Patience and attention to detail are two skills paramount to baking. I possess neither. While I can sit all day in a tree awaiting my prey, I don't have the stomach to sit around the bakery for hours at a time waiting for a batch of dough to rise or for a loaf of bread to cook. It's infuriating, the amount of time that goes into baking. What makes it even worse is the ease with which Peeta does all of it. He so effortlessly moves about the bakery, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
To him, I suppose it is. To me, it's torture. Sometimes it feels like he takes pride in the fact that he has a talent he excels out that I suffer at so miserably. He loves attempting to teach me to bake. He spends an endless amount of time laughing at my expense when things inevitably go horribly wrong each and every time.
To his credit, he never once gives up on me, though more than once I wish he would. After these particularly botched attempts, he gives me a few weeks off in between to try to regain some facade of self-confidence, but he always finds one excuse or another to drag me back in for another disastrous go. And since he never once complains when I ask him to hunt or gather or fish with me, I always agree to give it another try, though I have voiced protests more than once.
"Tell me a happy story," he says during our latest attempt. The bakery is abnormally quiet, especially for the spring. He uses the lack of customers as an excuse to pull me into the back to attempt a simple batch of cupcakes. There is nothing simple about cupcakes, I argue, to which he laughs in reply. So now I'm sitting on a stool in front of the long, white working table. He's positioned behind me, his chest brushing against my back as he leans into me.
His steady, skillful arm fits perfectly against mine as his hand holds mine around the whisk and guides me as we mix the batter together. It's an intimate moment, as we're prone to find ourselves in more and more as of late, and I'm thankful for the deserted bakery out front that offers us the rare opportunity. Though he works tirelessly to include me in all aspects of his life, the bakery is something that belongs solely to him, a part of his heritage and history into which I would never try to force myself. I usually feel guilty for monopolizing even the smallest fraction of his attention during working hours. With the bakery empty, however, I'm able to fail miserably in comfortable, leisurely silence without guilt.
"Hmmm," I venture, pretending to think on his question. I let my eyes drift close as I lean back into him, not for support but to simply feel him there with me.
"Hmmm," he mimics teasingly, leaning into me fully as he reaches forward with his free left hand and dips his index finger into the batter, pausing our mixing for a brief moment. As his finger approaches my mouth, I instinctively open it. Closing it around his finger, I swirl my tongue around his finger as he pulls it away. The batter, which is supposed to be a citrusy mixture, somehow tastes more along the lines of cinnamon. I know with certainty I've somehow managed to botch yet another batch, and I wonder idly why he didn't said anything while I dumped the ingredients into the mixing bowl. I guess he figured I would learn better from my mistakes this way than if he corrected every single thing I did. You would think by now he would have learned differently.
"Ugh." Swallowing the batter, even the small amount he's given me, is a difficult task. "I do hope I'm not going to have to eat this batch."
"Each and every one," he counters. I can feel his smile even if I can't see it.
"This moment, right now," I say as he wipes his finger against the side of his apron and settles his hand lightly on my side. My right hand's starting to ache from the constant stirring, but Peeta's a stickler about mixing until the batter is free of each and every lump. No matter how much I protest, he refuses to buy an electric mixer even though he can easily afford one. The bakery, among other things, is a homage to his childhood and his family, and everything about the way he bakes is exactly the same as the way his father did. It's both heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time.
"Hmmm?" He asks as a question this time. Satisfied that the batter is lump free, or at least as free as we are going to get it, he moves over to the shelves full of cooking trays. Rows upon rows line the shelves against the wall. Peeta grabs the closest one and brings it back to the table. Shifting slightly on my stool, I turn sideways to face him.
"This moment, right now," I repeat as I tentatively reach out. My fingers trail down the crisp, immaculate white sleeve of his outfit until they reach his wrist and pause. Wrapping my fingers in his, I continue, "is a happy story. Just being in the bakery and spending time with you."
Setting the tray down on the table next to the bowl, he turns to face me as I pull him closer. The curve of my lips into a smile can't be helped. "It's the happiest I've been in ages." It's amazing, how easily I can speak the words now. A year ago, I would have bit them back. It would have been too difficult, I would have been unsure, and not knowing how he might have replied would have terrified me into paralysis. But in this moment it feels like the easiest, most natural thing in the world to confess.
His arms are strong as they fold around me. Though we have long since given up on physical training, I keep my body together hunting and he keeps his in shape doing all the manual labor around the bakery, just as he had as a kid with his brothers for his father. Hundred pound bags of flour don't move themselves. There's an easy comfort I feel when held in Peeta's embrace, and it's difficult to explain just how safe I know I am in these sturdy arms.
His lips are both rough and gentle, urgent and playful, as he kisses me. His body moves to mold into mine, and he swivels me in the stool until my back is to the work space. As he leans into me, the edge of the table digs into my back and I grimace. He corrects immediately and efficiently, kicking the stool out from under me with his good leg while lifting me up by my thighs in the same moment. I gasp in surprise as he catches me and lifts, dropping me without ceremony on top of the table directly behind.
Peeta takes my gasp as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, and the gasp turns quickly into a moan. My fingers refuse to stay motionless; they travel from his hands to his arms, from his shoulders through his hair. I pull him into me as if I could devour him completely. We have had these kinds of moments before, where I have lost myself in the pleasure I wasn't aware my body could even feel, but this is something else entirely. My whole body is alive with desire, and I want to see just how much I can feel, just how much he can elicit from within me. It's a line we've danced at before but never crossed no matter the situation.
My boots slide up the backs of his legs as I wrap my legs around his waist. We are a mess of limbs, equal parts fumbling and exploring each other like we have never before. I wonder if it was what I said or if he's simply been holding back this side of himself for my benefit, until he could be sure I feel the same way about him as he always has about me and that he would be able to handle it when I finally do.
As his lips pull regrettably away from mine and move to leave a searing trail down my neck, I breathlessly say, "I think you should take me home now." I cling to him desperately as I fight the urge to drag his mouth back to mine though I need to take this opportunity to catch my jagged breath.
His lips trail back up to my ear. I tremble as his hand pushes the loose strands of my messy braid back. "You just want an excuse to get out of this batch of cupcakes," he teases.
I almost wonder if he's serious, but I can feel the effort of his heart and how it slams rapidly in his chest. It mirrors my own this way, and I know the sentence is a test of sorts. It offers me an easy way out. It's a way for me to ease out of the situation like we have done each time in the past, before things escalate. Only this time, I don't want to. I don't even have an excuse as to why we ought to.
It's been a year since he returned home. I'm no longer afraid of him lapsing under the influence of the tracker jacker venom. I'm no longer uncertain about my feelings as I was for so long, and Gale no longer weighs on my mind. As I stare into his eyes, I don't second guess whether my feelings for Peeta are genuine or simply a matter of convenience. He's no longer simply the first boy I ever kissed. He's the boy, the man, I want to kiss. And that want weighs so heavily on me now that I feel like I am going to explode if we don't act on it.
"Peeta." It amazes me, the levelness in my voice. I want to tear through him completely, and yet the word is steady and clear. "Take me home," I repeat. This time there is no doubt to the meaning of my words. If it was a test, my answer is clear.
His lips catch mine again as he lifts me off the table and carries me to the ovens. He doesn't even bother to pull the bread out. Without breaking the kiss, he turns off the ovens and extinguishes the fire in the wood burning stove. Then he carries me through the kitchen, setting me down only to reach to turn off the lights and to push me out into the front of the bakery.
Excitement and anticipation make me giddy as he switches off the lights and ushers me outside. Flipping the sign to 'Closed', he locks the door as I breathe in the fresh, spring air around us deeply. I catch the dart of a few pairs of eyes at the sight of the baker closing up in the middle of the day, and I marvel at the fact that Peeta doesn't seem to care about the ruined loaves and the unbaked batter we left on the table.
My fingers shake with nervousness as he finally gets the right key and locks the door. His attention immediately returns to me, and the look in his eyes causes me to melt. I curse my heart for being so weak when it comes to him. I never wanted to be the girl who falls apart from a simple look, but Peeta causes exactly that. As he catches me in a chaste kiss, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me towards the Victors' Village, I feel like a teenager. Neither one of us got to experience this type of freedom or emotion when we should have. Instead of flirting in school, I had worried about how much I needed to catch that week to keep my family fed and Peeta had worked in the bakery to help support his family. I had never given thought to the possibility of kissing in the town center with the baker's son, who I had exchanged covert glances with every once in a while.
Passersby pay more and more attention as we make our way towards the house, but the glances and looks are anything but judgmental. After all, I remind myself, this type of behavior has been expected from us the entire time. This public display is far less embarrassing than being spotted in the apothecary buying my herbs. The thought makes it easier yet more intimate at the same time, erasing my embarrassment but making me blush all the same.
Spinning around, I catch him in another kiss. Perhaps it's a test for myself, as we halt just on the edge of the town square and I pull his head down to mine. I know people are watching us, but I don't want to care. Or rather, I want them to watch. I want them to see this time, to know. It makes it real, and it makes it harder for me should I try to change my mind. I don't want to change my mind. I want to be happy, to feel alive again, and I know Peeta will do that for me if I only let him.
So I let him, in the middle of town, where everyone can see. My arms wrap around his neck and I hoist myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist once more as he responds and catches my legs to support me. His muscles flex against my skin. The feeling sends my heart pounding in a flurry. A part of me cowers on the inside, terrified of the public declaration I'm making. The rest of me revels in the excitement and the thrill.
"Stop," Peeta gasps as he suddenly tears his lips away. His head drops onto my shoulder, which does nothing to stop my pounding heart. But the word cuts through me like ice. I freeze against him, terrified of what comes next. I wait for him to start his mantra, for him to push me away while he tries to center himself.
Instead, he lowers me slowly to the ground. "If you don't stop," he whispers against my ear, so even the people inching closer to catch some of his words won't be able to hear, "then I'm not going to be able to stop. And I don't want that here, in front of all these people. I know the Peacekeepers usually turn their heads, but I'm pretty sure that will get even us locked up for a while."
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I realize what he means. His plea to stop is not like the others in the past. If anything, it's a promise of exactly the opposite.
I drag him back to the house as quickly as my shaking legs will go.