Chapter 8

It was apparent that neither or us really had an appetite anymore so Peeta wordlessly goes back to his seat and we both finish our food slowly. He does talk a little more though. About the Capitol. About the changes he's seen and what has stayed the same over the years.

Its odd hearing these things from him. I hadn't realized how much time has flown by. We're both 18 now, considered adults in District 12. We've been through the Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell, a rebellion. Me- losing my sister, losing friends and killing people with my own hands. Peeta- going through torture, surviving a hijacking, losing his entire family.

"Katniss, you're frowning again." Peeta's staring at me, concern darkening his eyes. I shake my head. "Do you ever think about it, Peeta?"

He cocks his head. "Think about what?" he says.

"What it would've been like if we didn't have to go into the Games?"

He shrugs. "Sure. Do you?"

I pause. But not to think my answer through. Just to take in a deep breath and push on. "Yeah. I do."

He smiles softly as he gathers the empty dishes. I immediately get up and walk over to the sink to wash them despite his protests. "Please. Its the least I can do," I tell him. He sighs, but busies himself making two cups of tea.

I'm washing the stew pot when he says, "What did you think it would be like?"

I rinse the pot as I say, "A lot easier." He's leaning his back against the counter opposite of me and facing me, his arm crossed. His silence encourages me to continue. "I'd still be hunting, of course."

"And I'd still be baking," he adds.

"And every Sunday, I'd come by and trade squirrels for your bread." I say.

He smiles at that and I carry on. "Prim would be safe, finishing up school, and she'd become close with Rory Hawthorne, despite my objections."

I stop then, noticing that it doesn't hurt to talk about Prim this way. Instead, even though it reminds me of how she is dead and gone, it reminds me that none of this was in my control.

"Do you want to stop there," Peeta asks gently as he checks the teabags that are steeping in the hot water. I shake my head.
"Things would eventually get better and Prim would have new clothes to wear," I continue, closing my eyes to picture it better. "That stupid cat would still be there, but only because he makes Prim happy." I hear Peeta chuckle.

"I'd go to the Hob and people would treat me normally."

"Not like a celebrity," Peeta confirms.

"And I'd be able to get everything my family needs," I say softly.

"And when you'd walk to and from the Hob every day, you would stop by the bakery window to look at the cakes," Peeta says, resulting in me opening my eyes and looking at him. He meets my gaze steadily. "And I'd try to talk to you every time, but the only time we would talk is when we were trading squirrels," he says, half-jokingly.

I'm hit with a pang of sadness. "Peeta, you couldn't just not be part of my life."

"Oh, I would be," he agrees readily, "but I don't think I would ever get the guts up to approach you."

I look down at my feet, shame burning my cheeks. "I would have had to thank you some day for the bread."

Peeta's feet come into my view of the floor and I look up abruptly to find him distractingly close. He seems hesitant as he raises his arms and rest his hands on my shoulders. But the words come out firmly. "Katniss, you never have to thank me for that bread. I would've done the same thing every day for you if you needed it." He then leans his head down and rests his forehead against mine.

My heart is pounding and I feel like I can barely breathe. The fire is back, the warm glow in my stomach that only appears when Peeta is touching me. The one that makes my mouth go dry and steals the words from my lips.

I could easily just wrap my arms around his torso and pull him closer. I could tilt my head up just a few inches and taste those lips I've missed so much. I could reach up and push the hair out of his eyes that shine only for me.

But instead he pulls back and lets go, leaving me utterly confused and struggling to reign in my emotions.

He grabs a small bowl on the counter and spoons out two teaspoons of sugar into a cup of tea. He then hands it to me, then picks up the other, unsweetened.

"Cheers," he says, lifting his cup.

"To what should've been."