Author's Note—I can't apologize enough for the sloth-like progress I am making on my updates this summer. I was supposed to have more time than during a school year, and that has not been the case. I hope to have a few more updates out in the next two weeks. Thank you for your patience. And thank you for the kind words of encouragement and PMs many of you have sent me.

The catalyst for today's update is the reason I'm even writing Everlark, and while I tried my damnedest to write her a separate birthday fic, this year it was not in the cards (I did at the very least get the idea for my MoreS2SL story, so, uh, yay?) and thus, I humbly dedicate Prince Peeta to El, aka iLoVeRynMar, aka thegirlonpeetamellark. Our friendship is the best thing I will ever take away from this fandom and I know it will endure longer than anything we collectively fangirl over. El, I hope your birthday is everything that you are and you enjoy some relaxation and pampering. ILY!

All mistakes are mine.

~*~Chapter 15—The First Dance~*~

"Help! Someone help!" a woman shrieks. "I think he's choking!" Forks clatter to plates. Chairs scrape back. All decorum goes out the window as everyone clamors for a better view of the drama unfolding near the center of the room.

Two guards rush towards the table and Officer Odair immediately joins them. I hastily swallow down my mouthful, then rise to my feet.

"Someone has to help him!" The woman's cries are fast becoming hysterical. I crane my neck and get a good look at her. I guess she's the choking man's wife, though she's young enough to be his daughter, not appearing to be much older than I.

"Who is it? Who's choking?" Delly whispers, her eyes wide with fear.

"I think it's District 8's mayor," Madge replies softly. She, too, looks concerned. Her gaze shifts to where her father stands just a few feet away from the choking man. I realize that Mayor Undersee had been seated to the choking man's right. But Officer Odair is there now, having swept Mayor Undersee's vacated chair out of the way.

"I don't think he's choking. Your Majesty, call the doctor!" Officer Odair yells.

"Doctor Aurelius has already been summoned," King Wheaton answers as he approaches, his voice calm despite the chaos in the ballroom. Officer Odair nods to one of the other guards. Together, they guide the stricken man from his seat and lay him down on the floor. Officer Odair kneels at the man's side, plants his palms in the center of the man's chest, and begins pumping his hands up and down in a steady rhythm.

"Maybe he had a heart attack," I hear someone murmur.

"His face looks swollen," another mutters.

"Please, please!" the young woman wails. "You have to help him! Please!"

Officer Odair pauses his efforts and moves up towards the man's head. Tipping the chin up, he seals his mouth over the man's. Officer Odair's cheeks puff out repeatedly as he tries to force air into the unconscious man's lungs. I've never seen such a thing and I don't know how Officer Odair manages to keep his composure in the midst of such a grave situation. I realize I've been holding my own breath as I've been watching him.

Several minutes pass, with Officer Odair continuing his ministrations for the entire duration, until an older, distinguished looking man strides into the ballroom: Dr. Aurelius, the palace's doctor.

He crouches down next to Officer Odair and the two of them speak in hushed tones. A moment later, Officer Odair straightens and takes two steps back, while Dr. Aurelius leans over the man's body and presses two fingers just beneath his jaw. He frowns and pulls a metal device out from his coat. I remember him using the same device on me my first day here, when he completed my initial physical examination. He hastily unbuttons the man's dress shirt and centers the circular end of the device on the man's chest.

The ballroom is nearly silent now. Even the man's young wife has quieted, her hysteria yielding to shuddering gasps for air. Dr. Aurelius's shoulders lift then fall as he exhales, shaking his head.

"He's gone," he declares somberly. A keening wail from the young widow slices through the silence. One of the other guards catches her as her knees buckle. She claws at his arm.

"No, no, no! Runyan, no! You can't leave me! Runyan! Runyan! No!" She starts thrashing wildly, her cries escalating to manic shrieks. Dr. Aurelius rummages in his satchel, withdraws a syringe, and nonchalantly plunges it into the girl's upper arm. She struggles for another second or two, and then goes limp in the guard's arms. King Wheaton approaches and says something to the guard, who nods obediently, scoops the girl up, and carries her out of the room.

The drumming of my heart is so loud that I press a palm to my chest, as if that will do anything to muzzle the sound. I have an inexplicable, sudden urge to look over at Peeta—so I do. His head is lowered and he's speaking into his communicuff. When he finishes, he lifts his eyes, and our gazes collide briefly. His handsome face reveals nothing. As I glance away, not wanting to be caught staring in such a solemn moment, I swear that for the briefest second I see Queen Aster's lips tip upward. My throat tightens. Her mouth goes slack as she leans in and murmurs something to Peeta.

At that moment two Peacekeepers arrive, toting something that looks like a very large suitcase. They stop next to King Wheaton and Dr. Aurelius, and wordlessly begin to unhinge the thing. Once it's completely unfolded, with some assistance from Officer Odair they heft the dead man onto the board. And then they're gone, taking the body with them. The stunned silence in the ballroom lingers, but the queen reacts first. She marches over to where Caesar Flickerman stands and begins speaking to him.

A chill washes over me. Did all of Panem just witness that man's death—and his poor widow's anguish? As I watch Caesar and Queen Aster deep in conversation, a darker thought pushes to the front of my mind: Panem has been broadcasting death to its citizens for years, Wren's execution the most recent. Most of the country likely would not bat an eyelash at the tragedy that just occurred, had the cameras been rolling when Mayor Hargrove's widow let out that initial scream.

The queen finishes speaking, and then Caesar nods, his expression earnest as he responds. Whatever he says must satisfy her, because she smiles coolly and a moment later, her voice echoes through the ballroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?" She pauses and waits, hands clasped in front of her waist, for all eyes to hone in on her. "Wheaton and I are deeply saddened by Mayor Hargrove's passing. He served his district and its people well, and we extend our sincere sympathies to his family. But there will be a time and a place to mourn his loss. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration. Let us try and not let the dark cloud of tragedy shroud our festivities. Kindly re-take your seats so that we can resume dinner."

Queen Aster's speech is enough to break the somber trance bewitching the ballroom. People move obediently back to their seats. Silverware clanks. Voices murmur. Laughter rings out. The majority of the guests put the events of the last ten minutes behind them with alarming ease. Then the instantly recognizable notes of The Capitol Report rise above the din, followed by Caesar's voice welcoming the viewing audience. Now the live broadcast has begun.

Delly, unsurprisingly, is the one to break the silence at our table. "I wonder who he'll interview first." I glance over at where Caesar is filming. He stands alone on his dais, facing the camera as he speaks. Our table is too far away from him to hear anything distinct.

"Duh," one of the girls from 11 says, "he's going to talk to the king and the queen."

"I think she meant which of us," Madge pipes up, in defense of Delly.

"Maybe he won't talk to any of us," Melania says. She pierces a piece of her chicken with her fork. "I mean, don't you think what just happened is going to be the focus of the program?"

"But what did just happen?" the other girl from her district, Inala, asks.

"He choked," Melania replies.

"You heard Officer Odair. He said he didn't think the man was choking," Delly points out, shaking her head.

Olivia from 11 interjects, "He probably had a heart attack. He was old." She says it matter-of-factly not cruelly.

"His poor wife," Delly murmurs.

I sit on the fringe of the conversation that Delly's sympathetic comment initiates, poking around at my barely touched meal. My appetite hasn't fled, but my stomach feels unsettled. It gets worse listening to the girls as they speculate about the relationship between Mayor Hargrove and his widow. Sure, it seems odd that a girl that young would find love with a man so much older than she, and yes, it's entirely possible she had other motives in marrying him, but I know a lot of girls back in 12 who have made far worse decisions in far worse circumstances. And she seemed genuinely distraught. I remember all too well how my mother reacted in the wake of my father's accident. I can only imagine how much worse things would have been had he not made it out of that mineshaft.

"Maybe she put something in his food," Melania suggests, earning gasps from several girls. I slam my fork down and glare right at Melania.

"Enough!" I snap. "Do you know her?" Melania, in her defense, at least has the courtesy to look slightly ashamed. "Do you?" I ask the girl to Melania's right. She doesn't utter a word. "Because unless any of you knows that girl personally," I continue, "it's completely unfair of us to sit here talking about her. Her marriage is no one's business but her own. Her husband is dead. Show some compassion." Heart thumping, I inhale and reach for my fork. Then I take a bite of my chicken and chew nonchalantly, as if I hadn't just berated half the table.

"I know her." All eyes at our table shift to Madge. She looks at me, perhaps in a show of solidarity, as she starts to speak. "Her name is Alyce. I met her. Six months ago, at a mayoral dinner hosted by Viceroy Coin. She and Mayor Hargrove had just been married. She was glowing as she talked about her wedding. Maybe not all political marriages are based on love, but she most definitely loved him."

No one responds to Madge, at least not audibly. Every girl suddenly seems very interested in her plate. Madge and I exchange a quick glance. Her lips twitch up in a nervous kind of smile before her gaze wanders over to her father.

I'm actually a little surprised that Madge wasn't permitted to sit with Mayor Undersee. He's alone, as he usually is. Madge's mother almost never accompanies the mayor anywhere. Actually, I can't recall the last time I saw her out in public. Madge is almost always the one who joins him.

The silence that cloaks our table doesn't last long, because Caesar calls for Prince Peeta and loud applause ripples through the room as Peeta approaches the dais. Caesar chuckles. I guess someone switched his microphone on for this, because I can hear him clearly now.

Caesar and Peeta chat amiably for several minutes. When Caesar asks about the Reaping's upcoming events, Peeta reveals that the next competition will be held tomorrow and the winner of this game will receive a private date with him. Caesar reacts in typical Caesar fashion, and then tries—unsuccessfully—to get Peeta to divulge even a single detail of the impending competition. It makes the hint he gave me all the more valuable.

"Okay, then, Peeta…if you're going to be all taciturn about the contest," Caesar faux-pouts, "let's talk about the date. What might you have planned for the lucky lady?" Peeta shakes his head and turns to give the camera a playful smile.

"That's between me and the lucky lady," he says, his smile broadening to a grin.

"Oh, so she has a say in this date?" Caesar teases. Peeta presses his lips together and gives a little shrug.

"That's an interesting idea," he says coyly. "But I'll tell you what, Caesar. I feel bad for all this secrecy, so I'll give you something. Since the second eliminations will be held one week from tonight," Peeta pauses to let this information sink in, "I will also be hosting three group dates prior to those eliminations."

This news is met with excited whispers and one or two not so discreet squeals. Caesar leans forward and goads Peeta into disclosing that we girls will be divided into the groups at random, and yes, cameras will be present so there will be plenty of footage for the next few Capitol Reports. Caesar looks positively gleeful at that revelation.

The interview continues, lighthearted and playful, and as it draws to its conclusion, Caesar jokes about letting Peeta get back to his meal so he can digest before "lacing up his dancing shoes." That implication instantly alters the atmosphere in the room. A nervous tension thickens the air. Then Caesar point-blank asks what every single one of us girls is wondering: with whom Peeta will be dancing first?

Peeta's posture and countenance dually shift. "If I may, Caesar, before I go I'd like to extend my sympathies to Mayor Runyan Hargrove's family, especially to his widow Alyce." A faint smile lifts his mouth. "I had the privilege of representing my parents at Runyan and Alyce's wedding last November. One only needed to be in their presence for a minute to see how in love they were. That kind of bond is rare and precious, and I hope Mrs. Hargrove can take comfort in that, despite the short time she had with her husband."

"I'm sure she will," Caesar agrees soberly. "Well said, as always, Prince Peeta." Peeta smiles diplomatically and then his eyes dart over to his parents. The pride on King Wheaton's face is unmistakable. Queen Aster's smile, however, is brittle.

"Now, let's get back to more important things!" Caesar crows. I cringe. Did he really just say that? "Tell us, Peeta, who is going to join you on the dance floor?"

Without hesitation, Peeta replies, "Lady Margaret, would you please come forward?" Caesar's eyebrows vault up to his hairline. A spotlight sweeps through the room and lands on our table. Madge looks humbled though not particularly surprised. She gracefully slides out of her seat and strides towards where Peeta is descending from the small stage. He extends his hand and Madge knits her fingers with his. They approach the empty dance floor. Their hands still twined together, Peeta winds his other arm around her waist as Madge places her free hand on his left shoulder. The orchestra initiates a slow waltz. Peeta and Madge begin to move and step in sync, aiming wide smiles at each other.

I hadn't really expected Peeta to claim me for his first dance, but I hadn't realized how much I wanted him to do so until I watch him gliding around with Madge in his arms. My stomach roils and a queasy sensation surfaces, though it's not like the feeling of having to throw up. It's just unpleasant and I wish it would go away. It doesn't, though. It lingers through the entire song, which seems to go on forever. All eyes in the ballroom are on Peeta and Madge—except mine. I can't bring myself to watch. But after the final note, I finally look up. To a round of polite applause, Peeta raises Madge's hand to his lips, she drops a curtsy, and his eyes scan the room. He makes a motion and I see Mayor Undersee rise from his seat. He takes Peeta's vacated place next to Madge. King Wheaton and Queen Aster also step onto the dance floor. Claudius Templesmith's voice invites other couples to follow suit. Taking that as their cue, servers swarm the tables and begin to clear away dinner.

I suck in a breath as Peeta's gaze starts to rove, but he strides off in the direction of the table where the girls from 1, 2, and 3 are seated. He stops beside Glimmer's chair and offers his hand to her. My breath leaves my nostrils in an exasperated huff. The triumphant smirk on Glimmer's overly glossed lips triggers my gag reflex. Who needs that purple liquid? She's enough to make anyone want to vomit.

I fix my eyes on my plate and poke my fork around at the remainder of my chicken, determined not to look up until I know Glimmer is no longer in Peeta's arms.

Two hours later, once I'm safely inside the sanctuary of my room, I kick off my heels—probably a little more violently than necessary—and slump against the closed door. A vortex of emotions continues to swirl through me, but mostly I just want to get out of this damn dress and go to sleep, though I doubt sleep will come easily when I do slip under the covers.

Peeta had danced with nine girls. I was not one of them. After Madge and Glimmer, he had moved on to Ivory from 7. Juniper from 4 and Blythe from 5 followed. When he escorted Johanna out onto the dance floor, it was the only time I mustered anything close to a smile. Partially it was because she looked so shocked, but more so because the horrified expression on the queen's face was priceless. For the remainder of the night, I sat and ate my dessert with my eyes cast down at the mass of pastry and strawberries and cream on my plate. I'm sure it would have been delicious had every mouthful not tasted so sour. I never bothered to take notice of who the last three girls were, but I had counted three more songs before King Wheaton and Queen Aster had brought the dinner to its conclusion.

I had been flooded with relief when we had been ordered to our rooms for the remainder of the evening. I left the ballroom immediately, not waiting for anyone else from my wing. I didn't really want to hear Madge talk about her dance with Peeta. Not that Madge is a braggart. But Delly is a prier—and therefore, she'd have gotten Madge to talk. What I wanted was to be alone. Alone is familiar. Alone is comforting.

Levering my body off the door, I reach up and pat at the knot still securely fastened at the nape of my neck. I cringe when I feel how stiff the bun is, having been strongly gelled and sprayed into place. My fingers probe around searching for the first of scores of pins that need to be removed.

I've got five of them out when there's a knock on my door. A quick glance over at my immaculately made bed, yet to be turned down, tells me it's likely Lavinia, here to supervise my nighttime routine. I pluck out another pin and wait for her to enter. Instead, there's another soft, more insistent knock. With a sigh, I set the pins down on the table and move to open the door.

"Good evening, Lady Katniss," Officer Boggs says, his deep baritone hushed. Stunned, I can only stare back at him as his lips continue to move. It's not until he glances down at my stocking feet and suggests I put on my shoes that I startle from my daze.

"Why do I need my shoes?" I ask dumbly. His amused expression indicates I missed something, but his smile vanishes immediately when muted voices and giggles grow louder up the corridor, near the Grand Staircase.

"Kindly put on your shoes and come with me, Lady Katniss." He reiterates his command curtly, evading my query. Hastily, I retrieve my heels from where they landed a good several yards away from one another and slide my feet back into them. As Officer Boggs closes my door, my pulse quickens. I know his presence means one thing: Peeta has sent for me. I can't deny the little thrill that zips along my nerves, but I can also feel the latent anger and disappointment from dinner festering beneath my skin.

Officer Boggs's long strides force me to walk briskly to keep up with his pace. We navigate the labyrinth of hallways that lead to Peeta's wing quickly and quietly. The closer we get the more intense that weird fluttery feeling in my stomach grows. We enter the wing just as Peeta steps into the hallway. My heart starts to pound and my chest tightens. At the last second I remember my hair, and I cup my palm over the bun to be sure it's still in place. As secure as ever, less the six pins.

Officer Boggs turns me over to Peeta without a word, merely a nod before moving into the shadowy depths of the corridor, leaving Peeta and me alone. His eyes snag mine and hold. His smile is infectious. My foolish heart stutters.

"Hi," he says.

"Hello, Your Highness." I drop the usual curtsy and mentally congratulate myself for how coolly I manage to receive him. Peeta's lips twitch. He exhales audibly, then reaches for the roof door and uses his body to prop it open. He stares at me, clearly waiting for me to move. I stare back, impassive and immobile.

"Come with me, Katniss. Please." Hopefulness tinges every word. His omission of my title coupled with his very informal greeting to me blatantly alludes to our alliance and I fully expect that's why I'm here. It actually hurts even more to think that he expects I can just sit next to him and talk about the evening, like I hadn't been rejected over…and over…and over.

But I can't very well refuse Peeta. Seneca Crane made that patently clear. So I nod slightly and I'm rewarded with the return of that impossibly beautiful smile of Peeta's. I feel his fingers loosely wrap around my palm. Wordlessly we climb the staircase to the roof.

The night is warm but hazy. A murky cloud cover obscures most of the stars. The moon is a faint yellow disk offering some meager light. Despite the humid air, as soon as we step out onto the roof I shiver inexplicably. Peeta notices. He releases my hand and starts to shrug off his jacket. I hold up my palm.

"I'm fine." He pauses, one arm poised to slip from his sleeve, and gives me a dubious look. "I am," I insist. His head bobs once, and then his eyes lower to the communicuff on his wrist. He fumbles with it for a few seconds. Suddenly, I hear soft strains of music. Not a waltz like those they played at dinner, but something slow and dream-like. His mouth lifts on a shy smile and he extends his palm to me.

"May I have this dance?" he asks. I gape at his proffered palm and inhale sharply. My stupid, traitorous heart trips over itself.

The guarded part of me says I should decline and make him feel the same rejection I felt sitting in that ballroom as he danced with a dozen girls who weren't me. But when I look into those intense blue eyes brimming with that same hopefulness I heard in his voice moments ago, all my resistance melts away. I reach for his hand. He tangles our fingers together and leads me out onto the open portion of the roof. Tightening his grasp on my hand, he pulls me towards him. His other hand finds the small of my back.

Being this close to him frays my nerves a little. I'm unsure what to do with my free hand. So much for those dancing lessons.

"No need to be nervous. I've got you," he says softly. His gentle reassurance steadies me and I get my bearings. I loop my arm around his neck and let it rest on his broad shoulder. He steps to the left. I move with him. Then he steps back to the right. I mirror his movement. This is not the intricate series of steps and turns that I learned this morning. It's merely swaying back and forth. This even I can master. As if reading my mind, he grins down at me. "See how easy this is?"

"It is," I concur, "but there aren't a hundred pairs of eyes on us and millions more watching on their television screens."

"That's precisely why I saved this dance for you," he confesses. Before my brain and my mouth can get on the same page, I spit out, "Is that why you didn't dance with me?"

His smile flees. His eyes fill with understanding, then contrition. He says softly, "You were hurt that I didn't dance with you at dinner." I nod slowly. His fingers stray to a curl that's escaped my bun. He tucks it behind my ear and then tenderly cups my chin, his thumb arcing along my cheekbone. I shiver at the touch.

"I'm so sorry." He sighs. "That was why I gave you our sign. Twice. You saw it, when you were standing with Haymitch. I know you did."

"I did. And I thought that you were signaling me because you wanted to talk to me. But then you never approached me and the night went on and then the dancing started and…you didn't…" I trail off, feeling silly for sounding so petty and jealous.

"Katniss, did you notice who I did dance with?" he asks. His voice has dropped to a soft, gravelly whisper that sends a whole scurry of shivers rushing down my spine.

"Glimmer," I say sullenly, "and Madge. And Ivory." As I rattle of the rest of the names of the girls I saw him with, it occurs to me that perhaps I should be playing dumb. But then, I've never been very good at hiding my feelings. Over the years Gale has teased me relentlessly about how transparent I am.

"So you did notice," he says, sounding pleased. I feel a scowl coming on and glance down so as not to give him the satisfaction, but his fingers gently force my chin upward, fusing our gazes together.

"The girls I danced with were chosen for a specific reason: Every one of them had a family member present at the dinner." He pauses and grins wickedly. "Oh, except for Johanna. I threw her in there solely to get a rise out of my mother. I couldn't resist." I have to smile faintly when I remember barely suppressed horror on Queen Aster's face. Mission accomplished if that's the reaction he was going for.

"So, ah," I start, but I cough quietly to allow myself a beat or two to figure out the best way to probe for more information. "You, ah…"

His thumb begins to lightly caress my jaw. "I wanted to dance with you. More than anything. But Haymitch warned me not to."

Haymitch? My mind reels as I recall the conversation I had with Peeta's uncle earlier in the evening. Though Haymitch had been his usual surly self, he had seemed almost cordial in his interaction with me. I was starting to think he actually liked me. So what did I do, then, to earn his disdain, so much that he'd advise Peeta not to dance with me? Irritation and bewilderment rush through me, and I can't suppress my scowl this time. Peeta's eyes widen and he shakes his head vehemently.

"That came out wrong," he says hastily. I make an involuntary scoffing sound.

"So he didn't tell you not to dance with me?"

"No, he did." Peeta sighs. "But he had his reasons. Good ones. I can't really explain them to you right now." He pauses, and when he continues speaking that husky inflection is back in his tone. "What I can tell you that I did have one very good reason of my own for not dancing with you in front of all those people." Peeta lowers his head, closing the distance between us. My breath catches. The butterflies in my stomach commence a frenzied dance of their own. My heart beats a riot against my ribs.

He whispers, "You see, I didn't trust I could have you in my arms and not be tempted to do this." I feel the soft pressure of his lips on mine for only a second. He draws back and watches me expectantly. Desire flares in my veins, hot and liquid and impatient. He swallows. The act momentarily lures my eyes down, where I can see his pulse ticking furiously beneath his jaw. I swallow too, my throat now prickling with heat. My gaze treks back up and collides with Peeta's. Those gorgeous blue irises are barely visible, nearly engulfed by a wide sea of black. His hand curls around my neck, guiding me back to him. His mouth covers mine once more.

The kiss starts off slow, just cautious presses of our lips. But when Peeta tips his head slightly to the right and his lips nestle between mine, this angle deepens our embrace. Our lips become bolder, the pressure firmer. Very gently he sucks on my bottom lip, and then his mouth opens over mine. Lust whorls low in my belly. This is new. A second later I feel the deliberate glide of his tongue along my top lip. This is very new. And oh, it is good. Very, very good. Another pulse of damp heat throbs between my legs. My body temperature climbs. Peeta teases my lips apart with able strokes of his tongue. A needy sound escapes me, a half sigh half moan. He makes a little growling noise of his own and then licks his way into my mouth. He lightly touches his tongue to mine. I gasp, shocked at how utterly blissful the sensation is.

Peeta recoils, worry creasing his brow. "I'm sorry," he apologizes hastily. "Was that not—?"

"No, no!" I clutch his nape and tug him back to me. "I…um…" I snag my lower lip between my teeth. "I liked it," I say quietly. An elated grin lights Peeta's handsome face. He moistens his lips. "Can I do it again, then?" he asks. That raspy tone burrows under my fevered skin. New embers of anticipation spark in all my cells.

"Please." I barely get the word out before he captures my mouth with far more intensity than before. My lips part for him in an open invitation and his tongue invades immediately. I thrust my tongue forward to meet him. But he avoids it. Instead, he begins a slow, sensual exploration of the rest of my mouth. My teeth. The sides of my cheeks. The roof of my mouth. Finally he coils his tongue around mine and lures it forward. He suckles it and then sucks again, harder. A low groan vibrates in his throat. His hand skims across my back and his fingers mold to my hip, tightening his grip on me.

My hands are suddenly restless. I want—no, I need—to touch him. Tentatively I lay one palm on his chest, just over the lapel of his jacket. What I really want to do is slip my hand beneath the lapel, because I'm pretty sure I would feel a lot more of his firm chest that way, with only the thin fabric of his shirt between us, but I don't want to push my luck. I allow my other hand to wander up his nape, my fingers threading through his hair as we continue to kiss. His hair is soft, softer than I had expected. I guess I had anticipated more stiffness, what with how perfectly it's always styled into place.

Peeta untangles our tongues and resumes using his to dominate mine, stroking and teasing. Meanwhile, our lips move easily, as if they were meant to fit together in this intimate way. His fingers splay upward on my waist. I can practically feel the heat of them branding me through the fabric of my gown. Emboldened, I dare to seize his tongue and draw him into my mouth just as he had done to me moments ago. I hollow my cheeks and give his tongue a suck. Peeta groans when I do it a second time. I can taste the remnants of something woodsy and smoky and I wonder what he else might have imbibed tonight other than wine. Perhaps that amber liquid Haymitch is always sipping.

I whimper a protest as I feel him pull away, but his warm lips immediately move to the corner of my mouth. Then to my cheek. Then to my jaw. And then to a spot just below my jaw that sends a delicious current racing through me. He uses his nose to nudge my chin up. His mouth is hot as he plants kisses all up and down the column of my throat and my neck. His tongue occasionally joins in, sampling my skin. I moan far louder than I intend to when his lips nuzzle the slope where my neck yields to my shoulder. He slides his mouth back upward, sucking lightly as he goes.

I'm beginning to understand why girls back in 12 risked so much to sneak off to the slagheap. I didn't know kissing could be like this. Peeta's lips may be on my neck, but I feel them everywhere. Nerves in other parts of my body are alive and pulsing with electricity. My head is light. My stomach flutters. My knees threaten to buckle. I shuffle forward, intending to use Peeta's strong body to better support my increasingly weak one. But before I can get any closer to him his hands quickly seize my elbows. He holds me at arm's length. My eyes fly open. His gaze snaps up to mine. I can't read the emotion that I see there. I draw my brows together in confusion. He straightens and rubs at his jaw. Staring at each other in silence, I realize that the music has stopped. We've obviously been kissing for quite some time.

He raises one of my hands and lightly brushes his lips over the back of my palm. "Thank you for the dance," he says. As he lowers my hand, he links our fingers together. "Let's go…ah…talk for a bit."

Breathless and disappointed, I allow Peeta to lead me to the small garden as I lift my free hand to my mouth and discreetly rub my fingertips over my tingling lips. It's almost as if I can still feel his touch there. He gestures for me to take a seat first. I settle on the bench and carefully arrange my gown around me. I want him to kiss me again, but when he sits, Peeta leaves a considerable space between us. I frown at the perceived snub and busy myself with my skirts again, smoothing at imaginary wrinkles in the delicate fabric.

"So," Peeta's hand covers mine and I look up into those big blue eyes. "Other than being slighted for a dance by a selfish boy who wanted you to all to himself," he pauses to give me a playful grin, "what did you think of the rest of the evening?"

"It was…interesting," I say.

His grin shifts. "Interesting? That's all you have to say?"

"I'm not as good with words as you are, Your Highness," I volley back. He gives a little laugh and strokes my hand.

"Words can be overrated," he replies. The electricity in the air between us returns with a vengeance. The knot of tension low in my belly throbs faintly. Peeta wets his lips and I think he's going to slide closer to me. I lean forward. But Peeta doesn't move. I shrink back and try to mask my embarrassment. I feel him squeeze my hand.

He says, "Interesting actually sums things up pretty well. What happened to Mayor Hargrove…well, that's never happened at any dinner I've attended."

"What did happen to him?" I ask softly.

"We won't know for certain until a thorough examination is conducted," he replies. "That might take a few days. But it's truly a tragedy. He was so young." My nose crinkles reflexively. Peeta arches his brows at me, a perplexed expression on his face. "He was only 51. My father just turned 50. And my mother will be 50 next summer. Do they look old?" he asks lightly.

I know he's teasing me, but clearly Peeta and I have very different perceptions of what's considered "young." I feel the need to defend myself, so I explain to him that in District 12 60 years old is considered a good, long life. Without the same kind of nutrition and medical care that the Capitol and inner districts enjoy, not to mention the demands of hard labor that most of their populations endure for the better part of their adult lives, we rarely see people living into their 70s or 80s.

"My father and mother are both 41, but in District 12, that's basically middle-aged," I finish. "And no, they don't look any different than your parents, even though they're ten years older than mine." Peeta presses his lips together pensively.

"I hadn't ever considered that." He locks his gaze on me. "Is it really that bad out there, in 12?"

I carefully consider how to answer his question. "It could certainly be better," I say.

Peeta's eyes remain on me, but it's clear now it's his mind that's elsewhere. After several moments of silence, I take a breath and squeeze his hand. He startles, blinks, and looks into my eyes again. That apologetic smile returns, though the playfulness is absent this time.

"I should really know more about the districts I'm going to rule one day, shouldn't I?" he says, shaking his head. "And I don't mean what's in the dossiers my father and Haymitch always have me studying. There's only so much statistics and photographs can tell you." He admits, with regret heavy in his voice, that he hasn't been to any of the outer districts since he was a small child, other than his visit to District 8 last year for Mayor Hargrove's wedding.

He looks so conflicted, and I feel a tug at my heart listening to him. I've never been good at being anyone's sympathetic ear. I struggle to find something else to say. "You're not king yet," I say lightly and squeeze his hand again. He gives me a half-hearted smile in return.

"I feel very sorry for his widow," I say, trying to redirect the conversation for Peeta's sake. The mayor's wife's screams are still so vivid in my mind, as is the sight of her going limp in the guard's arms.

"It won't be easy on her," Peeta concurs. "But she's a tough girl. She's overcome a lot." He confirms the rampant speculation about Mayor Hargrove and Alyce's relationship, their age difference and her less-than-ideal family background being the primary reasons people suspect she had latched on to the older man for security and/or wealth. But Peeta is emphatic in his assertion that the mayor and his wife were truly in love.

"She was so excited about starting a family," Peeta continues. "He was the one who wanted to wait, said he wanted to get through the upcoming mayoral appointments. They probably thought they had all the time in the world."

Naïve, I think to myself, and for the second time tonight I recollect the accident that almost killed my father. That morning hadn't been any different than any of the other mornings my mother had sent him off to the mines with his lunch and a kiss. I remember the terrifying hours after we learned of the explosion and cave-in. As we waited for news of his fate, my mother had been nearly catatonic in her grief. When word had come that my father gravely injured but alive, I had shaken her for nearly a minute before she snapped out of it. We came that close to losing him.

When Peeta says my name softly, I realize my mind has been wandering. He gives me a smile edged with curiosity, a look that implies he wants to know what I was thinking.

"Life is short," is all that I say.

"Yes, it is." He exhales softly and we both fall silent, until he angles his upper body towards me and inches closer. His voice deepens a little as he says, "You know, I've been quite rude. Here I've been alone with you for the better part of an hour and I haven't yet told you how beautiful you look tonight. Your dress is stunning."

"Thank you," I gesture down at it, "but I can't take any credit for it. This was all Cinna's doing. Oh, and my prep team." Peeta commences tracing small circles on the back of my palm with the pad of his thumb. I swallow and try to cage the butterflies that have resumed flitting around down there. How is it that even the tiniest of touches from this boy can have my stomach twisting and turning?

"It's my favorite color. As a matter of fact," he adds, "this is the second time you've worn that lovely shade of orange."

As Peeta's comment fully sinks in, something Cinna had said right after Effie had lamented his color choice hurdles to the forefront of my mind: I might have other reasons for selecting this color for you, Lady Katniss. A smile slowly creeps onto my lips. It can't be coincidence. Cinna has known this detail—Peeta's favorite color—and has been using it to my advantage.

"What? Why the smile?" Peeta asks. I shake my head, feeling very protective over this bond Cinna and I have forged.

"I…I just like Cinna very much," I supply. Peeta grins.

"I knew you'd be the perfect muse for him."

"A muse?" I feel my brows knit together and my nose scrunches in thought as I process his comment. Recognition floods me and my eyes widen in surprise. "You…you chose him…for me?"

Peeta bobs his head in a half-nod. "Yes, sort of." He explains that it was his mother's task to assign stylists to the each of Reaped girls. He reveals there were over 3000 applications for the 36 coveted positions. It sounds like a huge number to me. When I tell him that, he points out that he went through nearly five times that number of Reaping applications to make his twelve selections.

I exclaim, "And you read every single one? How long did that take you?"

"Well," he hesitates, "in some districts it did take me quite some time sifting through them to find one that met my approval." His thumb ceases its circular pattern. Instead, he begins to rub it back and forth, skimming up towards my wrist. His lashes lower just a shade. "But with other districts, I found what I was looking for right away." His fingers close around my wrist and his thumb comes to rest right where my pulse is fluttering madly. His intense gaze suffuses heat throughout my entire body and sucks the air from my lungs. The bodice of my gown suddenly feels more restrictive. My nipples tingle and tighten to points. I'm used to such a reaction from them when I am cold, but the thought that a mere look from Peeta could arouse me in such a way so is shocking. I'm also immensely grateful for the padded cups Cinna has sewn into the gown. I finally find my breath and release a ragged sigh. I can hear Peeta's breathing, soft and measured, as he descends towards my mouth. I start to lean in and—

"I'm sorry," he says breathlessly. I bite back a scream of frustration as his tempting mouth retreats. He repositions himself a few feet away from me and gives me a sheepish smile. "Where was I? Oh, the applications. Right." And he resumes relating the details of how his mother matched the stylists to each girl. I listen half-heartedly, but I can't prevent my gaze from wandering to his lips. They're are so inviting, like two plush pillows. I study the shapes they make as he speaks. How the bottom swell is just a bit fuller than the top and how there is a tiny little indentation at the very center of it. The way the right side of his mouth quirks up a fraction higher than the left when he's about to smile.

"Katniss?" he asks, one brow lifting towards his forehead. I set my shoulders and shake myself from my shameless admiration. Is this what Peeta Mellark has reduced me to: a silly girl who revels in a handsome boy's mouth? I can practically hear Gale's disapproving taunts echoing in my head.

What's worse is that I haven't the foggiest idea of what Peeta had said before he uttered my name. I lick my dry lips and then press them together. He cocks his head at me, amusement tugging that damn beautiful mouth upward (the right side a second before the left).

"I guess I expected a bit more indignation from you at that," he muses. Dammit. Now I'm trapped. What is "that"? My tongue sweeps along my lips again, this time in a nervous attempt to stall, less I look like I wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. Which I wasn't. But I don't want Peeta to know that. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

"Of course maybe this time it was a good thing my mother was so obtuse with her prejudice towards the outer districts," he continues, "because her indifference allowed me to switch a few things around and that's how you came to get Cinna. There was something about his application that made me think he would be a good fit for you. I'm so glad that you're happy with him."

"I am," I agree. I almost ask him about what he just admitted to me, that his mother harbors a blatant dislike for the outer districts, but I realize that is likely what he had been discussing when I was daydreaming about him. So I decide to let it go—it's not like I hadn't already suspected Queen Aster wasn't my biggest fan.

Peeta coughs and glances at his communicuff. He blows out a ragged breath. "It's getting late. And someone needs to cram for tomorrow's competition," he adds with a conspiratorial grin. He rises from the bench and thrusts his hand forward. Expelling a sigh of my own, I vine my fingers around his and he pulls me up. The gentle force he uses brings my body close to his, and he slips his arm around my waist.

"One more dance?" he whispers. My heart thumps its approval and I nod, happy to cling to a few more minutes alone with Peeta, even if he doesn't kiss me again.

Because I know come tomorrow it's back to sharing him.