend, she slides her hand into mine. And it's not until we're fully checked out and have loaded our bags back in the jeep that she finally lets go.
I miss her immediately.
"They're expecting us tomorrow," she whispers as we pass through Nashua, New Hampshire. She plugged in her iPod hours ago, and currently playing through the speakers is some techno-alternative song I've never heard before. But I like it. "The sexton said everything would be ready then."
I nod my head, unsure what else there is to do. "Why Maine?" I ask instead.
A smile tugs on her mouth as she tugs on her braid. "It's where my parents met. My father grew up in Braintree, Massachusetts, a small mining town. But my mother was raised in Bar Harbor. She was from a wealthy family—they own a popular chain of drugstores in New England—and she met my father when he got a job in Bar Harbor for the summer. He worked at the marina where my mother's father kept his boat."
"Anyway, they fell in love and moved away, down to Oklahoma where my Dad was going to college. But they visited Bar Harbor every year on their anniversary. My grandfather sort of disowned my mother when she decided to marry my father, but when they continued to visit as the years passed, it made him realize that he wasn't just after her inheritance and they ended up getting along really well. He let my father be buried in the family plot, which is huge and has been in my family since like the birth of America. But yeah. That's why Maine."
"That's a great story," I say, smiling. I want a story like that. Meeting my wife in a place that's so ordinary but means so much. "So you want to stay somewhere else tonight?"
She bites her lip. "If it's not too much trouble, yeah. I don't know how long I can handle being there."
My heart drops to my stomach, my pain for her palpable. Before I even get the chance to reach for her, her hand is in mine and she's threading our fingers together. I squeeze them for reassurance, both for myself and her. She slips out of my grasp soon after.
She reaches into the glove box and grabs the folded up maps and begins rifling through them. I turn my eyes back to the road. I know that she said she wants to touch me—but what the hell does that actually mean? Is it going to continue to be these comforting hand touches or hugs or is it going to be more? Or is she going to stop all together soon?
"There's a little town called Biddeford that we could stop in tonight. It's like four hours from Bar Harbor," she says after she's inspected the roadmaps for at least ten minutes.
I run a hand through my hair and nod. "Sounds good."
It's only another hour and a half until we reach Biddeford, a relatively small town close to the coast. All the buildings look Victorian or made of old brick. It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it. I've lived in Oklahoma my whole life—never venturing out of the district where I was born. But given this opportunity with Katniss, I finally am. She may think that I'm doing her a favor, but in all honestly, she's doing me one too.
We pull into the first hotel we see, a Comfort Suites, and unload our bags and ourselves from the jeep. It's starting to feel redundant, this packing and unpacking. But I don't mind it. I could get used to living on the road. For as long as Katniss wants me, I'm here.
The lobby is all tan and white. Bland really, in comparison to the green lush that resides just outside the walls of the hotel. We approach the tall wooden desk slowly. The receptionist is a petite dark-skinned woman with crazy black curls sticking out all over her head. She looks young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, but she's gotta be in her early twenties.
She shines us her white teeth, her smile lighting up her small, delicate features. She's kind of looks like the opposite of Katniss, all innocent and tiny.
"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is smooth and high pitched, but not annoyingly so like Delly's was. My chest contracts at the memory of her.
"Yes, we'd like a room for the night please," I tell her, adjusting the strap on my shoulder. I would offer to hold Katniss's bag for her, but I have a feeling she wouldn't like it.
She begins typing on her keyboard, her fingers flying. "And how many beds?"
"One, please," Katniss chimes in, cutting me off.
I turn to her, shocked and amazed. I mean, it's one thing for her to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night, but just to openly decide she wants us to sleep together? That's an entirely different ballgame.
She raises her eyebrow at me. Not her usual challenging way but curiously, worried. I want to reach for her and rub away the worry lines on her forehead. But I don't think she'd like that. So I just try to smile at her as warmly as I can and nod my assent.
"You're all set!" the receptionist says, pulling my eyes away from Katniss's flushed cheeks. She slides two keycards across the marble counter and towards Katniss as I hand over my dad's card.
"Do you guys have room service?" Katniss asks as the receptionist, who I now see is named Rue on her gold nametag, as she continues to type at her computer.
She looks away from her screen and smiles at Katniss. "Absolutely. Our chef makes an excellent lamb stew."
She hands me back the credit card and points us towards the elevator and to our room. We're on the second floor, room 215. The suite is too large for only having one bed. The floor is covered in brown carpet, and has both a large desk and a red and gold striped couch in the front part of the room. We walk past them and into the back part, where the queen size bed with a gold bedspread and a million pillows resides; a large boudoir with a TV on it is positioned in front of it.
I set my bag next to the bed and Katniss does the same.
"I'm kind of starved," she says, flopping down on the bed.
"Me too," I agree. I walk to the small nightstand and open up the top drawer, searching for the room service menu. I would be fine going out and getting dinner at restaurant or something, but if Katniss wants to stay in the room and eat room service, I'll do that too.
The small binder containing the menu and other bullshit that no one ever reads rests in the drawer underneath the bible, so I pull it out and hand it over to Katniss, who's still lying on the bed. As she starts to flip through the pages, I leave her behind and go to the bathroom that's positioned by the door. I shut the door behind me and turn on the faucet full blast. Splashing my face with the cold water, I try to relax. Katniss has me on edge without even doing anything. She's just being herself, but being herself is getting under my skin and fucking with my brain. She's beautiful and snarky and cold and warm and different.
But I can't fall for her. Not again. Not right now. I've known nothing but hurt when it comes to women, and she wouldn't be any different. She won't be an exception. She'll leave me broken.
I turn off the water and look into the mirror. My hair is just as unruly as it's ever been and my cheeks are flushed, but from what I'm not sure. I shake my head, bringing my thoughts back to what's important. Katniss. I need to get my head in the game. I'm not going to push her away, but I can't let myself get too wrapped up in her. I have to be on edge. Be prepared.
I walk back to Katniss just as she sets down the receiver to our hotel phone.
"I ordered a cheeseburger for you—yesterday you said you were craving one."
"Thank you," I tell her, surprised that she even remembers me saying that. I don't even remember it. I reach for the remote on the nightstand and turn on the TV. "What did you get?" I plop down on the bed and stretch my legs out as I lean against the headboard.
"The lamb stew. I figured the receptionist probably knew what she was talking about." She rises from the bed and stretches her arms over her head, revealing a sliver of her olive stomach. "They said it would take about an hour, so I'm gonna shower."
I nod and turn my face back to the TV. I surf the channels, hoping to find something good to watch, but I don't. So I just turn it off. I crawl off the bed and rifle through my bag, searching for my sketchbook. I haven't had the opportunity to draw the last couple days, and my hand is itching for it. The black leather book rests at the bottom of the bag, and I snatch it out and resume my position back on the bed as I search for a pen in the nightstand.
I flip it to the first blank page and let my mind wander, conjuring up whatever it wants and translating it to the page. Most of the time, I don't really have something I want to draw. I just do whatever comes to my head. So I do that again.
The opening of the bathroom door jars me back into reality. I finally focus on what I've been drawing the last half hour and I instantly shut the book before she sees. My eyes fly to her as she exits the bathroom. And I feel my mouth drop open.
I mean, I know I've seen her in less and with more skin exposed, but holy fuck she's sexy. The small hotel-provided, white towel is tightly wrapped around her small frame and her chestnut hair is wet and tousled and hanging loosely around her wet, exposed shoulders.
I shift my sketchbook to fully cover my lap as my dick throbs in my jeans at the sight of her.
"Sorry, I forgot to grab my bag before I took my shower," she says and snatches it off the floor next to mine and heads back.
I groan. So much for being prepared.
The food is delicious. My burger is juicy and smothered in ketchup—just the way I like it. Katniss moans in approval as she sips her hot stew. Apparently the receptionist had it right.
When I'm stuffed beyond belief, I slip off my shoes and remove my jeans. It's almost nine o'clock, and Katniss has been blinking slowly for the last half an hour, fatigue setting in.
Katniss sees what I'm doing and begins getting ready too; she moves across the room and turns off the main light, so the only thing igniting the room is one small lamp and the glow from the TV.
I slip under the covers in my boxers and white t-shirt. I don't take off my shirt like I normally would, not wanting to make Katniss uncomfortable. I'm not sure how this thing is going to go. Is she going to curl up next to me? Snuggle? Be the little spoon? Big spoon? Ignore me until she wakes up from a nightmare? I don't know.
When Katniss gets back to the bed, she sheds her sweats; her deliciously small pajama shorts are underneath. She turns off the light on her nightstand and then joins me under the covers.
"I'm tired," she yawns, sinking into the mattress. I turn off the TV in response.
As soon as the room is pure darkness, my body relaxes. I turn on my side towards her, trying to get comfortable. I don't know what she's going to do, but I know this is how I like to sleep. I release a loud sigh as I close my eyes and allow sleep to take me.
"My memories of her always get worse at night."
Katniss's voice jerks me alive. I open my eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her grey ones, but I can't. It's pitch black in here.
"It was a fire. She was having a sleepover at her best friend's house and there was an accident with a candle and the curtains or something and the whole house went up in flames. She was trapped a the room with her best friend. They both died. She was only fourteen."
Prim. My brain flashes with the school picture of her. Her innocent blue eyes and white-blonde hair.
My hand darts out, searching for Katniss. I need to hold her and take her pain away. I don't know what I touch, but I tighten my grip on it and pull her towards me. She throws her arms around my shoulders just as the sobs rack her body.
I squeeze her so hard it must hurt but I can't stop.
"Shh," I whisper, trying to soothe her. "I'm here. Just breathe."
"Why, Peeta?" she cries. Her nails dig into my shoulder blades. "Why did she go?"
"I'll never know," I tell her honestly, sliding my hand up her back slowly. "But she didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve it." I kiss the top of her head.
Her body ceases its trembling slowly, as well as her tears. When she finally pulls her face away from my shoulder, I tuck her bangs behind her ear and look down at her. I graze my thumb along her cheekbone, and remove the tears she missed.
"I don't know how I'm going to do it tomorrow," she whimpers. "My mom was fucked-up, but she was the last person I had."
"I'll be there," I say, pressing my lips to her forehead. "I won't leave you for a second."
She nods and places her head back down on the pillow. I remove my arms from her briefly to strip of my t-shirt, wet and sticky from her tears, but pull her back into them as soon as I can. She turns in my grasp so we're spooning and I bury my face in her neck.
I was fooling myself earlier. I'm going to make a mistake with Katniss.
I'm going to fall for her.
And I'm gonna break all over again.
Hey guys! I hope you liked this chapter! A lot of you thought Katniss was going to run away after she crawled into bed with Peeta in NYC, but not in this story. It's going to be Peeta who's more hesitant, as you can see. Thanks for following, reviewing and favoriting. You are all awesome.
And I've officially decided this fic is going to be fifteen chapters. I think that will give me enough time to wrap up everything the way I want it!
Tumblr: books-are-better