The floorboards creaked slightly under her footsteps as she made her way to the dresser, which sat on the other side of the room. Grabbing the ruby earrings, which she had carelessly tossed on top of it the night before, she began to put them back on. She knew that she had been in this room many times before, but only now was she taking it all in. Only now was she noticing the way the light danced across the walls from the shadows of windblown trees outside or the beautiful carvings of flowers that adorned all the pieces of furniture. She ran the tips of her fingers across the petals on the dresser and tried to remember the name of the flower.
Irises, she determined. Just like the ones that grew out back behind his house, she recalled. On the other side of the dresser rested an old camera, and she couldn't help but walk over and pick it up. He had many treasures and knick-knacks that were quite odd. She didn't take him for a sentimental man, but every time she was there, he had some new old thing for her to find.
"Come back to bed," a familiar voice groaned, shifting under the covers.
Her thumb grazed over the button.
"Does this still work?" She asked, ignoring his request.
"Yes, now come back to bed." He replied, annoyed.
She lined the camera up to her right eye and shut her left one.
"I haven't seen one of these since I was a child, " she continued.
"Mmmhmmm," he replied, uninterested.
Feeling unusually playful, she turned around with a devilish grin and snapped a picture of him lying there. The picture printed out the side, and she waved it around to help it develop before laying it on the dresser.
"No flash photography, please, princess," he held his hand up to cover his face.
She snickered as she returned to the bed, the camera still weighing heavily in her hands.
"We should start getting ready for the day. Peeta has a fitting in a little while, and it would be improper for us to be late, but–"
Before she could finish her sentence, she was grabbed by the arm and pulled back into bed, finding herself pinned to the mattress.
"Haymitch, I'm serious! We need to—" This time, he cut her off with a kiss, and she couldn't help but smile.
She slid her hand up to his chest and gently pushed him away.
He rolled over and huffed.
"Fine," he said, slightly annoyed.
As she went to sit up, she heard the clicking sound of the camera, which had somehow ended up in his possession.
He was the one chuckling this time, but she quickly grabbed the covers and pulled them over her head.
"Absolutely not! No pictures of me; I'm hideous. I have no makeup! No wig, nothing! Do you know what would happen to my reputation if anyone saw me like this?"
He pulled the covers away and laid down next to her.
"You've never looked better, Princess." His voice landed somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity, making her stomach flutter slightly.
She looked at him, annoyed but unable to help but smile, which only worsened her agitation.
He leaned in for a kiss, and she obliged but regretted it immediately as the bright flash nearly blinded her.
"Haymitch!" She shouted.
She reached over to grab it from him, but he pulled it away, keeping it just out of reach. She quickly gave up and got off the bed to start getting dressed.
Haymitch remained in the same spot, closely examining the pictures.
"That's a keeper," he said, holding up the one of her.
"Throw those away," She said sternly.
"No way, my camera…my pictures," he shot back.
As she buttoned her blouse and looked down to locate her shoes, another bright flash illuminated the room until everything went white.
Mia jolted awake, her hands instinctively moving to her stomach, where her daughter had begun her now-daily tap dance routine. The movements were stronger, more insistent, a reminder of how little space was left for such enthusiastic kicks.
She rubbed her tired eyes, willing the fragments of her dream to fade, but the harder she tried to forget, the more vividly they replayed in her mind: strong arms pulling her back into bed, the teasing lilt of his voice, and the warmth of his lips against hers.
Her heart quickened, the memory refusing to let go, until a swift kick to her bladder brought her crashing back to reality.
Guilt had soon settled where desire had just been.
She barely knew this man, and she was carrying someone else's child, having such thoughts was entirely inappropriate.
Shaking off the lingering feelings, she dismissed it as a strange concoction of stress and pregnancy hormones. With a sigh, she slid out of bed and reached for her robe, knotting it loosely around her growing belly.
While doing her hair and putting on what passed for makeup there in twelve, she ignored the question in the back of her mind which asked why she was taking the extra time to look so nice? She ignored the answer, though it was painfully obvious.
After getting dressed and ready for the day, she went to leave her bedroom and hesitated. Her eyes caught sight of his clothes from yesterday, now cleaned, dried, and folded on a chair which sat in the corner of her room; waiting for him.
She walked out to her living room and towards the big windows, pulling back the curtains to let in the soft glow of the morning light, she watched the streets below as men and women started their morning walk to work.
The sight grounded her, offering a moment of peace.
The tranquility was short-lived, however, as her stomach growled in protest. She stepped into the kitchen, deciding on scrambled eggs—always a gamble with her unpredictable morning sickness, but today, she craved them.
She smiled faintly as she cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with care. The memory of her first days in the apartment surfaced, a time when Peeta had taught her how to scramble eggs properly. It was the first dish she had relearned after the accident, and though her skills were still clumsy, she cherished the effort it took.
Surely, she must have been a decent cook before—having grown up with a sister who owned a bakery—but like so much else, it felt just out of reach. She'd had to relearn everything, rebuilding her life from fragments of what it had once been.
After eating, she curled up on the couch with a steaming cup of tea. The warmth of the mug in her hands was a comfort as she flipped absently through a well-worn book.
The knock at the door came suddenly, breaking her concentration.
She stood a little too quickly, a flicker of hope sparking in her chest before she could temper it. Adjusting her sweater as she crossed the room, she opened the door, curiosity and anticipation dancing behind her calm expression.
When the door opened to reveal her neighbor carefully balancing a bundle of clothes and a fresh baked pie, she was struck by an unexpected pang of disappointment she quickly buried beneath a bright smile.
"Good morning Mia!" he greeted warmly.
"Morning Tristan!" She replied.
Tristan was tall and handsome with kind green eyes surrounded by soft wrinkles that were only just starting to form. At fifty years old his hair was mostly grey, with a few strands of jet black poking through.
"I hope it's not a bother," he said, lifting the clothes slightly, "but I found a few more things needing your special touch."
"Not a bother at all!" Mia assured him, her smile widening as he headed for the kitchen, the aroma of warm apples and cinnamon trailing after him.
He nodded and walked to lay the clothes down.
"I'm sorry the last batch isn't ready yet," she added, gesturing to the table. "I'll have everything done by tomorrow. Just leave those there."
Tristan nodded, carefully setting down the shirts before placing the pie on the counter.
"How's Lilia?" Mia asked, her tone softening.
The mention of his wife caused a subtle shift in his expression. His smile faltered, and though he recovered quickly, she could see the effort it took.
"Better this morning," he said. "Her tremors aren't as bad, but… it's different every day. She wanted to bake this pie for you, but…" He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "I had to help her with most of it. Fair warning, I don't exactly have a knack for anything that involves the kitchen," he chuckled.
Mia reached out, her hand resting lightly on his arm in a gesture of reassurance.
"I'm sure it's just as wonderful as always," she said kindly. "And you and I have that in common. I've been getting better, but let's just say the culinary skills in this family seem to have skipped over me and gone straight to my nephew. I scrambled eggs this morning, and it's a miracle they were edible."
Tristan laughed, the sound warm but tinged with exhaustion. It was then she noticed the subtle heaviness in his eyes, the weight of sleepless nights and constant worry.
"You know, if you ever wanted someone to sit with Lilia while you run errands or anything, I'd be happy to keep her company," she offered.
His smile softened.
"That's very kind of you. I just might take you up on that. She loves having you over, you know."
"I should be getting back, shouldn't leave her by herself too long else she gets restless," he said, making his way to the door to leave, Mia trailing close behind.
With a slight squeak from the hinges, he opened the door and stepped out. Mia stood in the doorway, peeking down the hall to see if another visitor was making his way up the stairs.
"I'll see you tomorrow then," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll have all the clothes ready by then."
"No rush, just whenever you have the time," and with a friendly wink, he began down the hall.
Letting out a small sigh, she closed the door behind her and made her way back to the couch, her book waiting where she'd left it.
The morning passed in a blur of quiet tasks—sewing, reading, and the occasional glance toward the door. It wasn't until the familiar sound of keys in the lock reached her ears that her focus shifted.
Peeta walked in with a cloth bag full of groceries and plopped them on the counter next to the pie.
"You're here early," she said plainly, not bothering to look up from her book. As soon as she had heard the keys, she had known it was him.
"Good morning to you too," his voice was unlike himself. It was rougher, colder.
Lowering her book, she dog-eared the page and set it aside, watching as he placed the grocery bag on the counter with a bit too much force. He began pulling out produce, his movements sharp, mechanical, as though he was trying to channel something into the task.
"Hey," she said softly, reaching out to still his hand before he could bruise the apples he'd just grabbed. Her voice was layered with concern, her touch light.
He looked up at her, removing his hands from the bag and letting them fall to his sides.
The dark circles and slightly reddened eyes told her just how little he'd slept the night before.
"What's wrong?" she cupped his face, her thumb brushing over his cheek.
He exhaled deeply, the weight of it filling the small room. "Nothing," he said at last, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Peeta." Her tone was firmer now, though not unkind. She dropped her hands, crossing her arms over her chest.
"We both know that's a lie, you look exhausted. Go lay down in my bed and I'll unpack the rest of these," She started putting the items he'd taken out in their usual spots on the counter or table.
"I'm fine—" he started, but she spun around, cutting him off with a raised hand.
"Don't. I can tell you're tired. Go get some rest, and then we can talk about whatever it is that's bothering you," she placed her hands on her hips and locked eyes with him as a silent way of telling him she would not back down.
For a moment, he stood there, as though debating whether to argue further. But then his shoulders sagged, and the tension melted into something softer. He gave her a faint, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Fine," he murmured, almost laughing at his own defeat, before heading quietly toward her bedroom.
She turned back towards the bag of groceries, and started taking the rest of the items out.
After finishing in the kitchen, she made her way to the nursery. Inside the rooms small closet, was a box of hand-me-down clothes that she still had to sort though. Lilia had given it to her weeks ago, but she kept forgetting about it or pushing it off.
When she had given her the box, Lilia mentioned, almost offhandedly, that she once had a little girl too. The comment lingered, heavy with unspoken questions Mia hadn't dared to ask, sensing the pain behind Lilia's quiet words.
Sitting in the rocking chair, she carefully lifted the lid off the box. Her breath caught at the sight of the handmade items within—delicate blankets, tiny booties, soft little dresses in pale pinks, yellows, and purples. The colors felt out of place amongst the muted tones of District Twelve but brought a soft sense of warmth to the room.
She unfolded a small blanket with initials stitched into the corner: A.K.
Her fingers traced the embroidery.
She set aside a few items to wash and carefully put the rest back in the closet. Just as she stood to head back to the living room, the door creaked open revealing Peeta on the other side.
"You look better." she commented, with a smirk. She withheld the strong urge to add on to her statement:'See? I was right'.
"Ifeelbetter," he chuckled.
But his smile faltered as his eyes fell on the crib. He crossed the room, resting his hands on the railing, his brow furrowed.
"Who put this together?" he asked calmly.
She paused, only for a moment to give the lie enough time to pass from her mind to her mouth.
"Tristan helped me with it yesterday," Her voice was hollow even to her own ears. She wondered if she was always this bad of a liar, or if that was just one of the many skills she had seemingly lost.
"That was nice of him," Peeta said, though his tone carried a weight she couldn't decipher.
He walked back over to the door and leaned against the door frame.
His face was typically easy for her to read, but a pit formed in her stomach as she realized she had no clue what he was thinking.
Deciding to change the subject quickly, she spoke again before he could fill the silence with his own questions.
"So, are you ready to tell me what's got you upset?" she asked.
"It's nothing," he replied, the words clipped.
She stood up and crossed the room to stand directly in front of him.
"You're not sleeping, and you're obviously upset. Whatever this is, it's not nothing."
He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he pushed off the doorframe and started toward the kitchen. "I should head home. There's a couple of things I need to pick up on the way."
"Maybe I could come with you?" she offered, hopeful that the shared time might loosen him up—or at least give her a chance to figure out what he wasn't saying.
"No, not today I'm sorry," he said, putting his jacket on.
The answer was always 'not today' or 'maybe another time'. She was getting fed up with being shut out. He knew every minute detail of her life, but he only let her see specific pieces of his.
His answer had stung more than it should have. "You know," she said, her voice sharp with unspoken hurt, "I've never even seen where you live. Not even a picture."
He turned back to her, his expression softening but still guarded. "It's too far to walk, and you need to rest," he said, dismissive.
It was a poor excuse, but one she normally wouldn't argue with. This time had been different.
He made his way to the front door, his back turned to her.
She picked up her own coat, trying to quickly put it on. He turned back around to face her, presumably to say goodbye, but he simply pressed his lips together upon seeing her struggle to get her other arm in the sleeve. .
"What are you doing?" his voice tinged with annoyance.
"I'm not that fragile. I can walk there and if I'm too tired to head straight back when we get there I can rest a bit and then make my way home. There's plenty of daylight left."
He walked behind her and gently guided her coat off instead of helping her get it on, he tossed it onto the closest chair.
"I promise, you'll see it soon, just not now."
He went to walk away again, his hand reached for the door and cracked it open, but she stopped him in his tracks.
"Is this because of your neighbor?" she asked, the question leaving her lips before she could stop it.
"Haymitch was here wasn't he? The crib and the clothes on the chair in your bedroom, they looked familiar but they weren't Tristan's," His voice was low, laced with simmering anger.
She swallowed, her silence confirming his suspicions.
"I knew it," he closed the door and walked over to the windows past the living room.
"I-I don't understand what the problem is. He was completely drenched from the rain and I invited him in for some tea to wait out the storm," she tried to reason, but he didn't even turn back to face her.
"I told him to stay away, he never listens," he mumbled to himself, but loud enough for her to hear.
All the guilt and confusion melted away and the anger bubbling earlier began to rise again.
"What did you just say?"
He didn't respond, only looking back at her, his eyes cold and serious.
Mia's voice rose, disbelief flooding her. "You told him to stay away? Why?"
He returned to looking out the window.
"For your own good," he said simply.
"Since when do I need your protection? I'm not a child, Peeta. If I want to spend time with someone, that's my choice." Her voice cracked with the force of her anger.
"E–...Mia, I'm just asking you to stay away from him, it's important."
"Not without a reason. Is he dangerous? Violent?"
His shoulders tensed, and he turned back to her, his eyes dark with something she couldn't name. "It's complicated," he said, his tone a plea and a warning.
She took steps to get closer to him.
"Well uncomplicate it," She challenged.
Since the very beginning she could tell there were things that he kept from her, secrets. Not once had she pressured him or pried for more information, but now she couldn't stop herself. She needed answers.
"I knew him before all this, didn't I?"
He hesitated, only for a moment, but she picked up on it instantly.
"No," he replied firmly.
He approached her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"Please. I'm just asking you to trust me," his eyes brimmed with tired tears.
"I do trust you," she said, her voice breaking. "I trust you with my life, with my daughter's life. But why can't you trustmeenough to tell me the truth?"
"I trust you more than you know," he said softly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Everything I've done has been to protect you."
"But maybe I don't need your protection," she whispered.
Peeta shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes as he brushed past her.
"Fine," he said, his voice low and trembling with frustration. "I'm done fighting with everyone in my life."
"Everyone?" she asked, stepping closer. "What's that supposed to mean? Who else are you fighting with?"
For a moment, he paused, as if weighing whether to answer. But instead, he walked into her bedroom without another word, his footsteps heavy with resolve. When he emerged, Haymitch's clothes were in his hands.
"What are you doing with those?" Her voice wavered between confusion and anger, but he didn't stop.
"Giving them back." His tone was sharp, final.
Before she could respond, the door slammed behind him, the echo reverberating through the small apartment. She stood there, stunned, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
The silence was deafening.
Frustration boiled over as she grabbed her coat, her movements rushed and unsteady. She locked the door behind her and hurried down the stairs, her pulse pounding in her ears. When she reached the street, her eyes scanned the crowded road until she spotted Peeta's familiar frame walking hurriedly towards his destination.
Keeping a careful distance, she began following him, her mind racing as fast as her heartbeat. What was he hiding?
She kept to the edges of the crowd, her breath catching every time he glanced over his shoulder. She was venturing into unfamiliar territory, breaking unspoken rules she'd set for herself in this new life. She never pried, never questioned, never crossed lines. But today, something felt different. Necessary.
She tightened the coat around herself as the wind picked up, determination burning away her hesitation.
If the truth wasn't going to come to her, she'd chase it down. Whatever secrets Peeta was keeping, she was done waiting for answers.
For the first time, Mia wasn't sure what she'd find—but she wasn't sure she wanted to go back, either.