Chapter 8

The walk to Victor's Village for the second time today felt longer this time, each step heavier with the nerves buzzing inside me. The air had a damp chill to it, the kind that settles in after a hot, sticky day 0 cool but still holding the humidity of summer. It grew even cooler out now that the sun was down further from when I originally left my house. As I walked, I looked up at the sky, where the last remnants of daylight stretched across the horizon. Swirls of red, orange and yellow painted over the fading blue, the sun retreating behind the trees. Among the palette was my favorite shade of orange – not the bright, fiery kind, I had endured enough of that to last me a lifetime, but more muted and soft, like a distant memory of warmth. It only seemed to be a real color in the sunsets here in 12, there isn't any orange that I have ever seen in my life that could match it. Especially Katniss's old escorts hair, that was more of an insult to the color.

Where the sky met the horizon, the green of the trees stood out, stark against the vibrant hues. That familiar green, her favorite color. I remembered hearing that once, and now, seeing them together—her green and my orange—it stirred something deep inside me. A kind of harmony, like we were tied to this place in ways neither of us could escape. The thought made my heart race a little faster, my steps quickening toward the Village, toward her.

I reached the iron gate of Victor's Village and pushed it inward, the creak of metal cutting through the stillness of the evening. As I passed the first row of empty houses, they stood untouched—pristine and ghostly, like monuments to the people who were supposed to live inside but never did. The doors were smooth, their paint unblemished by the oils of hands that should have worn them down. The dirt paths lay undisturbed, flat and lifeless, with no sign of footprints leading in or out.

When I got closer to Katniss's house, a soft glow peeked out from the windows, casting long shadows on the path. It wasn't exactly welcoming, more like a small flicker of life against the dullness that surrounded it. Across the way, I could see her district partner's house—Keagan Rivers, dark and empty. His family never returned after the second Games, they were sent back to the Seam, as the rules of Victors Village stated that if the Victor at any point would pass on, the family was to move out. But, it doomed them too a worse fate – I will never be certain, but I do believe that the first blast I heard during the bombing was his family's home exploding from existence.

Keagan had been killed in that arena, struck down by the lightning tree in a final, brutal moment. His death was broadcast again and again, a twisted reminder of the Capitol's control, as if each replay was another blow to his memory, another way to torment those who loved him. It was sickening.

Katniss had survived alongside him in the 74th Games. Together, they had fought their way through, playing up a romance that no one believed. It was all a game, one they had to play to survive. Moves and countermoves. But when it came down to just the two of them, when the Capitol demanded a single victor, they refused to give them the satisfaction. I can still picture her, standing defiant in that arena, her eyes blazing as she pulled out the nightlock berries. She knew, even then, that it was bigger than just winning or losing. She shattered the Capitol's initial illusion of control, forcing them to declare both winners.

I remember thinking that night, as they were heading home, that I would have done the same if it meant we'd either die together or win together.

I reached the front of Katniss's house, my footsteps loud and creaky as I made my way up the porch. A small, pale yellow lantern sat perched on the baluster of the handrail, its paint uneven and streaky. The flowers painted on the sides—delicate pinks and whites—stood out in contrast, their caked-on layers betraying the work of someone more thoughtful than skilled. Katniss had never been the type to create anything so frilly. I guessed the lantern's creator was the bright soul who was no longer with us.

The door was slightly ajar, a soft creak as I knocked gently and pushed it open.

"Katniss?" I called out softly, stepping into her home. I tapped my shoes on the edge of the doorframe, a habit from my own house where the carpets clung to mud and dirt like a curse. The sharp clatter of a pot crashing echoed from deeper inside, making me wince. Loud noises always threw me off balance. I pushed the door shut behind me, but not before an orange blur streaked past. Buttercup, the cat. Ugly as ever, but purring contentedly as he wound around my legs.

From the entryway, I glanced down the hall. The house felt like a strange museum of mismatched elegance. The walls were lined with dull, uninspired paintings—likely cheap reproductions—hanging above baseboards carved with ornate patterns that seemed excessive even for a victor's home. The whole place was painted white, but from years of not cleaning them, they had a gray soot layer which made it darker. It felt cold, disconnected, nothing like Katniss. Rugs of different colors and mismatched designs covered the floors, none of them fitting together. It looked like someone had blindly chosen the decor, pulling pieces at random.

I walked down the hall, turning into the living room. The fireplace dominated the space, casting a warm glow that made it feel more lived in than the rest of the house. At least here, I could see traces of Katniss—pictures of her family stood proudly on the mantle, offering a stark contrast to the lifeless paintings that filled the other rooms. The couches, though, were ridiculous—an awkward combination of gold and deep navy blue, so stiff and pristine they looked like they belonged in a showroom rather than a home. A blanket lay crumpled at the end of one, a possible sign that Katniss might spend more of her time here. I glanced up the stairs, feeling a strange chill. Her room was up there, and I don't mean Katniss. The presence of it still lingering, even though she was gone. I doubted Katniss ever went up there alone.

The kitchen door swung open, and there she was. Katniss, looking frazzled and completely out of sorts. Her hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, and her front was splattered with some sort of broth. Her eyes were wild, a mix of irritation and exhaustion. "Are you early?" she half-snapped, before catching herself. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen and groaned. "Sorry, I lost track of time. The kitchen's a disaster, or I'd invite you in there. Go ahead, sit in the living room. I'll be right back."

I stifled a laugh, biting back the grin that threatened to show. She was a mess, but that's Katniss.

I smiled to myself, assuring her it wasn't a problem. I sank into the couch, I quickly realized I was overdressed for the occasion. My crisp button-down and neatly rolled sleeves felt out of place compared to Katniss, who was still in the same worn brown long-sleeve shirt and black pants from earlier, boots firmly planted on her feet. The stark contrast between us made me shift uncomfortably. I glanced around the room, noticing once again how wrong this place felt for her. The gold knobs on the doors, the crystal accents on the side tables—it all screamed opulence, a life far removed from the frazzled woman down the hall in the bathroom. Even the couch itself was stiff, unforgiving, and I wondered how she could stand to sleep on it. Then I saw it: a bedroom pillow tucked discreetly beside the fireplace, half-hidden as if she didn't want anyone to notice.

Of course. She sleeps on the floor by the fire. My chest tightened at the thought. The hard floor, the cold stone—yet this was Katniss. She was used to things being hard, used to discomfort. But still, it didn't sit right with me, imagining her curled up on the ground in front of this grand fireplace, as if even here, in her victor's home, she couldn't find comfort.

I heard the creak of an old pipe, followed by the unmistakable rush of water, signaling the shower had been turned on. Almost instantly, a familiar tightening in my pants made my breath catch. I closed my eyes, rolling them behind my lids in frustration, grateful that Katniss wasn't in the room to witness this. She's just taking a shower, I reminded myself. Probably a quick, normal shower… but then my mind betrayed me, conjuring an image of her under the warm spray, her hair tumbling down her back like rich, melted chocolate, water cascading over her bare skin. Her hands… moving freely, touching, cleaning...

I clenched my fists. Oh, damn.

"Peeta!" I scolded myself internally. "Christ, stop!"

I shook my head, as if I could physically force the image to fly out of my ears. Needing a distraction, I stood and adjusted myself, then followed the enticing smell of dinner into Katniss's kitchen. She hadn't been exaggerating—this place looked like a battlefield. Scraps of food littered the countertops, a few smears of blood from skinning fresh meat were smeared on the floor, and dishes were scattered everywhere, as though she'd grabbed every one in her house without settling on any.

I set the items I brought onto the counter, rolling up my sleeves. Helping her clean up a bit seemed like the best way to keep my mind off everything. In no time, I'd cleared the clutter, tossed the scraps in her composter, wiped the blood off the floor, and tackled the counters. No wonder she was so frazzled. I cant concentrate on anything until I have a clear area to do any sort of thinking. So it felt good to tidy the chaos, almost therapeutic in a way.

Satisfied, I turned my attention to the pot on the stove. The rich scent of the stew filled the room as I lifted the lid, letting the steam rise. My mouth watered as I tasted it. It was good—really good—but I could tell it needed a little something. I rifled through her drawers until I found a few spices, adding a pinch of garlic powder, a dash of paprika, and a touch more salt. Stirring the pot, I adjusted the heat with a smile, imagining how she'd react when she tasted the improvement.

The sound of the bathroom door opening caught my attention. A few seconds later, I heard fast footsteps heading down the hall, then up the stairs, probably to her room. I smiled to myself, picturing her rushing to get dressed, hoping I wouldn't notice. As I stirred the stew again, adjusting the heat, I didn't hear her coming back.

When I turned around, she was standing right behind me.

"Ah! Jesus, Katniss, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" I clutched my chest, my heart still racing, while she stifled a small laugh. Her amusement didn't last long, though, because the moment she took in the kitchen, her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Did... did you clean up?" she asked, almost sounding embarrassed. I smiled and shrugged casually.

"Yeah, call it a habit. I do it for everyone at the hospital. I'm a bit type A about keeping things tidy. Just don't ask me to do laundry—that, I'm terrible at," I joked, pointing at her. Her lips twitched, and for a moment, her expression softened in that shy way she did when she felt a little out of place.

As she bit her lip, half-embarrassed, she started unwrapping the loaves of bread and the small box I had brought. I finally took a moment to really look at her. She was wearing a sundress that stopped just above her knees in the front and flowed longer in the back. The colors were a mix of orange and yellow, swirling like watercolors across the fabric and two thin straps tied behind her neck held the entire dress up. Her hair, still damp from the shower, had been braided and lay across one shoulder.

When she finished unwrapping the loaves, her brow furrowed. She glanced down at them, noticing the difference. "Did you mean to bring two?" she asked, peeking inside the box.

"Yeah," I replied, trying to downplay my sudden embarrassment. "One for the stew, and the other... well, it's more of a sweet treat." My face heated at the realization that maybe bringing two loaves, plus the extra box, was a bit much. Katniss pointed to the box next, raising an eyebrow in question.

"That, though, is absolutely for after dinner," I laughed nervously, quickly grabbing it and placing it in the fridge. "No peeking—it's a surprise."

She gave a slight smile and nodded as we settled at her table, sitting across from each other. Her table was small, with just enough room to place the stew and bread between us. I tore the loaf in half, handing a piece to her. She accepted it with a quiet "thank you" and, without thinking, inhaled the aroma deeply. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second before she caught herself and stopped.

"Sorry," she muttered, as if embarrassed.

I chuckled softly, chewing on my own piece of bread. Watching her, it hit me how different our lives had been. Fresh bread had always been at my fingertips, something I never thought twice about. But for her, it was a rare luxury. I silently vowed then and there to bring her fresh bread every morning, a small way to share the comfort I had always taken for granted.

We finished dinner, and I couldn't help but sigh in contentment, patting my full stomach. "That was the best squirrel stew I've ever had," I said, grateful. She stood and began gathering our dishes, and as she passed by me, her hand brushed against my arm. She let her fingers trail lightly along my sleeve as she moved, leaving a strange warmth in their wake.

"Well, thank you for cleaning up my mess. I'll just put this away real quick, and then you can finally show me what this surprise is," she called from the kitchen.

I stood up, deciding to help her finish cleaning. She washed, I dried, and the pot—well, that just ended up in the fridge since she didn't seem to have any Tupperware. I mentally noted that for next time.

Grabbing the box from the fridge, I followed her to the couch. She sat at one end, and I took the other, with her legs casually extended toward me. As I glanced at her legs, I nearly fumbled the box. The last time I saw them was at the hospital, and they had been a bit patchy with hair. But now? They were smooth, freshly shaved. She had shaved her legs before I came over. Good Lord.

I set the box on her legs, using them as a makeshift table, and began to open it. "So, you told me once that you've had chocolate-covered strawberries before, but also said that one time you ate plastic and somehow thought they tasted similar…" I teased, watching her make a face before lightly kicking my thigh in protest.

"Hey, hold on! You're going to knock the whole thing on the floor!" I laughed, managing to get the box open just in time. Inside were four chocolate-covered strawberries, two coated in milk chocolate and two in white chocolate, each drizzled with the opposite chocolate. She stared down at them, eyes wide, admiring how neatly they were decorated.

Her silence said it all—she was impressed, and that was enough for me.

"I don't even want to eat them! They look too pretty!" she said, her eyes tracing the glossy surface of the strawberries like they were precious gems. I chuckled softly and nudged her, reaching into the box and pulling one out, offering it to her, fully expecting her to take it from my hand. But, in true Katniss fashion, she had something else in mind.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against my fingers as she wrapped them around the strawberry. Her teeth bit down gently, a soft crack breaking the chocolate. Her eyes lifted, meeting mine as she pulled back slowly, savoring the taste. As she chewed, a drop of juice escaped and trickled down her chin, and all I could think of was how close her skin was—how badly I wanted to lean in lick the dribble myself.

I swallowed hard, placing the half-eaten strawberry back into the box. The room suddenly felt smaller, the silence hanging between us, thick with a tension I wasn't sure how to handle.

"G-good?" I stammered, my voice catching in my throat as my eyes flickered between hers and her lips. She nodded, her tongue darting out to catch some chocolate, but missing a little spot at the corner of her mouth.

Before I knew what I was doing, my thumb reached out to wipe it away, gently brushing her skin. Without thinking, I brought my thumb to my own lips, sucking the chocolate off, my pulse racing. The warmth from her touch lingered, and my mind raced with the idea that her mouth would taste like the chocolate I just wiped off.

I expected her to retreat, maybe thank me for coming and ask me to leave, but instead, she surprised me. Katniss reached into the box, pulling out the same strawberry, and ate the rest of it. Her second bite was more casual, none of the earlier tension. I followed suit, grabbing my own strawberry and taking a bite, trying to be careful not to get anything on my white shirt. Naturally, that plan failed, and strawberry juice dripped right down the front.

Katniss threw her head back and let out a loud, carefree laugh—the kind of sound I'd never heard from her before. It startled me, but also made me smile. I shrugged, chewing with a grin. "Guess I'll have to do laundry again."

She grabbed another strawberry, and for a moment I thought she was going to eat it. Instead, she set the box on the table, then leaned closer to me. My arm was draped over the back of the couch, and I was nestled into the corner where the armrest met the cushion. I realized too late that I was cornered.

Katniss inched closer, her gaze steady on mine, telling me something I couldn't quite decipher. Her hand lifted the strawberry to my lips, and instead of offering it for me to bite, she traced it slowly along my bottom lip, then my top, never breaking eye contact. My heart hammered in my chest as I parted my lips, slowly sucking on the tip of the strawberry, my tongue swirling around it, a teasing mimicry of something more intimate.

Her breath hitched, and just when I went to bite, she pulled the strawberry away. Before I could protest, her fingers quickly wiped the juice from my chin, saving my shirt from another stain.

"Thank you," I whisper, my eyes lingering on her lips. As I watch her lean closer, my breath catches. I feel an invisible force pulling me toward her, and just as our lips are about to meet, a flash of Katniss's sickened face from the hospital invades my mind. The image makes me recoil, and I quickly pull away, my stomach twisting in shame.

Katniss moves back to her corner, her face flushed, still holding the strawberry. I reach for the box, desperate to hide my embarrassment, and she watches silently as I return it to the fridge. Her fingers, smeared with chocolate, cling to the fruit as if it's the only thing anchoring her.

"You might want to either eat that or toss it. Chocolate is a difficult stain and I don't think there's a single person in 12 who knows how to wash your couch," I say, attempting to lighten the mood, but my voice comes out flat, devoid of its usual warmth. The guilt gnaws at me, a constant reminder of her vulnerability and my selfish thoughts. I feel like I've betrayed her trust, taken advantage of her while she's at her weakest.

With a heavy heart, I make my way to the front door, slipping on my shoes. "Thank you for dinner, Katniss. It was great. I hope we can do this again sometime." My voice is barely a whisper, but she doesn't respond. Instead, she heads into the kitchen, discarding the strawberry and licking the chocolate from her fingers.

The sight of her, reduced to this small, wounded moment, makes my throat tighten. I know I need to leave, to escape the suffocating weight of my own regrets. I open the door and close it behind me, the crickets outside forming a mocking chorus that echoes my self-reproach. I notice the strawberry stains on my shirt and groan in frustration, starting my walk home.

Maybe this time I'll actually remember to wash and dry this shirt.

The next three days were a blur of work, a relentless grind that made me grateful for the absence of my usual partner in crime, who had taken a week off. I wouldn't be able to handle her constant questioning of my attitude. The only solace being here was that I wouldn't have to face Katniss again, but her presence lingered in my thoughts. I couldn't shake the promise I made to myself about bringing her fresh bread. The thought of showing up at her door early in the morning before work or late at night after work made me uneasy, and I struggled with whether I should go through with it. If she happened to ask why I hadn't called or visited, I planned to attribute it to the grueling night shifts—an excuse that, given my exhaustion, would be more truth than fabrication.

By the end of my third shift, I was barely holding on. Flora, who was starting her night shift, found me slumped in a chair with my legs propped up on the desk, staring blankly at the monitor inside my patient's room. The emotional toll of an earlier code had left me spent, and I could only hope the patient would stay stable enough for me to escape this place. Flora approached, her voice carrying a trace of morning cheer.

"Good morning," she said, her tone warm despite the late hour.

I looked up with a tired smile and pointed at the clock. "It's 6:45 in the evening. It's Good evening, Miss Flora."

She rolled her eyes, a tired grin spreading across her face as she stifled a yawn. "Well, then good evening, Miss Flora." She joked. "Someone's in a fine mood today."

I managed a weak chuckle, feeling a pang of gratitude for her presence. The shift had been long, and her light-hearted banter was a welcome distraction from the weight of my thoughts.

Flora stretched upward, her shirt riding up slightly to reveal her pierced navel. My gaze lingered for a moment before I shifted my focus back to her face. She leaned down and wrapped her arms around my chest, resting her head gently on top of mine. Her touch was warm and oddly comforting.

"Bad day?" she asked, her voice soft as she rubbed my chest. I should have felt uncomfortable, and truthfully, I didn't have any romantic feelings for Flora. But after the exhausting stretch of shifts, and the relentless torment of nightmares and wet dreams of Katniss, a hug was perfectly welcome.

I nodded in response, her head moving with mine as I shifted slightly. Normally, days like these flew by. The constant meds and required scans, lab draws, phone calls to physicians were busy enough to last me a good 5-6 hours at a time depending on the patient and my coworkers. The exhaustion made me notice the slowing time, though, so every task felt hours long, when it was only a few minutes. It was extremely disappointing when I would realize that the four hours I spent in someone's room was only 35 minutes.

Flora sighed, holding me a bit longer than necessary. The extended embrace began to feel too intimate, and I could sense her awareness of my growing discomfort. She must have noticed my tension because she pulled back, lightly slapping my face and ruffling my hair with a playful smirk. "So, how's Miss Mockingjay?"

I tense again at the idea of someone asking me about her. I looked to her and shrugged. "She isn't here, that's improvement enough," I say bluntly. It was true, I hadn't seen her in a few days and I went back to my normal running route to avoid her. Flora accepted this, and I decided that maybe it was time to apologize to Katniss. I really didn't mean to make her so upset before I left. The idea of her being so vulnerable reminded me of the time I took care of her. All I could think about was how sick she looked, show broken and how I had taken advantage of that to get closer to her. So close to death and I was here fantasizing about her.

Since I didn't have to work tomorrow, I was hoping that if I were to go to her, we would stay up and talk things over. But that's wishful thinking, since I have no idea if she will even let me cross the threshold into her house. Once I gave report to Naomi, I made my way to the breakroom, silently thinking of what I could say to Katniss. "I'm sorry I didn't kiss you, I couldn't help but thinking about you dying?" yeah that's a great one, Peeta. I rolled my eyes to myself and grabbed my bag.

I had half a mind to take spare clothes to work today in case anyone wanted to go out to the Hob after like some nights, but my exhaustion told me otherwise. I wish I had listened to myself earlier, now. I thought about going home and changing, but I really just wanted to go see her, and I was afraid that if I waited too long she would fall asleep early. Sometimes during my walks to work, before she shut down again, I would see a small figure jogging into the woods, bow in hand and quiver on her back, wrapped up in the worn leather of her hunting jacket. I wonder if she ever had the feeling that someone was watching her. Then again, the entire world watched her for so long, I'm not even sure she would know anything different.

I walked through town and cut across the back way to the south side of the Meadow and walked through the hills to get to the opposite end of Victors Village. I figured if she saw me coming up the lane, she would lock her door on me.

As I walked along the fence, I made to it to the entrance and slipped past the back gate which was not as grand at the front – it was much shorter and the gate was just basic bars instead of the iron designs and frills from the front. My backpack, although basically empty save for my stethoscope and the items from my pockets that I accumulated throughout the shift, felt like it weighed a hundred tons from how exhausted I was. Maybe I should go home, I'm not mentally prepared. I'm tired. I cant think. The last thing I want to do is continue to screw up with her. I haven't even practiced what I want to say. Anything I thought of felt forced or too playful or even too nonchalant. My pace slowed as I realized I was right – I need to go home. As I turned back around, only a little ways from her house, I hear her call at me.

"Peeta? Is that you?"

Damn.