"Take care of me, alright?" she murmurs in a voice that's impossibly small, young. And I think, Of course. Until my last breath. - Peeta recalls the years leading up to the night in which they finally come together, in which the Girl on Fire ignites his world. Everlark smut. Post-Mockingjay, canon.

I am here, and so is she. It settles like a dream, like a miracle of some sort, but this is real. Or so she tells me.

(I pinch myself, but nothing happens.)

The pallid light from the moon, full and intrepid, torrents heedlessly through our open window—it drapes over her thin silhouette as she remains still at the edge of the bed. Taciturn, resolved, beautiful. As always. A thin sheet is wrapped around her waist, but that is all; as I lie beside her, I study the contours of her spine, memorizing every inch of the planes of her skin as if she is a map, and I am her explorer. In this glow, her skin feigns as stone, like marble; the only proof she's not a statue resides in the very slight rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes.

My fingers tingle as I ache to touch her, to feel that shimmering skin of hers, that incandescent warmth. But I know better. I need to be patient for her, to allow her to dictate the procession of events tonight. We will do this on her terms.

By this stage in our relationship, patience is hardly a challenge. I've waited for thirteen years for her, pining after her from afar, hoping she'd somehow recognize my existence. And just when I thought the waiting might cease, the Hunger Games capsized my grasp on reality, the Quarter Quell shattering it even further, the revolution, the war. They all tore through my truths ruthlessly, tossing everything in the air. And suddenly we were back to where we began. We've spent the past year picking up the scattered pieces of what remains of our integrity, of our will. That is no hasty progress.

None of this has been quick, really. But that's okay. I would wait a thousand years for this girl—this woman—even if it didn't guarantee a night like this. I promised her I would stay with her, always, until the sun stopped rising, until the stars overhead came falling to the earth. With Katniss, I promise a forever.

Our forever began on a day about thirteen years ago. I was seated amongst a few of my friends at an assembly when we were all asked if we knew the valley song; the first hand to shoot up was aggressive, was proud, was confident. It belonged to a tiny girl with a red dress and two delicate braids so dark and plush they could put the night sky to shame. When she began to sing, her charming melody swelling through the room, that's when I knew I had to be with her someday. That was a decision I would never come to repeal—I resolved that I would not stop pursuing her until after my last breath had already been expelled.

Some may believe in love at first sight, while some may not. Maybe I put more faith in "love at first song," but nevertheless, after that day, I knew that everything had changed. Her voice had stopped my world from spinning. I would do anything for the girl in the red dress; I would hike mountains, swim oceans, traverse deserts. All for her, only for her.

Maybe I never had any literal mountains to conquer, but my pursuit of her was certainly never luxurious in nature. To begin with, Katniss Everdeen was a girl from the Seam; although a naïve five-year-old mind couldn't comprehend the significance of her background, my mother certainly could. The first memorable day that Mr. Everdeen came to the bakery with his eldest daughter on his arm, Mom must've seen the way I watched her from behind the veil of a corner. She'd screeched at me for hours that night. Seam girls are dirty, Peeta. They are worthless. A merchant boy can never be friends with a Seam girl.

It wasn't until several years later that the entire concept of class warfare and social stratification began to make any sense at all, but by then, whatever I felt for Katniss had grown and morphed into some unconquerable beast. Not even the handle of my mother's rolling pin, nor the bruises that resulted, could defeat it. Although it would never be directed at me, her smile could flip my world upside-down, her silver eyes stealing the air from my lungs. Surely, the love I feel for her now, after all we've been through, is far different and far more illustrious than the platonic desire I felt for her as an innocent ten-year-old, but the fundamentals haven't changed.

Proceedings passed in a relatively unexciting system of events; once or even twice a week, Katniss would come visit the bakery with her father, and I would always busy myself somehow around the lobby while maintaining my silence. I was a fool for believing that maybe, magically, the fairly reclusive Katniss would strike up a conversation with me, as I was too shy to begin one of my own. But whatever scenarios I invented in my head were never afforded the opportunity of daylight.

The world revolved fairly evenly with no major anomalies until the mining accident happened and Katniss lost her father. That was the day the birds stopped singing. I recall begging my father for some sort of gift, maybe even just a basket of day-old loaves that I could bring to her family. Even my gentle father couldn't cave; with my mother so nearby, he knew this intended act of kindness could end awfully for the both of us. So I kept my distance, and I allowed her and her family to suffer despite how violently it tore me up on the inside. She was my everything, but I couldn't help her.

That was, until one particularly bitter morning, when the sun was hiding behind the thick film of clouds overhead. I was in the kitchen with my mother when I glanced out the window and saw her. I saw Katniss Everdeen, one of the most resilient, courageous people I've ever come to know… and she was hunched over a trash can, weakly scavenging through the bin in search for food. Probably for her family.

Unfortunately, I hadn't been the only one to see her; my mother caught her sifting through the garbage and immediately ran out into the rain to shoo her away. Like she was nothing more than a street rat. I bowed behind her in the doorway, watching in horror. My heart wrenched, my stomach twisting painfully, and I determined that I couldn't just sit there anymore, permitting her destitution.

So before my mother came back inside, I took a loaf, and then a second, allowing them to simmer in the open flame for several seconds. Just as she was about to return, I pulled them out and then set them on the rack, blackened and charred from the fire.

It didn't take long for her to notice, or for her face to darken, for her hand to raise. Needless to say, that stands out as the one set of bruises I am still proud of even today. I would do it all over again if given the chance.

When my mother commanded me to toss the loaves out back, as they were ruined, I realized my impulsive plan had succeeded. Her rolling pin came down on me a final time, leaving a stinging, tender welt over my forehead as I stumbled through the back door and into the hazy air outside.

The two loaves in my hand, I remember, had felt like they weighed a thousand pounds in my calloused palms. My eyes flickered over to where Katniss had curled up underneath a tree, defeated and desperate. As I took another step closer, her face raised and her eyes locked with mine, and the exchange alone had frightened me enough to bring me to anxiously toss the first loaf out at her. My heart had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, rapid and untamed.

Looking back on it, I wish I would've followed through and carried the loaves all the way out to her, but my restless eleven-year-old soul had other plans.

We upheld little interaction after that, until we were both reaped, together, ordained to die as monsters. But instead, we emerged, together, with not only our lives but a spark of the one thing I'd dreamed of for so long. Of course, her manners in the games had been predominantly for show, for survival, which was crushing to discover, but I only had so much time to sulk before fate had its own ironic way of bringing us together again in the form of a Quarter Quell. This time, only one could survive. And that tribute had to be her. Since the day she sung the valley song, the day she flipped my entire world upside-down, I knew she had to be my future. And if she were to die, then I would lose my purpose. After all we'd been through, at that stage, living without her was not an option. When she kissed me in that arena, on the beach in that provisionally peaceful morning, something behind her lips had promised me so much more than she ever had before, solidifying my conviction. I need you, I recall her murmuring in her lyrical timbre.

Even now, when I think of that moment, she still gives me goose bumps.

At that time, we were seventeen, and I was misguided into believing that all of my patience, all my years of anticipation, were coming to a close. And I was happy.

(Well, as happy as a teenager can be when he's facing his expiration date.)

Miraculously, that arena did not bear my mortality, but what I had coming was fairly close. When I was taken by the Capitol, tortured in a way worse than death itself… they made me hate Katniss Everdeen, the girl that I had loved for over a decade, the girl that I had been willing to give up my own life for.

And when I was rescued, for the first time, it was Katniss's turn to do the waiting. She waited for me to remember her in ways that the doctors predicted I never could. Even though I haven't fully recovered, as I still have episodes, my memories of Katniss are unblemished on good days.

Although I must be patient with her too, nowadays, as the war took a piece of her down with it in the same way the Capitol had divided me. Some nights, we wake to the shrill sounds of her screams; some mornings, she can hardly pull herself from bed. On those days, I'll bring her a steaming mug of tea, or wind myself around her underneath the sheets and whisper kisses all over her aching body.

Now, I suppose, we have both mastered patience to an extent we never would've dreamt we could. Every day, we tolerantly shepherd each other through dark spells. This process seems endless some mornings, but most of the time, I am content with it. I am with Katniss; that is all that matters. Time is abundant in Twelve—so, no, patience is hardly a struggle anymore.

That's why, as I lie here, halfway across the bed from the girl who holds my world in her tiny hands, I don't mind waiting.

I watch her shoulders shift as she lifts a palm to her face. Even in the inadequate lighting, I begin to notice that she is trembling slightly.

Very unhurriedly, I pull myself up, reallocating my body so that I'm sitting right behind her. My palm delicately raises in the cool evening air and to press against her bare back. The feel of her skin alone causes a skip in my heartbeat, my breath hitching somewhere in the back of my throat.

Maybe my touch is what she needs; an extensive sigh expels from her lungs as if she's been holding her breath all this time, and her quivering dulls.

"I'm sorry, Peeta."

For a split second, my chest pulsates as I wonder if she's backing out now. "Why?"

I watch with wary eyes as her chin rotates slightly, so that even though her eyes don't meet mine, I can see her eyelashes flutter in the gloom.

In this moment, she no longer prevails as the iron-willed woman that she has grown to be these past few months, forceful and majestic all the same. Her head twists just a little bit more so that now, her silver eyes lift up to mine, the trepidation shimmering in her striking irises. And in her wavering stare, I see the remnants of that weak girl outside the bakery. The one that curled up by the trash cans, buckling from starvation. Lost in the rain, sallow, hopeless… desperate.

"I'm afraid."

Of all people, Katniss would be the one to apologize for her fear. She's always seen it as the enemy, as a crutch she can't afford. But after experiencing alongside her two games, a revolution, and the aftermath of a war, whatever fears I may suffer now pale in comparison to the threat of losing her. That risk, which was a menace I had to struggle with continuously for over a year, outweighs any anxiety I may feel in this moment.

But that doesn't mean I'm not afraid at all.

I sigh as my palm glides up her back, playing with the delicate wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. "I'm scared, too."

I'm surprised when she snorts at this. "Sure."

"What? I'm not allowed to be afraid of any of this?"

Katniss watches me with disbelief and shock. "You have nothing to be afraid of," she murmurs lowly, her voice quivering slightly. "You've been ready for this for far longer than I have, and you always seem to know what to do, and you're so gentle, and sweet…"

Her voice trails off as my lips gently press against the heated skin of her shoulder, where a crescent-shaped scar has traced over her perfectly flawed skin. (No matter how oxymoronic the idea is—she has her scars, her wounds, but those are what make her all the more beautiful.)

Her eyes flutter closed.

"Katniss, I've been waiting for this moment for—for years, I think. But I'm still terrified," I whisper to her skin.

"How?"

My index finger traces over the ridges in her spine, trailing gentle strokes over the planes in her back. I allow my eyes to train on my hands as I do so, too ashamed to meet her gaze as a blush blossoms through my cheeks.

"Because I don't want to hurt you," I whisper almost inaudibly, my voice cracking. "I've never done this before. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I want it to be perfect for you, I want everything to be perfect for you…"

She's angled her body so that she can bracket my cheeks between her palms, lifting my face to meet her gaze. Before me, her grey eyes sparkle with a degree of unadulterated ardor that I can't recall ever seeing before.

Katniss doesn't say anything before she pulls her lips to mine, our mouths combining in a kiss so tender that it clears my mind of all worries, all fears. With fingers sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck, braiding themselves in my hair, she drags her petite silhouette closer to mine. Warmth radiates from every inch of her as if she is her own sun, providing comfort and lighting my path. She is the Girl on Fire in the most beautiful, most pure manner I've known.

When I slip my hands against her bare waist, lowering the sheet that she's wrapped around her torso, I feel her inhale the breath from my lungs. And then our lips part as she pulls back to press her forehead to mine.

Her tiny voice splits the darkness, propelling us into a world of color.

"I need you."

My fingers tow against the silky skin of her hips and I kiss her again to promise that I need her to, more than I've ever needed anything. More than I've needed water, or air to breathe.

But she holds me back before it can deepen, and as I watch her eyelashes flutter as her lids open, I see a fear in her silvery orbs that smolders and blooms like a daisy in the springtime.

"Make love to me," she softly implores. "Please." This is the second time she's asked me this tonight, but the butterflies in my stomach still flutter as incessantly as the first.

Whatever Katniss wants.

This time, it is me who brings my lips down on her, my hands trembling as they grasp at blanket enveloped around her thin figure. My mind is running wild, thousands of stray concepts and cravings coursing through my brain with little direction. I have no idea what to do here. I feel so afraid that I won't be able to please her, that I'll disappoint her, and…

I can't let her down.

My palms move all over her, delicately tracing over her stomach and back. Her tiny hand encases mine as she guides it up, cupping it around her breast as she kisses me so adoringly. My mind floods with satisfaction; I feel myself shudder, which seems to invigorate her, as her trembling decreases, her fingers tightening in my hair.

Her skin feels plush against mine, her ragged breaths revitalizing my movements, bringing me closer to her. I figure, I may not know what to do, but neither does she. We will accomplish this together, memorizing each inch of the other until we know each other's bodies better than we know our own.

The air that clings to our skin feels thick, humid with sweat and hitched breaths. My skin feels fiery as broiling blood surges liberally though my veins. I feel like live wire.

As our kisses deepen, our lips parting and our tongues tracing in liaising patterns, I pilot her by the waist to lie her down in the center of the bed. Our mouths part for a moment as I help disentangle her hips from the sheet. Although my eyes beg to study her, I keep my gaze locked in hers as I pull the blanket away from her sticky skin. One day, I'm sure, she'll allow me to explore her picturesque silhouette, visually, but for now I'm certain that she's self-conscious enough as is. I don't want to make her feel more uncomfortable than necessary.

Both of us are completely undressed, vulnerable in every sense of the word. As I move over her, aligning in between her parted legs, I pull the sheet back over my own waist so that we at least have some shield from the elements around us. To me, this action is pointless, futile; but as I see her sigh with relief I can tell that it was imperative for her own procurement of solace. One of her hands cradles my cheek, and she musters an affectionate smile through the oceans of anxiety that swim in her irises. I can't help but grin back at her.

"You're so beautiful," I tell her, brushing her hair from her sweaty brow. And she is. I have never seen another being as magnificent as she. I lean down and nuzzle my nose against hers, tenderly, affectionately.

Through her smile, she gulps. "Peeta?"

"Yes?"

The night around us is silent, musky in its vacancy. Now, there is no one in this world but us, two lovers with synchronizing heartbeats. I've never felt so anxious, so excited, so horrified, so eager all at once.

"Take care of me, alright?" she murmurs in a voice that's impossibly small, young.

And I think, Of course. Until my last breath.

My lips press against her nose as I promise, with supreme certainty, "I will." And then I pull back slightly further, a flash of anxiety curdling in my veins. "Katniss, please… please tell me if I hurt you, alright? Let me know if I'm doing something wrong…"

She shakes her head, her smile growing with confidence. "You won't. You'll be perfect, Peeta, as always. I trust you."

I want her to know that I trust her, too, with every fiber of my being. Instead of telling her in words, I tell her in a kiss of unparalleled placidity and affection.

"I love you," I promise. And I am confident that there has never been a statement as true as this.

Her fingers weave into my hair as she draws my lips to hers, and suddenly we're kissing again, far more passionately than before. Her breaths become rapid and uneven, turning into fanatical gasps as she pulls me against her.

And then one of her hands trails down my chest, past my stomach, sending shivers through my body as she takes me in her hand. Oh my god. Warmth pools in my belly, rooting somewhere deep, hidden, secret, and instinctively, I wrap my hand around hers as we, together, help me find her entrance. I catch my breath, and with one gentle but urgent thrust, I push myself inside of her as she inhales sharply and her mouth breaks from mine.

Instantaneous gratification surges through me, electrifying my nerves in the most incredible ways as my muscles tense. I fill her, which sends white heat through my system, and I feel a moan forming in the back of my throat. But then, as my eyes regain focus, I notice her brow is furrowing in momentary discomfort, her teeth clamping on her bottom lip.

"Is it painful? I can… um… pull back—" I begin to withdraw, fearing that I'm hurting her—

But her hand presses against the small of my back, keeping me secured to her, inside of her, and she shakes her head. "Maybe a little, but… don't stop. Please."

We try to position ourselves comfortably against each other, skin gliding against skin to generate implausibly satisfying sensations as nervous, half-amused giggles escape from our lips. I imagine that for most, the first time is at least moderately awkward and entails lots of fumbling and shifting, travelling uncharted territory, so I'm not too concerned when ours follows that pattern. I had hoped that it'd be more effortless than this, but then again, I'm with Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. The Girl on Fire, my sunshine, my moon, my stars. I'm with her in the most intimate manner of all, so I've already been given more than I could've wished for. A flawlessly efficient first go at making love would just be a cherry on top of an already unfeasible fantasy.

My lips find hers over and over again as we shift until finally, when I press harder into her, she releases a satisfied gasp. Slowly at first, my hips move back and forth, trembling kisses lingering in between each rocking motion.

She is magic.

Katniss. My Katniss. Oh—

Our panting grows ragged as our movements become harmonious, her fingers pulling against my back as her nails dig slightly into my skin. "Like this—?" I bid, craving assurance that she's enjoying this as much as I am, if not more, because she deserves nothing less than unalloyed excellence. She nods and gulps down a moan. My core feels enflamed, this degree of sensuality unlike anything I've experienced. The way she feels so hot, so wet, so tight around me sends waves of pleasure through my spine and I find myself gasping her name. This action alone leads her grasp on me to tighten as her head digs back into the pillow, heels embedding in the small of my back.

At first, we swing together slowly. There was nothing hasty about the road leading up to this moment, so there's no point in rushing now. We have all night.

Besides, these slow movements elicit soft moans of pleasure from her parted lips, which send me into a frenzy, so even though my hips tingle with the desire to quicken, I remain steady for now. Her breath hitches as my lips find her neck, suckling lustfully over her throat as she gasps. They pepper kisses down to her collar, drawing in the skin wherever they move. In a sudden wave of possessiveness, I intend to leave a string of love bites, declaring that she is mine. I will never let her go.

"Peeta," she pants, her breath swelling in the humid atmosphere.

My name on her lips is the most satisfying sound of all. It showers me like a gentle April rain, enabling growth, enabling life.

I draw back so that my eyes meet hers. Her silver irises blossom as moons of their own, sporting more beauty than anything I've ever seen.

"Yes?"

She laughs airily as I pause, almost out of breath. "Don't stop."

As my lips meet hers, my voice spills into her mouth and I promise, "I won't."

And when my kisses migrate to her jaw once again, her breath snags in her throat, and she begs me to go faster.

So I do.

I rock her assiduously, her hips meeting mine over and over again as I press in and out more fervently, filling her up as I overflow with euphoria; her breathing speeds, hands tangling in my hair as she gasps my name again. Peeta. Oh, Peeta. Every time she does so, sapid chills flood my veins, as I'm sure even days from now just the memory of her calling out for me in this sultry evening will stun me to my core. No need to curb the urgency. It is here, overflowing, irreversible. My hands trace over her body, skimming every inch of skin I can reach. She feels like velvet, throwing my crowded mind into a daze. I still move as gently as I can manage despite the increasing speed. I can't hurt her. Shouldn't. Won't.

Tactics from all those years of wrestling in high school begin to kick in as I pin her to the bed, clinging to her, holding her against me as delicately as my ardent body can manage. To think of it, I'm aware I could hurt her, so easily, but I shouldn't, I won't, as she is everything in my otherwise hollow universe. She is the reason that the birds sing in the forest, that the sun beams its reckless brilliance overhead. As she surrounds me, I can think of nothing but her lips, the sound of my own name rolling around her tongue, the way her skin feels like plush, how she moves so artistically and how I can't even tell where I stop and she starts anymore as I'm buried so deep inside of her and we're fused as essentially one being and—

"Oh my god, Katniss—"

I can feel pressure building in my core, my heart rate speeding off the charts. The empty night is filled with our sweat, the music we make, and the sound of the headboard of the bed battering against the wall behind us. We're clinging on, rocking back and forth in some absurdly magical game. She is so breath-taking with every prosaic motion, every invitation to explore her uncharted, mysterious world. Every seam, every contour, every plane of her is perfection.

"I can't… I can't hold on much longer," I warn in jagged pants. I'm so close. This burning sensation is growing, intensifying, threatening to break out any moment.

By the way she moans, I take it that she's almost there, too.

And suddenly, this pressure becomes too potent as it shatters me, shatters my resolve, causing my arms to weaken and tremble, waves of pleasure surging through my body as I pour out my moan into the crook of her neck. I keep pushing, in and out and in and out, a million colors exploding in my teeming mind, brilliant heat curling in my core, my body electrified and thrilled all the same. And within a few moments she is crying out my name into the air in return, her sounds swelling in the silent night as she tightens around me, her body growing rigid, her back arching.

I have never felt so alive.

Once the pleasure has coated us like a new layer of skin, settling into our bones, our movements begin to slow as our uneven breaths deepen. My entire body feels weak, depleted, as I use my last few ounces of energy to keep my body from crushing her while I lay over her. My cheek has found her collar, my ear tuning in to the sedative pulsing of her heart, fast and light as if it's about to flutter away. Her exhausted, quivering fingers find my sweaty curls, running through them pacifyingly. I could fall asleep like this, I'm sure.

"How was that?" I murmur with a breathy chuckle to her heated skin, sticky with perspiration but still enchanting all the same.

Her responding giggle, just as winded as mine, lucidly rings through the room. She doesn't reply with words, but with the way she cradles me to her as our breathing patterns stabilize, her reply is clear. In tender moments like these, Katniss has proved to be far more efficient with illustrating her emotions through actions rather than explanations. Over the past year that we've grown back together since the war, in this endless void of time and space where silence seems to cling to Katniss like an old friend, she's become far more expressive. More emotive. More telling. Nevertheless, It's been a slow process—but then again, so has everything, hasn't it?

And that is alright. Patience is my perfected practice.

So as we lie here, in the waning hours of the night, the silence doesn't alarm me as it used to—nothing alarms me, not with her. We have weeks, months, years, lifetimes ahead of us to fill with conversation. So, for now, a peaceful quiet seems suitable. What we don't say with words, we say with gestures; I tell her "I love you" with delicate kisses on her collar, sporadic and gentle. She offers "I know" by tracing elegant lines over my back and my shoulder blades with the pads of her fingers.

I've been waiting thirteen years for Katniss. The five-year-old me yearned to hold her hand. A slightly older, more cultured ten-year-old Peeta would dream recurrently of what it would be like to unweave her intricate braids and kiss those lips of hers. As I grew, naturally, the dreams shed their platonic undertones and became more complex. But the dreams that resembled evenings like this one had seemed impossible as my naïve self became disheartened. I could've never imagined having Katniss in my bed, holding her, fusing together as one synchronized being. Having her lips circle around my name as her moans shower me in a thick veneer of gratification. Having Katniss. Like this, to parade her magic—

But here we are. After thirteen long years of anticipation, of triumphs and setbacks, I am with Katniss. I have finally achieved a degree of happiness that even the richest, the most successful of men of the world could never experience. Katniss is my galaxy—she's shown me the universe, taken me deep into outer space, basked in starlight alongside me, all with me, only me. She is my one and only.

And maybe she feels that way about me, too.

In the shadow of this feat, I feel endlessly invincible; maybe I have little reason to be, or maybe I have all the reason. Katniss's walls have finally dissembled—not by merely my hands this time, but at her own will. She let me in, she allowed me to discover her secrets, her promises, all of the incredible things that make her into the woman I know today. I am on cloud nine, as nothing can conquer me. Not now.

And so I ask her the question I've been aching to pose for months now, but have been too afraid and too rational to attempt. Maybe I'm setting myself up for inevitable rejection. But in this fleeting moment of unalloyed bliss, I couldn't care less.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

When I peer up at her through golden lashes, a splinter of moonlight is falling across her eyes in a magical, captivating fashion, whisking my breath from my lungs. You are so beautiful, Katniss Everdeen. Her grey irises are twinkling as she grins down at me, exhausted but euphoric all the same.

Her fear has vanished now, eclipsed by unadulterated joy and assurance.

And when her voice chimes from between her lips, her charming, musical timbre shimmering in the single word she articulates, I have no doubts. I trust her with my life, and love her twice as much.

"Real."

Thanks for the read! Feel free to drop in and leave a review, if at all possible. This is my first go at a one-shot, so some feedback would be ideal!

Have a wonderful day! :)

-Faith