Thanks for everyone's support for Good Enough.

Without your love, this sequel wouldn't be happening.

The characters of The Hunger Games Trilogy do not belong to me.

Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse, pedophilia, rape, and child abduction

Will my weakness for an hour make me suffer for a lifetime?
Is there any way to be made whole again?

-Stacie Orrico "Strong Enough"

Strong Enough

Prim quickly walks in, her blue eyes anxiously looking around our entryway.

Peeta sets Lila down, rushing over to help my younger sister out of her thick coat, as I stand in place holding Owen in my arms. My daughter skips over to me, hugging my leg as her round cheek presses to the outside of my thigh.

"Let me hang that for you," Peeta tells her. We don't have many guests in our home—Owen and Haymitch are usually our only two visitors, so my husband tries to make up for my lack of hosting skills. "It's freezing out there, isn't it?"

"Yes," Prim says shyly, her gaze wandering around our humble home, taking in the framed photos on the cream walls and the round table in the center holding the tiny Christmas tree that Lila insisted we get. "My name is Prim, by the way." She turns to Peeta, holding out her hand. "Your sister-in-law…I guess."

Peeta looks down at her hand for a moment before his mouth widens and he instantly pulls Prim into a strong hug. "I'm Peeta, your brother, and it's great to finally meet you."

I don't understand why I can't be like Peeta, who is a constant cock-eyed optimist. I feel like I died in that attic, reborn into this bitter, surly person who is always watching and worrying—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Prim pulls away awkwardly, her smile tight.

"Thanks…Peeta." She looks to me, her gaze apprehensive. It's like she can read me, knowing that deep down I am urging her to go back to where she came from so I can bury the past under the remnants of the old Victorian that was our sanctuary and our prison. "You have a really nice home."

"Thanks," I find myself replying in a strained voice. Looking down at Lila, I feel my whole body relax in our daughter's sweet, innocent stare. "Show your Aunt Prim the living room, Lila. Daddy and I will come out after we can get something for everyone to drink and snack on."

Lila nods solemnly before looking to Prim. She walks slowly over, her hand out in offering to my sister.

"Aunt Pim?"

Prim takes Lila's hand gently, giving her a bright smile. "Yes, that's me. Lila, right?"

Our daughter nods, pulling her Aunt towards the direction of our living room, littered with tinsel from our freshly dressed tree.

"Lila Grace Mellark!" She bounces in her movements, an excited, open smile on her pink lips. "Momma and Daddy named me after Uncle Owen's mommy, too!"

Prim looks back at us, offering a friendly nod, before Lila drags her away.

I finally let out the breath that I've been holding in.

Peeta rounds my body, pulling me close from behind so that I can rest back against his chest. Every other day, my husband rescues me from that deep, dark place that I can't seem to climb out of on my own. Though I am often afraid that, in time, even he won't be able to save me.

"You're scared." His lips find their way to my temple and my body hums in delight. "She's just a girl."

Slowly I turn to him, feeling the tremble of my lips, as my arms cradle our sleeping son against my pounding heart.

"And, an attic is just an attic, Peeta," I respond in quiet bitterness, not bothering to wipe away my tears. Let Peeta see my fear because deep down I know he holds the same doubts and worries. "Prim is just the beginning."

Reaching forward, Peeta pulls me close, our son nestled safely between us.

"We're going to be okay," he whispers tenderly. "You…me…Lila…Owen—we're in this together."

I pull away just enough to look into those blue eyes that were my salvation in our little attic home.

"Together?"

Peeta kisses me, his mouth coaxing me into that languid state of bliss, and reminding me just how we got our two children.

He pulls away, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and gives me that assuring smile that makes me feel like we can conquer anything—we have before.

"Always."

"How long have you been living here?" Prim asks as we sit across from one another on the worn couch of our living room. She holds Owen in one arm while holding her mug of hot chocolate in her opposite hand.

"Since a little before Lila was born," I reply, my eyes trained cautiously on her.

On the opposite side of the living room, Lila and Peeta rummage through the old Christmas records that we found in a local thrift shop during our morning walk. Our daughter is planning to perform in the Christmas pageant at her Pre-K school but has yet to find the perfect song. Fortunately, Owen was a music major so Lila plans to present her top three choices to her Uncle and her Godfather, Haymitch, when they arrive.

"Katniss?" I snap out of my reverie to see Prim looking at me curiously. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean, not all of it…you probably don't remember it all…it's just that—Mom—she hasn't been the same since you disappeared."

"I haven't been the same since that day," I snap, my anger flaring. "And for your information, I remember all of it—every horrible thing that was done to me."

"What?" Prim's eyes fill with tears. She looks quickly to my husband and daughter before meeting my eyes once more. "I don't understand—"

"Now is not the time," I say hurriedly. Prim sniffles and I feel a tinge of regret over my behavior. Peeta is right; she is only a girl who wants to know the sister that was taken away from her. Quickly, I move closer to her. "Listen, I don't mean to be so callous and I promise I will tell you." My gaze goes to Owen whose eyes are opening, revealing those deep, thoughtful greys to me and Prim. "Just wait until the children are in bed. It is a long story that Peeta and I hate to talk about."

Prim nods after a moment. "Okay." Owen shuffles in her arms and she coos at him. My sister gives me a warm smile. "You have a beautiful family, Katniss."

I find myself smiling back. "I love them with all my heart and I'll do anything to protect them."

"I know," she replies.

The doorbell rings and Lila squeals running towards the entryway.

"Lila, wait!" Peeta scrambles up before our daughter can open the door, winking at me before rushing to the entryway. I shake my head in exasperation; we have been trying to instill that Lila needs to be careful when it comes to strangers. Like Peeta, she can be overly trusting. Our daughter still believes that there are no bad people in the world. We know better. "Do not open the door—"

"Uncle Owen!"

"We're really trying to teach her to be a little more cautious," I tell Prim. "Though I do love that fire about her."

"She gets that from you," my sister replies. "I was young, but I remember that you always had a spark about you."

We grin at one another and I begin to feel that bit of hope that maybe we can find our way to one another in the end.

"Look what Lila found!" Peeta calls out as he enters the living room. "A watered down version of myself!" My husband walks to my side, putting an arm around my shoulders. "Can we keep him?"

"Very funny, Peeta." Owen walks into the living room in his navy bomber jacket and Lila in his arms. "Don't you mean the much taller, charismatic version of yourself—" He stops halfway when he spies Prim next to me, his eyes widening at my pretty, golden sister. Slowly, Owen places Lila back on the floor. "I didn't know you were having company over."

He quickly removes the black beanie off his head, revealing an ashen hue of Peeta's golden locks. I turn to Prim seeing her cheeks a bright pink, almost similar to the color of her lips.

"Owen, this is Prim, my younger sister," I begin as he leans over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then I take my son from Prim's stilled arms and look to her. "Prim, this is Owen—our friend and Owen's namesake, of course."

They stare at one another, enchantment in their eyes, and I look to Peeta, who gives me a dramatic eye roll. I elbow him, a laugh threatening to escape my lips. This is just like those old movies we used to watch on Channel 4—the ones where the sappy violins play as the couple first sets eyes on one another.

Owen holds his hand out. "Owen Mellark, it's nice to meet you."

She looks between Peeta and Owen curiously before shaking his hand. "You're not related?"

"No, I chose the last name Mellark," Peeta explains to Prim. "Owen is an actual Mellark."

"Well, you two look alike," Prim remarks. "More than Katniss and I do." She looks to Owen, a brightness in her pretty blues. "Primrose Everdeen or just Prim."

I stiffen against Peeta.

Everdeen.

This is the first time that I've heard my real last name.

"Uncle Owen!" Lila stomps her foot, unhappy to be left out of the conversation. "Help me pick my song!" Then she looks to Prim. "Aunt Pim, you too—since Uncle Owen won't stop making Daddy-Mommy eyes at you!"

"What are 'Daddy-Mommy eyes'?" Prim asks as our daughter takes her hand.

"It's how Mommy and Daddy look at one another before making kisses," Lila explains as if everyone should know. "Then they hug each other for a long time and that's how we got Baby Owen."

Owen examines Peeta and me, laughter in his eyes, before taking Lila's free hand. "Tell us more about these 'Daddy-Mommy eyes'!"

"Keep it clean," Peeta warns our friend.

"Of course," Owen replies easily before letting Lila lead him and Prim away to where her music choices are stacked.

Peeta turns, pressing a quick kiss to the side of my neck, and I let out a thick gasp at the motion, feeling that unbearable heat of his knowing touch. Even now, he knows every nuance of my body, both of us having took the time to explore what made one another feel good—whenever we had the freedom.

We had very little chances to be free, but when we did, we took advantage.

"My last name was Everdeen," I whisper to him, trying to keep my tears at bay.

Peeta looks to me sadly, his hand busily going to adjust Owen's bundling. In all the hub-bub, our son has fallen back asleep, his easy countenance inherited from his father.

"You're technically still an Everdeen," he responds in a quiet, pained voice.

"No."

My free hand goes to the nape of his neck and I draw him close to press a deep kiss to his rough mouth, tasting the remnants of hot chocolate.

I want him to feel every inch of the love I hold for him. When we were just a boy and a girl in an attic, we were taught that we were nothing but brother and sister; that we were only meant to love one another in only one way.

I love Peeta in every which way possible.

"I am Katniss Mellark," I say as we draw apart, our lips still dancing off one another and so close that we are connected by strings of saliva from our full kiss. "I am yours—always."

"Good." Peeta grins against me. "I intend to show you just how happy I am that you're Katniss Mellark…later."

"Look! Mommy-Daddy eyes!" We turn to see Lila pointing at us with Prim and Owen chuckling behind her. "Now I'll get another baby…I hope it's a little sister." Lila looks to Prim. "She'll have pretty hair like yours."

A booming voice suddenly sounds from the doorway, "I think that your Mommy and Daddy are going to have to stare at one another much longer to get your baby sister!"

"Uncle Haymitch!"

We find Haymitch, Lila's godfather and Peeta's former boss, stepping into our living room. He gives us a smile as he scoops Lila up and she wraps her arms around his thick neck.

"You left your door unlocked," Haymitch tells us. He hands Peeta a bottle of wine and then gives me a kiss on the cheek. His eyes go to Owen and Prim who are cleaning up Lila's records while chatting. "You letting strays in?"

"That is Prim…my sister." Haymitch turns to me in shocked curiosity. "It's a long story."

"It's why I brought the wine," he responds before blowing a raspberry on Lila's cheek. She lets out a giggle. "Want to show me your performance song? You can also introduce me to your Aunt."

Lila nods in agreement and the two walk off to join my sister and Owen.

"Does this mean we're telling Haymitch and Owen as well?" Peeta asks.

"It seems inevitable," I reply just as our son begins to stir in his sleep.

Peeta snorts dryly. "Haymitch should've brought more wine."

"God bless Mommy, Daddy, and Baby Owen." Lila scrunches her eyes shut, her palms folded. "And, God bless Uncle Owen…and Uncle Haymitch…and Aunt Pim." She pressed her hands together. "And, please give me a baby sister for Christmas."

"That's a lot to put on God," I tell our daughter with a smile.

Lila stares up at me from her white canopy bed, her blue eyes full of childish wisdom.

"If God can make the world in seven days, then he can make my sister for me in a blink."

I press a kiss to her forehead. "Then keep blinking. I love you, Lila."

She yawns, her blinks becoming sleepy flutters. "I love you, Mommy."

Standing up, I turn on the night light by the door before switching her lamp off. Quietly, I walk out of the room and step out into the hallway just as Peeta closes Owen's nursery door.

"Two rounds of 'Twinkle, Twinkle' and he was out," Peeta informs me.

"Lila is praying for a little sister," I report.

We meet in the middle and Peeta wraps his arms around my waist. "I don't think she sees the benefit of having a little brother around yet." I smile, resting my chin on his chest and gazing up at him. "I wouldn't mind trying for that little girl, though."

"We do make cute kids," I muse, a smile growing on my tired lips.

Heading down the hallway, Peeta wraps an arm around my waist. "They're all waiting down there."

I can hear the strain in his voice. Days like this are difficult because as bad as it was for me in Cray's attic, it was worse for Peeta. He spent a year alone being abused in more ways than I could even count. I only know this because many of our past nights have been interrupted by nightmares that leave him sobbing and unable to speak.

"Listen—we don't have to talk about you. Prim came to hear about what happened to me but she doesn't need to know that you were in that attic." I put my hands to his shoulders to calm him. "We'll make something up, like we met after I got out—"

"No. I suffered too," he replies in a toneless voice. "And, I can't have you do this alone."

I nod, reaching to hold him, and pressing my cheek to his chest to feel his beating heart. We are one, an extension of each other. All the pain and joy that Peeta has felt, I have too and vice-versa. When he dreams of Cray—of the sound of his belt hitting Peeta's young flesh—I swear I can feel the burning pain along my own skin.

"You're right. It is our story," I say against him. "The horrible, wonderful circumstance that brought us together."

I don't even realize that I'm crying until Peeta cups my face, brushing my tears from my cheeks.

"We're here—alive and happy," he assures me. "That's all we can ask for."

I give him a smile though my insides churn with anxiety. We have been so lucky but I worry that in the blink of an eye, it can all be taken away. I'm afraid that Haymitch and Owen will look at us differently. That Prim will retreat just as quickly as she came into my life. That my family will be exposed to the harsh reality of Peeta's and my past.

"You're right." I take his hand and we both take a deep breath before descending the stairs together. "I just don't want anything to change."

"It's going to," Peeta replies, squeezing my hand. "But all change doesn't have to be bad."

"That is what I love about you," I say as we reach the doorway of the living room. Prim and Owen sit in the loveseat with Haymitch in our armchair; the three talking amiably and not realizing that we are going to reveal to them the nightmare that was Peeta and my early life. "You have a great capacity for hope."

"It's only because you're with me," my husband says. "Without you, I don't think I would have survived. You saved me."

I give him a gentle kiss, not caring that there are three people waiting in anticipation for what we have to say.

"We saved each other."

"So we know that you're probably wondering about Prim's sudden appearance," I begin, my hand entwined with Peeta's as we sit on the couch. I look to Haymitch. "Seeing that you helped us get our identities." I then look to Owen. "And, you know that Peeta's last name is not really Mellark."

"I've always been curious, Katniss," Haymitch responds, his grey eyes laced with worry. "But, I know not to pry. When I first met you two, you were these skinny little things with large, haunted eyes. You both looked like you had never seen the light of day."

"We didn't," Peeta suddenly says. "For Katniss, it was nine years and for me, it was ten years until we breathed our first bit of fresh air."

Owen adjusts himself in his seat. "What do you mean?"

I close my eyes, swallowing harshly, and feeling Peeta's hand in mine.

"I was seven when Cray took me." My memory goes back to that warm day—my last day of freedom. "I remember him taking my hand in that crowded store." I open my eyes, letting the tears fall. "I remember watching my little sister and my mother getting smaller as we walked away and he took me to his car."

"I was seven," Peeta begins, his tone empty. "I was riding my bike and Cray told me that he was a friend of my parents—that he was supposed to take me home." He looks down in pained shame. "He didn't take me home."

"We met in the attic of an old Victorian." I can still vividly imagine the way that dark attic looked. "There were many stairs and then Cray opened a door. He pushed me inside and in front of me was a boy—" I turn to my husband, his head is bowed and I reach to lift his chin up. "—with brilliant blue eyes. He looked so scared."

"I was scared for you," Peeta says quietly. "What he did to me was horrible, but you were so small and innocent. You looked so pure in your pink dress, stained with ice cream. Even then, I wanted to protect you."

"You were kidnapped," Prim states in a choked voice. "Oh God…" Her hand goes to her mouth. "I couldn't remember anything. Mom and Dad…they went through every bit of surveillance footage…and I couldn't form the words or the memory of the man who took you!"

"You were three," I tell her simply. "No one would expect you to have a photographic memory. For a long time, I couldn't remember your name…my last name…neither does Peeta."

"So you were in this attic," Owen says slowly. "Why?"

"Because Cray told us we weren't good enough to leave," Peeta responds. "Every day, we were made to obey his rules—to prove that we were good enough to leave and, if we weren't good, we were punished."

"Thirteen lashes on Peeta's back when Cray caught us asleep together in Peeta's bed." I shiver remembering the whip cracks against Peeta's back, the blood marring his smooth skin. "I was forced to count each lash out loud until he stopped and told us that we wouldn't eat that day."

"Holy fuck," Haymitch breathes in disgust at our recount. "Did you know where you were?"

"We were in a suburb," I say. "There was a small round window that we could see out of and we often saw people walking by or children playing. We would see Cray with the women he brought home—not one of them even remotely aware of the boy and the girl hidden away in his attic."

"We did our best to behave," Peeta supplies. "We did our assigned chores, we remained pious in front of him, and we never fought back when he brought one of us to his room for the night." His eyes closed and he shook his head. "That first night that he took Katniss, I waited and prayed that she wouldn't fight back. I was afraid how he would punish her and afraid that I would be alone again."

"Soon enough, we learned to obey…ignore what he was doing to me and to Peeta." I look around at the three, seeing their horrified expressions at my words. "I would count how many times that Cray moved against or inside me before he was done…ten was usually enough for him."

"I feel sick…" Owen puts a hand to his stomach before looking to Peeta. "And, you—he was the same way?"

"Rougher," is all Peeta can say.

"Nine years," I continue. "Nine years alone and between that…somehow, Peeta and I had fallen in love…we promised that we'd leave…get married…start a family. On Peeta's seventeenth birthday, we made it happen."

"How?" Prim dared to ask.

I stand up, feeling the memory of that night rising up from my stomach.

"We had a plan." I begin to pace, afraid that if I stop, that I won't go on. "I got a copy of the key…Peeta carved it from birch…we didn't eat the cake laced with sleep sedatives…I lined our bags with cash…I was supposed to use the small carving knife to scare Cray…but then I saw what he was doing to Peeta—"

"Stop it, Katniss…" I can hear the panic in Peeta's voice. "Stop talking!"

"No…you were in pain!" I whip around at him, not caring that every breath is coming in loud, shuddering gasps. "I felt every pain that you did and you were the same…every hit…every touch…every rough intrusion—we both felt it! I had to protect you!"

I let out a wail, my arms falling to my sides.

"There was so much blood…on the walls…the sheets…on me…" I meet Peeta's wet eyes. "I'd do it again, Peeta! I'd do it again because I promised you our freedom."

My husband presses his forehead to mine.

"Cray was still alive, Katniss. I was the one who slit his throat."

"I messed up the plan," I sob. "I was the reason that we had to burn the place to the ground!"

"The old Victorian in Victors' Village," Haymitch suddenly says in a hollow voice. "I remember reading about that in the paper. The man was apparently asleep, passed out drunk in his bed, and slept through the whole thing."

I look to Haymitch, wiping my eyes. "He was dead long before that—along with any evidence that two children lived in his attic."

"We watched that place burn from behind a tree in his backyard," Peeta finishes. "Then we ran as far as the money we stole from him could take us."

"How did you get the money?" Owen asks, his eyes wide.

"After every…visit…I would look for spare change," I say. "Sometimes, I'd take a dollar or two. I sewed extra pockets in my leggings and in Peeta's sweats so we could gather anything we could. He trusted us after a few years and he wouldn't bat an eye if I went to the bathroom to wash up…after."

"Did you think about looking for your families?" Prim looks to me, tear tracks on her porcelain face. Her nose is as pink as her lips and she sniffles, not bothering with propriety as she wipes her nose on her sleeve.

"I don't remember my family," Peeta tells her helplessly. "We were able to gather from the bit of memory that I had that my family owned a mom-and-pop bakery." He turns to Owen. "I think that's why I was so interested in working for your family—why I took your name. In some way, I identified the Mellark name with good things. On our birthdays, Cray would get us cakes from your bakery and our first piece of non-medicated cake was from the Mellark bakery."

"It was the same cake we ate when I decided to make my last name Mellark as well," I add, squeezing Peeta's hand. We both sit back down, exhausted by our account of that frozen part of our lives. "We are as much married as any couple can possibly be—we're bonded beyond any need for a piece of paper."

I look to Prim.

"We couldn't come back from what had happened," I explain. "The children that our families remembered were dead. We weren't the same, we were reborn as shadows of those children. I wasn't the same girl that our mother likely remembers."

"We are happy with our life now," Peeta says in a full voice. "Because we earned it. Because all along…we were good enough."

I sleep fitfully.

Images of the groping hands and harsh blows of a belt invade my terrorized mind. I shoot up in our bed, breathing harshly, feeling the cold sweat running down my back.

Our bedroom is dark and I reach for Peeta—

His side is empty, cold even.

Quickly, I stand up and put my robe on before leaving the room to search for my husband.

We went to bed after shooing our petrified guests away. Prim was shaking and a pale-faced Owen offered to drive her home. Haymitch, usually so stoic, seemed to sag underneath the weight of our story. He gathered Peeta and me into his long arms, silent as he embraced us and leaving hastily before the tears took over.

I check on Owen and Lila, both sleeping peacefully, and pray that they always have such peaceful nights.

Slowly, I descend the stairs and enter the living room.

Everything looks in place, decorated cheerily by Lila, and looking completely normal.

Except for the man lying with his head under the multi-colored lit Christmas tree.

I go to Peeta, kneeling before lying on my back and joining him so that we can look up at the fir tree, thick with bright lights that shine down on us.

My husband turns to me wordlessly, his hand reaching for mine before we go back to staring up at the prism of color. Peeta looks so wonderfully beautiful, the lights against his ivory complexion and filling those blues with a rainbow of color.

In this shine, I see the boy that I first met, so sweet and pure.

I take a deep breath smelling the fresh pine and letting it fill me with the warmth of yuletide and hope.

When I turn to Peeta again, I see the track of tears running down his temple.

"Do you think that my parents looked for me?" he asks in a tight whisper.

"Of course," I reply. "You don't even know where you're from. For all you know, your family is clear across the country. Your mother could be lighting a candle for you whenever your birthday comes around. Your dad probably waits on the porch of your house every day to see if you'll come peddling back home on your bike."

I turn, pushing up slightly so I can look down at him, reaching to cup his damp cheek in my palm.

"Who couldn't love you, Peeta?" I say. "I know I couldn't help it even if I tried. I don't think it's in me to not to love you." He smiles through the wetness of his Christmas-lit eyes, his own hand reaching to caress my cheek. "I don't doubt one bit that they didn't spend every day looking for their Peeta."

"Even if they find me, I won't be anyone else's Peeta—just yours." His fingers weave through my thick hair and he gently beckons me to lay back down. This time I am closer, our arms pressed together and I warm feeling him so near. Peeta moves so that he looks down at me. "Will you be mine—just mine, Katniss?"

I nod, breathless as the haziness of his eyes. "Yes, just yours."

His fingers dance along the edge of my pajama top before undoing the top two buttons. I feel the anticipation draw up, aching to feel his fingers along my heated skin. Peeta takes his time, drawing the opening back, and staring down at the full cleavage that breastfeeding our son has afforded me.

"You're so beautiful," he tells me, the electricity in his words causing my body to seize up and my nipples to ache in arousal. "Can I touch you? Will you allow it?"

"Yes…please." I can hear the hunger in my voice. "I'll allow it."

Peeta leans down, his open mouth pressing to my breastbone and my center twists, my insides clenching and eager to feel him all around me—inside and out of me. He moves his lips, one hand reaching to a heavy breast, palming it gently. His gaze is reverent as he stares down at puckered skin, sensitive to his light touch.

It feels like hours before his lips find my nipple and the moan that escapes my mouth is honeyed with desperation. Peeta circles the bud with the tip of his tongue before flicking it and earning a deep cry from my core.

Memories of the first time that he did this to me swim in my mind; that discovery of something as wonderful as pleasure from someone you love, someone you want, and who wants you back. Even then I knew that the passion we shared was like no other.

I draw myself away before taking his hand and pulling him out from under the tree, walking us back towards our couch. Peeta lets go of my grasp to hastily remove the t-shirt he wears just as I pivot him to his seat.

He stares up at me, moving his bottoms off, and revealing himself, hard and ready for me.

I'm not wearing bottoms so after I moved my panties off, I quickly straddle his strong thighs, impaling myself on his eager cock.

I breathed into our joining. "Oh God…"

Peeta draws me closer, arms around my waist and his hands on my full bottom, palm to cheek.

Our mouths meet in a kiss as we move together in heady, fervent lovemaking. Even now, we still remember the forbiddance of touching one another, of not being allowed to see the other in the way we desired—so we made up for it tenfold when we escaped Cray.

We made love every day that first year out. I think we were worried that somehow we'd be discovered, taken from one another before we even had the chance to understand the wonderment that was us.

Soon, I feel the tell-tale signs of his impending orgasm; the desperate thrusting of his hips, the deepening of his eyes at the thought of filling me as I tense around him.

However I come first, wanting him to feel every clench as I draw him deeper into my center.

"Katniss!" Thick wetness pulses my insides and I feel him softening inside me.

Peeta holds me tightly…desperately.

My lips go to his bare shoulder as he gulps for air; a small sob suddenly escapes him and I hold him close, letting him rest his head on my chest.

I understand; he is scared.

Nine years have passed since we escaped out are attic home.

How could something not happen to us?

"I love you," he whispers hoarsely.

I kiss the top of his head. "I know."

There is a sudden, insistent knock on our door.

Our eyes meet in panic as we throw our clothes back on; the knocking continuous. I tighten my robe around myself, feeling apprehensive as Peeta takes the lead. We walk towards the door and Peeta grabs a bat that Owen left recently after a game he played nearby—his team made it to the playoffs.

Holding his index finger to his lips, Peeta looks to me, poised and ready. "Answer the door."

I nod and unlock the door, peeking out before letting out a breath of relief.

It's Owen.

"What are you doing here?" I ask as I widen the door. "It's nearly two in the morning!"

Peeta approaches and I see Owen start—as if this is the first time seeing his friend and co-worker.

"What's going on?" Peeta asks.

"Do you remember what your bicycle looked like?" Owen says to him in a rushed voice.

"Kind of…it was a sea foam green Schwinn," my husband recalls slowly. "I think I even wrote my initials on the seat of it…though I can't remember what they were."

Owen goes pale and I grip Peeta's hand before meeting our friend's gaze. "Why?"

He steps away from the door and when Owen returns, he is wheeling a bike.

Sea Foam green…a Schwinn…then he turns it to reveal the side of the seat.

PM. Peeta Mellark.

"Peeta." Owen looks torn, his hand running nervously through his hair—a trait that I realize my husband shares. "I found this in the garage of my childhood home." He lets out a choked breath. "I think you're my older brother."

This was intended to be a one-shot then turned into two…and now possibly three. There's just a lot of information.

Also, there's a whole lot of things that we need to cover like the reunions for Katniss and Peeta, the eventual kidnapping story unfolding and Cray's demise.

Next, Part Two—Owen's story and Mrs. Everdeen.

Feedback is love.

Until then, JLaLa