This was written for The Everlark Games on Tumblr, and is very loosely based on the Canadian novel Crabbe.

It's only for a year. I've been reminding myself of that over and over and over since he left. Only for a year.

"Peeta!" My mother's shrill screech fills the bakery, and something flies past my head, hitting the wall beside me, making me jump. "Get your lazy ass out front and help your father!" I sigh. Two wedding cakes need to be done by Friday night and I'm already so far behind. That's supposed to be why she's here today, to work the front with my dad so that I can concentrate on the cakes. "I said now!" Her hand sails through the air and I have only a fraction of a second to decide whether to dodge it, and potentially upturn all of the frosting roses I've been piping, or just let her hit me.

Again.

I'm eighteen now. Rationally, I know I could stop her. But I never do.

My father looks apologetic when I join him behind the counter, but he steadfastly ignores what must be an obvious handprint on my face. So do the customers. It's a small town, there are no secrets here. No one ever wants to challenge the status quo.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. I should be in the Capitol. At college, starting my life. Instead, college has been deferred and I'm still here, in poky little Panem. Baking bread and decorating cakes in abject misery.

All thanks to my brother.

My perfect older brother, the apple of my parents' eyes. The one who should be here now, running our family bakery with my father.

The one who is, instead, in Paris. For a year.

So instead of heading off to college with my friends I got stuck covering for Graham while he enjoys the freedom that should be mine. My mother was adamant: I owed it to them to stay, with Graham travelling they couldn't spare me. If I didn't stay I could kiss any help with tuition goodbye.

I stayed.

Even though it's nearly 2 am when I get home after finishing the last wedding cake, the lights are on in my house. My parents are crowded around the laptop, skyping with Graham. Selfish prick has no concept of time zones. He talks when it's convenient for him and to hell with the rest of us. I try to head directly for my room, but I can't avoid hearing a snippet of the conversation.

And the bottom drops out of my world.

Graham, stupid perfect Graham, is boasting to my parents about how he's accepted a contract extension, to spend another year in Paris.

Another. Fucking. Year.

My father glances up at me and I can see the answer in his eyes. My one year college deferral has just become two. Or more, maybe. Hopelessness, as black as the sky, envelops me.

The plan is a simple one.

Our old camping stuff is buried deep in the attic, behind stacks of Christmas decorations and who knows what else. I'm probably the only one who still remembers it exists. When Graham was a Boy Scout my parents invested in top-of-the-line gear. My father even took us boys out camping and canoeing a couple of times, until Graham got bored and moved onto something else. It's been in storage since.

The canoe, too, is in the rafters of the garage, untouched, unnoticed.

Over the course of a couple of weeks I sneak the gear, piece by piece, out of the attic. I also take as many canned goods and boxes of soup and noodles as I can without my mother noticing, stashing them in the trunk of my third-hand Civic.

The perfect opportunity presents itself a few days before I'm ready, but I have to seize it. "Don't have any of your stupid friends over while we're out," Mother yells, hand on the front door knob. "I always know!" She forgets that I'm not the one who threw parties in their absence. That was perfect Graham, though I'm the one who was punished for them. And all of my friends are away at college anyway. I'm the only one left behind.

I wait an hour after they leave. An hour where every crack and creak in our old house makes me jump, makes me think that they've come back early.

Tying the canoe to the roof of my car is a lot harder than I anticipated, harder still to drape tarps in the rafters so no one will notice it's missing.

At just past midnight I take a last look around the house I grew up in. I thought when eventually the time came, I'd feel melancholy. But I don't. I don't feel anything at all. I leave my phone on my bedside table, even rumple the sheets a little, for appearance sake.

And then I leave.

Four hours down the highway, followed by five hours down an old logging road. It's too early in the spring for campers, but there could be hunters around. I can't chance being discovered. So I drive the Civic into the woods and sit quietly, pouring over maps I bought where no one would recognise me. At nightfall, I drag down the canoe before spending a couple of hours carefully camouflaging the car.

It's midnight again when I set out. I couldn't fit everything in one pack so I have two, one on my back, one on my chest. It's obscenely heavy. The canoe, too, is far heavier than I remember. I drop it five or six times before managing to get it balanced over my head, by which time I'm exhausted and dripping in sweat despite the evening's chill. It's hard to follow the compass in the dark and I get disoriented repeatedly. Trees pop up out of nowhere, threatening to knock the canoe off my head. It feels like I've walked a hundred miles when I finally hear the sound of rushing water, though it should only have been two.

There's no way I can paddle down the river this exhausted. I set the canoe on the ground, crawl under it, and am asleep in moments.

I awaken not to the sun, but to a scratching noise near my head. When I pry my eyes open a raccoon is nosing through my pack; pouches of dried soup mix are ripped open and scattered across the forest floor. Stupid, stupid Peeta, I berate myself, of course this would happen! What kind of idiot doesn't secure their food supply before falling asleep?

I clean up the mess as best I can, unwilling to leave any sort of trail someone could use to find me, and throw what's left of the packs into the canoe. Which is when I realize I have only one paddle. I can't remember if I had two when I left the car, or if I lost one somewhere along the road.

It doesn't matter; the sun is cresting the horizon, I have to get on the water before I'm seen.

My mother's laughter fills my ears as I tip the canoe once, twice, three times. Everything I own is soaking wet and there's an inch of water in the bottom of the boat by the time I'm floating away from shore.

The river is wide and calm. The gentle current directs me and I mostly use the paddle to crudely steer. When the sun is inching again towards the horizon and I can no longer ignore the growling of my stomach, I stop. And again get completely drenched trying to get the damned canoe to shore and myself to land. But it's a small price to pay for independence.

The tent goes up without complaint and I almost wish Mother was here, so I could show her that I'm good for something. But my pride is short-lived. Digging through my pack I discover that despite hauling 30 pounds of canned goods out into the bush I have somehow neglected to pack a can opener.

A rock and brute rage make an acceptable substitute.

I'm too exhausted to light a fire, instead I huddle in the tent, eating mushroom soup glop straight out of the can with my fingers, and fall asleep without even unrolling my wet sleeping bag.

Two days follow in much the same fashion. I become more confident with the canoe, though I tip it at least once every day. The river I've been following opens into a beautiful lake, all ripples and shimmering reflections, and I'm feeling good, smug even. Only loons have yelled at me since I left. Oh I still collapse each evening as soon as I have the tent pitched, and I haven't been warm or dry in forever, but I'm doing it. I'm making it.

My placid lake empties into another river, the current so much faster than the lazy stream of days ago. It's exhilarating; the speed I'm travelling, the distance I'm covering, the spray that coats my face and makes me feel alive. But more and more rocks jut out from the river, jagged teeth that try to bite away my paddle as I ineptly steer.

Faster and faster the torrent propels me, every bit of my concentration goes to keeping my boat upright and avoiding the rocks that loom ever larger, ever closer.

The water roars all around; before I even realize what's happening, the canoe disappears from underneath me. I'm suspended, weightless, for one brief, sickening moment before plunging over the falls.

Cold like nothing I've ever experienced envelopes me. Cold so intense it steals the blood from my brain and the breath from my lungs. I should be terrified, screaming, struggling, praying. But all I can register is cold… and then blackness.

A pair of silver-grey eyes emerge from a mist that matches them exactly, peering cautiously at me. Gradually, a face materializes around those eyes, a young woman's face. Clearly I'm dead, and somehow, in spite of everything, I've ended up in heaven. The idea cheers me a little - until I shift to get a better look at the angel and white-hot pain shoots through my arm. "Be still," she says. Her voice is deep, husky almost, completely at odds with her dainty features.

She presses a cup against my parched lips. Water runs in rivulets over my chin but some manages to get into my mouth and I swallow greedily. I only manage a couple of sips before exhaustion overtakes me.

The next time I open my eyes she's shaking me awake. "We have to get some food into you." I feel like I've been asleep a long time, heavy-headed and disoriented. She grips my shoulders, helping me sit up. I'm as weak as a kitten, unable to assist in any way. My head spins for a few moments; she holds me steady until I can manage to slump on my own. I blink slowly against the light, my eyes gritty and bleary. "Here," she says, pushing a tin cup into my hands. "Drink this." It's warm, almost too warm against my hands, but it feels like it's restoring me from the inside as it slips down my throat. Broth, unfamiliar tasting but the best thing I've ever had. "You're still cold," she murmurs, and it's not a question.

It's only as she's wrapping a scratchy blanket around my shoulders that I realize I'm naked except for my shorts, my arm bound in a reddened rag, hunched in an unfamiliar sleeping bag. In an unfamiliar tent. "What-" I try to say, but my voice is as insubstantial as the breeze.

"Shhh," she says. "Not yet. Drink, then rest. We can talk later." She guides the cup back to my mouth. I manage to drink most of it, with her coaxing, before she helps me lie back down. I'm asleep before she even pulls her hands away.

The tent makes a strange noise when the wind picks up, like a flock of birds flapping all around. The thin moonlight that filters through the nylon roof illuminates her, sleeping next to me. She's bundled in a parka, a grey knit hat obscures part of her face and even in the dim I can see she's shivering. It must be her bag I'm sleeping in, all toasty warm, and I frown. It takes some manoeuvring, but I manage to free the wool blanket from underneath myself and drape it clumsily over her before collapsing. She sighs in her sleep.

The smell of frying food invades my dreams, draws me into the land of the living. My eyes open more easily this time, focussing on the open tent flap, and on the girl crouched just outside of it, cooking over a small fire. For the first time I can really see her, jet black hair braided and tossed casually over her shoulder, features sharp in profile, twisted into a scowl. She's not very big, in her oversized red flannel shirt and slim jeans, and not very old, younger than me I think, but her expression suggests a world-weariness far beyond her years.

I'm relieved to realize that I can sit up unassisted. My arm is still throbbing but I feel a little less like I've died and been resurrected. Only a little, though. When she turns and locks eyes with me it still feels like heaven. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you," I tell her. I start to climb out of the bag and her eyes widen.

"Wait, I'll, uh, get your clothes."

I snicker. "I don't care if you see me." She scowls.

"I care, all right?" It's all I can do to stifle my laughter. It's not like she didn't strip me out of them in the first place. Or at least, I think she did.

She tosses a pile of clothing at me, then loosens the tie holding the tent open.

When I emerge she's plating several small fish, along with balls of what I recognise as bannock bread, baked over the fire on sticks. I'm suddenly ravenous, and I scarf down everything wordlessly. She watches with an amused half-smile, refilling my plate with extra bannock.

She fills a pair of cups with dark liquid from a blackened kettle; tea, but not any tea I've ever tasted before. We sip in silence.

Except it's not silent. The trees around us whisper in the breeze, alive with birdsong. Underneath, the soothing gurgle of flowing water. No car horns blaring, no radios playing.

No mother screaming.

And for the first time in my life, I feel free.

"What's your name," she asks, shattering both the quiet and my peace of mind. I can't help balking; rationally I know she's not going to return me to Panem, to my miserable old life, but in the moment I'm just too terrified of the possibility to be rational. She just chuckles. "You too huh? Okay." And just like that the question is dropped.

She tidies up the campsite while I watch, still too weak to help. It's a clever spot; I can hear the water but can't see it from here, surrounded as we are by thick brush. And she knows what she's doing; the firepit is carefully edged with river rock, the tent tucked far enough into the copse of trees to be sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain. A rope strung between two trees acts as a clothesline, and her small stash of gear is tucked tidily under a lean-to of cedar branches.

I'm still looking around in awe when she plops down beside me again. "Let me see your arm." I hold the limb out, and she unbinds it with deft fingers. An ugly slash runs from wrist to elbow, held together by a row of jagged sutures. I have to bite my cheek hard against the threat of my breakfast returning. "Well, it's stopped bleeding anyway," she murmurs to herself.

She cleans away the dried blood and grime with gentle hands, rewrapping my arm in fresh rags when she's done. Who is she? This girl in the middle of nowhere who can forage and fish, who evidently rescued me and nursed me back to health. Before I can ask, she's shooing me back into the tent. "You need rest," she insists. "You had a close call, lost a lot of blood, and I need to put you somewhere safe while I check my trap lines."

Her voice is all business, but I'm struck by the words. Put me somewhere safe. As if I'm precious. As if I'm worth protecting.

When I wake up again, I'm alone. I can't tell what time it is. The sun is up but the quality of the light suggests late afternoon. The fire is out, the ashes cold. Panic sets in; I don't know what's involved in checking snares but surely she should be back by now?

A hundred scenarios race through my mind. She's stuck in a tree. She's fallen into the river and drowned. She's been attacked by bears or wild mutts.

She's abandoned me.

I sit on a felled log by the ashes, staring morosely at nothing. How did I ever think I could manage out here? I've been gone maybe two weeks and the only reason I've survived this long is because a silver-eyed angel saved me. And now she's gone too. Mother was right. I am useless.

She's like a ghost, materializing beside me out of thin air. "Hey, are you ready to-" she starts, stopping abruptly when I fall backwards off the log. She looks down on me, an amused glint in her eyes. "Are you okay?" She reaches for me and instinctively I flinch. Her expression falls. "Hey," she says softly, "No, none of that. You're safe here." I regain a little of my sense, and raise an eyebrow at her. She chuckles. "Well, as safe as you can be in the middle of the forest. Come on," she says, reaching for me again. "You can help me."

Over the course of what must be several weeks, I steadily recover, gaining back my strength and stamina. I make myself useful, or as useful as a bumbling boy in the woods can be; tending the fire, baking bannock, and cooking the fish and game she brings every day. She teaches me to skin the small animals she traps and smoke thin strips of meat, turning it into a tough, salty jerky that she stores in metal tins, hidden all around.

But I never go farther than perhaps 100 yards from the campsite. She brings me basins of water to wash up with and never pushes me to venture away from our little oasis.

In the evenings we sit around the fire and chat. Very quickly we come to a common understanding of which topics are off-limits; anything to do with family, our pasts, where we're from, why we're here. But we get to know the little things; favourite colours, favourite movies, favourite meals. We tell stories and jokes, and often just sit in companionable silence. And though it must be a burden, taking care of me, she doesn't ask me to leave.

At night, we share the sleeping bag. She tries, at first, to object, but the nights are cold and we both sleep so much better together.

"I'm going fishing today. Would you like to come with me?" It's the first time she's offered to take me beyond the boundary of our camp. "Your arm has healed up nicely. Should be fine to use now." She's giving me an excuse for not having broken camp even once in well over a month, though I know she understands it's fear that's kept me grounded here, not my arm.

"O-okay," I surprise even myself answering. She looks pleased.

My heart pounds in my ears as we leave camp, heading towards the sound of water. I don't want her to think I'm the wuss that Mother insists I am, but I'm terrified. Sweat dots my forehead and my vision swims.

We hike no more than ten minutes before we reach a lake, gentle waves lap at the shore and granite slabs jut out over the water. The roiling black water of my nightmares is nowhere to be seen. I let out a shaky breath that she pretends to ignore.

She's fashioned crude but serviceable fishing poles, and we pass a relaxing few hours in the sunshine, bare feet dangling in the cool water, catching fat speckled trout and sleek northern pike. She sings under her breath, husky and entrancing. A pretty blush tints her soft olive skin when she notices me listening, completely awestruck.

I can feel the anxiety melting away, feel myself finally starting to understand this wild girl and this wild place.

As if she can read my mind she takes my hand. "The fish will be fine for awhile," she says, nodding to the net where our catch swims in captivity. I follow her. I'm pretty sure I'd follow her anywhere.

The crash of water gets louder and louder as we pick our way along the rocky shore. I know without asking where she's taking me, though I'm by no means certain I can handle it.

We have to wade past a rocky outcrop where a chunk of sun-faded red fibreglass winks ominously, and once we're past that I see it. The falls. The falls that tried to kill me.

In my memory they're violently churning, black as night. But what rises from the lake not 100 feet away is an almost ethereal waterfall of extraordinary beauty. The water meanders down a face of pink granite, glinting in the sunlight, spilling into a swirling eddy before rippling out into the lake. "Arena Falls," she murmurs beside me, still holding my hand tight. "Beautiful, but deadly."

I can't prevent the shudder that rips through my whole body. Deadly. That water took all of my possessions and nearly took my life. All that prevented my untimely demise is the girl standing beside me, strengthening me simply with the grip of her small hand. And I know; I trust her, more than I've ever trusted anyone before.

I turn and look down into her silver eyes, soft and compassionate. "My name is Peeta Mellark," I tell her. "I'm eighteen years old, and I'm from Panem."

I watch the emotions that flit across her face as she internally debates whether I, too, am trustworthy. Eventually, she nods. "Katniss Everdeen," she says softly. "I'm glad to finally meet you, Peeta."

Sitting in the shallows, the drone of the falls underscoring my every word, I confess. My life in Panem. My family. The bleakness, the hopelessness of my future.

She holds my hand tightly, but doesn't interrupt, only squeezing my fingers comfortingly when I reach the bad parts. Cathartic tears stream down my face; Mother always said that only pussies cry but Katniss doesn't judge me for them.

When I've talked myself out she wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly. "Thank you, Peeta," she murmurs into my neck. She doesn't relay her own story, or anything other than her name, but it's enough.

Dusk is falling when we make our way back to camp, still hand in hand. The fish are quickly dealt with, some filleted and added to the smoking racks, some pan fried simply and served with greens.

And though it's too warm for the sleeping bag tonight, we fall asleep wrapped snugly in each other's arms.

Something shifts between us, in the aftermath of my confession. She starts sharing some of her survival tips, teaching me more, spending more time with me at camp or at the lake or strolling through a nearby meadow to watch the sunset. She smiles more too.

And my confidence grows.

"Do you have any more flour?" I ask her, scraping the bottom of the tin to make the morning's bannock. Katniss has several food caches in the woods, hung in trees or hidden in hollowed logs. She wrinkles her pert nose, chewing her bottom lip in thought.

"No," she sighs. "I think that's the last of it. I'll have to get more." I glance over my shoulder at her in confusion.

"Get more? Is there a Whole Foods here you haven't told me about?" I can't resist teasing her. From what I can tell we're more than 100 miles from even the nearest outfitter.

"No," she says, looking at me that way she does when she's debating whether to let me in on one of her survival tricks. "I can steal more."

I try to pretend I'm not shocked, but I must fail spectacularly because she scowls. "There's a hunting lodge, about a day's hike from here. I, uh... Well sometimes I borrow some of their provisions." She crosses her arms tightly over her chest. "Look, they have a huge hoard there, and I never take enough that they'll notice."

I'm in awe of this brave, crazy, resourceful girl. Until now, it's never occurred to me to wonder how she's managed to have things like flour and soap that you can't just find lying on the forest floor.

She won't let me accompany her, concerned that the loudness of my gait will tip off the hunters. She's right, of course. But I don't like it.

The day and a half she's gone are the worst of my life. My anxiety flares, I jump at every sound, I panic when it's too quiet. I don't sleep a wink, alone in the tent, bereft without her small warm body pressed against me.

It's more than just being alone. It's her. I miss her.

She returns with the sun, flushed with success and loaded with flour and salt and sugar. But I couldn't care any less about the supplies. I wrap her in my arms and cling, never wanting to let her go again.

"Look what I found!" Ever since that first time that Katniss snuck up on me and scared me out of my skin she's made a concerted effort to be a little noisy as she approaches camp. I turn from where I'm tending the smoke fire, and am shocked anew. Held aloft in her hand is a 2 gallon ziploc bag, one I recognize. The one I'd packed my sketchbook in.

"No way," I mutter. It's impossible. That bag, along with everything else I brought, is at the bottom of the falls, far away from the safety of this little campsite.

"It is yours," she says, as though I've confirmed it. "I thought it must be. Looks like it's still dry." And unbelievably, she's right. The plastic and seal are intact, the book and pencils inside are dry, if a little warped.

I take it from her with reluctance. Over the weeks I've been out here I've let go of my old life and of the old Peeta, bit by bit. I'm disconcerted by this reminder, no matter how much I've missed sketching. It feels wrong, tainted. "You don't want it?" she asks, and there's a note of disappointment in her voice.

"I do," I admit, and shuffle over to my favourite log. She sits across from me, giving me space. She always gives me space.

I can't help smiling, though, when I open the cover. Those drawings that naive-but-hopeful Peeta made during my first few days of freedom. Trees reflected on a lake so placid I'd been lulled into thinking it was welcoming.

She's watching me, trying to disguise her curiosity. It tugs at my heartstrings. "C'mere," I beckon and she smiles, settling beside me. I set the book in her lap.

Her fingers trace the pencil lines reverently. "You drew these?" At my nod she whistles. "These are incredible!" I shrug, I love drawing, but it's something I've always had to do in secret. Mother didn't approve of such a sissy hobby. Doodling is for children and the mentally infirm, she always said. "Do you think you could draw me?" Katniss won't meet my eyes and her query is so quiet, I almost think I've misheard.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, if you like, sure I could." Her smile is radiant.

"What do you want me to do," she asks, eagerly, fidgeting with the placket of her ever present flannel shirt, unbuttoned in the heat but still steadfastly resting over her shoulders.

"Just sit still. Watch the fire." She does as I direct, and I begin with a few gentle lines, just to loosen up. I haven't held a pencil in more than two months; it feels a little foreign. But as I trace her face with my eyes, muscle memory kicks in.

She's pretty, in her own way. A strong brow, high cheekbones and a straight nose frame those eyes, those incredible, soulful eyes, hooded and fringed with thick black lashes. Eyes that hold the answers to all of life's mysteries. In pencil I can't capture their colour; grey, but flecked with blue and green, almost iridescent, reminding me of a pearl I once saw in the jeweller's window.

My pencil skims along the page, bringing her lips to life, lush and plump, and always a little chapped. Lips that I've watched smile and frown, lips that have spoken soothing words to me in the night when I've woken up from a nightmare. Lips that I long to taste.

It feels good, reclaiming my art. Old Peeta had been too cowardly to assert himself, to insist that drawing was worthwhile simply because I enjoy it.

I'm so far inside my own head that I don't realize she's moved again until I hear her breath catch beside me. "Is that how you see me," she breathes. For a moment I'm confused. The sketch is quick and clumsy, but a pretty fair representation. I glance at her, but her eyes are fixed on the paper. "You've made me look beautiful," she whispers.

"You are beautiful," I tell her simply.

She lets me accompany her while she forages, teaching me the names of the plants and berries and mushrooms she picks. I wish I could ask her how she knows these things, how she can live off the land so skillfully. But each time conversation has wandered too far in that direction, she's clammed up. And I don't want to risk her displeasure.

It's hot today. We're picking blackberries on the edge of the bay, playing a game where we toss the plump fruit at each other and try to catch them in our mouths. I'm sweaty and sticky, stained with juice.

The only clothes I have are the ones I was wearing on my trip over the falls; jeans, a t-shirt, red Henley, underwear, and socks. It's been really humid the past few days, so I've just been wearing the boxers and t-shirt.

Katniss, on the other hand, has a whole stash of clothing, and yet still insists on wearing a heavy flannel shirt and jeans, even to sleep. She must be miserable; sweat cuts tracks down her neck and still she leaves the flannel in place. I sense it's yet another thing I can't ask.

But the shallow water beckons. I strip off my shirt, leaving my shorts in deference to her discomfort and wade in. It's heavenly. "Join me," I holler when I'm chest deep.

She shakes her head, sitting stubbornly on a rock that overhangs the water, watching me with obvious irritation.

I don't understand; I know she can swim, she did rescue me from the water after I went over the falls. And she often comes back to the site with her glossy black braid dripping. "Katniss, come on," I entreat. "I know you're hot. You'll feel better once you're in."

"No, thank you," she grumbles.

I know better. A lifetime of walking on eggshells has taught me never to push, never to poke a sleeping bear, so I can't explain what compels me.

I grab her legs and toss her, fully clothed, into the water.

When she surfaces, sputtering and seething, I smile. "Refreshing, right?"

"You have serious listening issues, Mellark," she grunts, heading back to shore. I figure she'll strip off her wet clothing but she doesn't, returning to the rock and huddling in her wet garments, glaring.

"Katniss," I whine, following. "Take off those wet clothes and come back in. The water is amazing." I reach up to grasp the sopping tail of her flannel and she scrambles backwards. She's on her feet and storming away in a flash, but not before I see the betrayal in her eyes.

I trudge back to camp with the forgotten berries and a hefty dose of shame. I don't expect to find her there, she generally disappears into the forest when she's annoyed with me.

But she is at camp, sitting on her usual log, still wearing her sodden clothing. Her knees are drawn up, face buried in her lap. She must hear me approach; she's told me repeatedly that I can't walk quietly to save my life. But she doesn't look up, doesn't react at all. I brace myself for her anger. "Katniss," I call softly. "I'm really sorry-" She looks up and the rest of the words die on my tongue.

She's crying.

Instinct takes over, I'm kneeling in front of her and gathering her into a tight hug before it even occurs to me that, as the cause of her upset, she might not welcome the comfort I'm offering. And she does stiffen, momentarily, but then relaxes into my embrace.

We cling to each other until finally she takes a deep breath and gently pushes me away. "Sit," she directs, her voice still shaky. As I take the log beside her, she gingerly pulls the damp flannel off her shoulders and down her arms.

My stomach plummets.

This girl, this brave, gorgeous girl, is decorated in swaths of warped and melted skin. Burn scars. Her left shoulder and left arm are swirled with a patchwork of smooth olive and newborn-baby pink, interspersed with ridges of white. She turns away, but only to lift her tank top over her head. Her bare back has been painted by the same fiery brush, wings of white and red sprout from her left shoulder, dipping down to the waistband of her jeans.

A hundred apologies dance in my mind but remain unspoken. I think she hears them anyway. "Our house burned down," she begins so softly that I have to strain to hear her over my pounding heart. "I spent months in the burn unit, but I was the lucky one." There's a bitterness to her words. "My father, mother, and sister were killed. Only I survived." Her shoulders heave again. I can hear the tears in her voice.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," she says quietly. "I was twelve, almost thirteen. When I recovered, there was no one willing to take me in. So they sent me to foster care." She shifts to put her tank back on, but leaves the flannel where it's fallen in the dirt.

She faces me; all of her walls down, all of the sadness in her soul bared for me. "I bounced around in the system for a few years, from one bad place to another." I reach for her hand, she twines our fingers together and just a hint of a smile flickers over her lips before she bites it away. "By the time I was sixteen I'd run away four or five times. They always caught me, always took me back. I was depressed, suicidal maybe. And I was sitting in the yard of the last foster home, watching the younger kids when one of them popped a dandelion in her mouth."

Now she does smile, though it's tinged with sadness. "Seeing that…" she shakes her head. "My dad was an avid outdoorsman, he took me hunting all of the time when I was young. And he taught me about sustaining yourself in the wild. But I was so angry at living when they were gone that I'd forgotten his lessons. Watching her eat that dandelion, I remembered."

"So you ran away again," I guess, and she nods.

"Yeah, but this time I had a plan. I bought a bus ticket to the Capitol, but I never boarded. Instead I hitchhiked north. When I first got here all I had was a sleeping bag and the tent," she says, nodding towards the plain green nylon hut that's been my home for months now. "I stole them from some yuppie yahoo who'd ditched his Subaru on the logging road. Top quality," she snickers.

"And you've been here since." She nods again.

"The first few months were tough. It was fall, gathering enough food before the winter die-off was challenging. If it hadn't been for finding the hunting lodge I might not have made it." She explains that she frequented the lodge all winter, taking from their stash of non-perishables only what wouldn't be noticed, supplementing her stores of jerky and dried fish with cans of stew and scoops of rice. The vast majority of her gear, too, came from the lodge, piece by piece. A cup forgotten outside by a careless hunter. A knife left on a pantry shelf. Dusty candles from an unused drawer. I listen in wonder; this brave, clever woman who walked away from civilization and made a life in the woods.

I couldn't love her more.

Katniss talks all afternoon, and well into the evening. About her family; her healer mother and hunter father. Her sweet little sister who was the light of her life. About her life before they died, filled with music and laughter. About her loneliness, her emptiness since they've been gone.

About her plans to stay here, in the woods, until she turns eighteen next spring, when she can return to the city and try to make a life without fear of being apprehended and returned to foster care. We're wrapped around each other at this point, her head on my shoulder, my fingers caressing her hair. "Where do I fit in your future plans?" I force myself to ask. She raises her head, meets my eyes. "You're my whole life, Katniss. There's nothing back in Panem for me."

She pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself and my heart sinks. "What do you want, Peeta?" she asks. "To stay out here forever?"

"No. I just… I just want to be with you, wherever you are."

"Why?" I shake my head at her. She has no idea, the effect she has.

"Because I'm in love with you, Katniss." She scoffs.

"You're not… it's not…" She huffs, frustrated. "You're just stuck with me. It's not like I have any competition out here."

"You don't have any competition anywhere," I tell her honestly. "I've been in love with you since the first time I heard you sing, by the lake. I swear, every bird fell silent to listen to you. And that's when I knew." I reach for her again, my fingers delicately ghosting the damaged skin of her left arm, sliding up her shoulder, her neck, to cup her face. "Can I kiss you?"

She barely nods before my lips capture hers. It's a slow, tentative kiss, questioning. I start to pull back but she chases me, kissing me hard. I almost cry in relief.

I don't know how long we sit, wrapped in each other, tongues stroking and tasting, exploring. I've kissed girls before, lots of them, but it's never been this good. Her fingers carding through my overlong hair, my hands caressing her waist over her thin camisole. When we break apart, gasping for air, I'm euphoric. "I've been waiting, hoping, that you'd catch up with me," I admit.

"How…" she whispers, burying her face in my neck. "I'm broken, Peeta. Damaged goods."

"You're not," I snap, startling her and she sits up quickly. "You are incredible, and sexy, and these scars only make you more attractive." She scowls at me, but I can see the vulnerability. I take her hand and press it against my shorts, where my erection rages. Just that simple touch makes me throb. "You are the most attractive woman I've ever met, in every single way, Katniss. Don't ever doubt how much I want you." My eyes shut, willing myself to stay in control.

I drop my hand, but hers stays in place, cupping me, stroking me through my shorts, the thin cotton hardly any barrier to the warmth of her small hand. I groan; it's been a very, very long time since anyone has touched me like this. "Katniss," I warn breathlessly and she stops, but not before giving me one last squeeze, and I moan softly.

She straddles me and we resume kissing. My hand sneaks under her camisole, palming and teasing the small mounds while she squirms and begs. I want to taste her skin, to tongue those firm peaks until she mewls, but it's uncomfortable balancing on the log. "Can we," I start. She stands abruptly, grabbing my arm and hauling me towards the tent. I can barely breathe. It's all moving so fast, after months of wanting her and being too afraid to confess we stand on the precipice.

In the darkened tent we kneel together, eyes wide. "We can't have sex," she says firmly, the aural equivalent of a cold shower. But I nod, even if I'm disappointed. "I want to," she continues, "God I want to. But I can't risk getting pregnant. Not out here." Her words cut through my stupor, and I cringe at my idiocy. Of course she wouldn't be on birth control, there's no CVS out here in the bush. "But… but if you want… there are… other things," she stammers, and my dick throbs anew.

"God yes, Katniss," I murmur, pulling her against me, sucking the soft skin of her throat. "Let me love you." I peel off her camisole reverently, exposing her small, sweet breasts to my starving eyes. She lies back, the burn scars wrap around her ribcage, curling downward, but leaving most of her front unscathed. It occurs to me that she must have been running away when she was burned, and my heart hurts for her. But she's shimmying out of her jeans and my mind snaps back to the present, to the gorgeous woman now splayed in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of blue panties and a shy smile.

I rip my own shirt off. She licks her lips in a move so unintentionally sexy that I can't control myself. I crawl on top of her and wrap my lips around one dusky nipple, suckling the salt from her skin, teasing the bud into a tight peak with my teeth. The noises she makes, the whines and moans, the way she pants my name, it's the most exquisite music.

She giggles when my beard tickles her skin, I swallow the sound with a kiss, locking it tightly inside me. We kiss and rock, kiss and rock. I'm getting close, but as incredible as dry-humping with Katniss Everdeen feels, it's not how I want to make her cum. Not the first time.

Katniss groans as I pull back, but I don't give her a moment to think, ridding her of those tiny panties, laying her completely bare before me.

Her body is a masterpiece in the moonlight, sinewy muscles and delicate curves. I ease her thighs apart; her breath so shallow she's practically hyperventilating. She glistens in the low light, the scent of her arousal overwhelms me, drives me wild. I taste and tease and torment her with tongue and lips and even teeth and she writhes and moans and begs. One arm curls around her, keeping her open for me, while the other snakes into my shorts. I stroke my aching cock firmly, moaning against her skin. So close, so damned close.

"Peeta!" she wails as she pulses against my tongue and it's enough to push me over the edge. I gasp her name over and over into her damp flesh as I cum. After, it's all I can do to shuck my sticky shorts and crawl up to collapse beside her.

The days pass as they have almost since I met Katniss; she hunts, I bake, we gather and cook and explore the woods together. It's domestic, really.

But now we explore each other too. I learn how to pleasure her. We do everything we can dream of, save for that one last step.

I tell her that I love her every chance I get. She doesn't say the words back, but I can feel them in the way she touches me, the way she kisses me. The way she takes care of me.

No one has ever taken care of me before. Not like this. Not like her.

She's gone to the hunting camp again, and like every other time I'm a wreck. I draw pictures of the falling leaves, pick apples, and wind myself up until I can do nothing but pace the campsite, mentally counting the seconds until she returns. It's dusk when she does. I'm poking at the fire and sulking. Her arrival, breathless and sweaty, immediately cheers me. "You're back," I murmur against her lips, scooping her up before she's even divested herself of her pack.

She laughs, free and wild. "Put me down, Peeta. I have a surprise for you!" I can't stop touching her as she unpacks everything she's pilfered this trip. She was only gone 36 hours, but each time she leaves it's harder and harder. I need to continue practicing quiet walking so that I can come with her. So we don't have to be apart again.

Finally she squeaks out a triumphant little 'ta-da,' and presses a box into my hands.

Condoms.

She's laughing, talking about her shock in finding them, wondering why a group of burly men thought they'd need them at a hunting camp. I can barely breathe.

Her smile falters. "Peeta, you're not… you don't…" she trails off, eyebrows scrunched. I rush to reassure her.

"God, yes, Katniss. Yes! I want to make love to you. I just, I'm stunned. In a good way." She relaxes, kissing me, but I pull back before things can go much further. Again she looks confused.

"I don't want to rush," I tell her, which is senseless since we've been doing everything but having sex for more than two months. But the first time we come together that way, I want it to be special. "We have time," I say. "We can go slowly."

We sit together, unwinding, reconnecting. I feed her bits of yesterday's bannock, toasted over the low fire while she stares into my eyes, and it feels like a covenant. Like a vow.

She lets me carry her to our tent, lets me undress her with shaking hands. She smiles shyly when I lavish attention on her. But her patience has its limits. "Peeta," she whispers. "I'm waiting."

We roll the condom on together.

I've had sex before, but this is the first time I've made love, and it's so different, so much more intense.

And after, wrapped tightly together, drifting on a sea of contentment, I ask her to marry me. She laughs against my lips.

But she doesn't say no.

The first snow surprises me. I crawl out of the tent at dawn to light the fire and make tea only to find the world has been transformed. A delicate crust covers everything, glittering in the thin light.

Rationally, I knew it was coming. The trees are barren, there's been frost nearly every day. But snow? Snow is sobering.

Katniss stayed out here last winter and is unafraid. I'm much more hesitant. I remember almost dying all of those months ago. It isn't the fall or even the water that continues to show up in my nightmares. It's the cold. And the idea of Katniss and I freezing to death out here seems very plausible.

Katniss was bold in her previous trip to the hunting lodge, stealing another sleeping bag and a warm jacket for me, among other things. She justified it by promising it'd be the last time until spring.

The snows pile up against the tent, and we spend long, lazy days curled up together. Our single box of condoms is long gone, but we find other ways to entertain ourselves, insatiable and in love as we are.

And when we're not bringing each other to the precipice we talk. Make plans for the future.

Our future.

Katniss will be 18, a legal adult, on May 8th. That's when we can rejoin civilization. We'll find jobs and a place to live, start building a home and a life together. A life filled with joy and love, like the one she misses so acutely. Like the one I've only ever dared dream of.

It's my fault.

I was careless; in my rush to scurry back to the light and warmth of the fire last evening I didn't properly close our main food pack.

This morning there is barely anything left of it. Flour, salt, tea, all scattered in the snow. Half of our salt fish store gone as well.

I'm beside myself, cursing my stupidity long and loud. But Katniss is surprisingly pragmatic. "It was an accident Peeta. Don't beat yourself up." She chews on her lip, thoughtfully. "Just means we'll need to make another trip to the hunting lodge."

We.

I'm elated that she's finally trusting me to come along, even if it's only because she knows there are no hunters in the area in mid-January.

I'm far more fit now than ever before, lean and strong, but the hike tests my endurance. Trudging through snow knee deep in spots, we're soaking wet and exhausted when we finally reach our destination. "We should light a fire," Katniss muses as we stand, dripping and panting, in the cookhouse.

It's a crazy idea. Breaking in is bad enough, but lighting a fire means smoke that someone could potentially see. Katniss scoffs at my worries. "There's nothing else anywhere near here," she insists.

She sets her sights on the bunkhouse, but it's padlocked tight. "Come on, Peeta," she pleads. "I want to sleep in a real bed, just for one night." It's so unlike her to ask for anything. I can't refuse.

It happens so quickly. One minute she's shimmying along a ledge at the back of the building, looking for an open window. The next she's dangling, jacket snagged on something as she swings precariously 15 feet in the air. "Katniss!" My scream echoes off the cedars, and is repeated by far-distant wolves.

I'm a shitty climber, but I manage to scale the downspout, grab Katniss and break a window, climbing through and dragging her in behind me. We lie motionless on the floor for a long time, hearts pounding in terror and relief. Finally she crawls over and curls into my arms. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't go dying on me," I try to joke, though my voice is shaky. "You won't be doing me any favours." She tries to laugh, but it comes out in a sob.

Despite being inside I'm cold, even colder than when we were hip deep in a snowbank. "We need to get away from the window," I tell her, my voice sluggish with exhaustion, and she nods. But when she sits up, she shrieks. "Peeta! Your leg!"

I didn't feel it when it happened, but the shock set in rapidly. A shard of broken window glass pierced my thigh like a sword, high on the right side. But it seems to have missed the major artery; there's blood, a lot of it, but I'm still alive.

Katniss binds my leg and builds up a fire, and we lie in front of it all night. I'm worried, every minute we spend here is a risk. But I can barely put any weight on the leg. How are we going to make the twelve hour hike back home?

She tells me not to worry. We'll find a way. We're warm, have full stomachs, and each other. And for now that's enough.

But when she unwraps my leg two days later to clean it, terror is written across her face. "That bad, huh?"

"Well, there's some swelling," she says unsteadily. I just shake my head at her fondly. She's a terrible liar.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," I tell her. "Even if my mother isn't a healer."

She decides that we can't wait any longer. There's no phone at the lodge, no electricity either. But there's an old camp truck with keys inside.

Katniss sings as I drift in and out of consciousness, tells me stories I can't really understand about goats in pink ribbons. What must be hours pass, street lights start to appear, at first in ones and twos, then an unbroken string of them, illuminating the way.

When she stops, she scoots across the bench, grabbing my face in her hands. "Peeta," she whispers, urgently. "I need you to listen carefully to me."

"You're so beautiful," I murmur, pushing a rogue strand of black hair behind her ear.

"Peeta! Listen!" I nod, and she huffs, exasperated. "They're going to ask a lot of questions, but you can't tell them about me. Okay? You can't give them my name." She looks so frantic.

"Are you going to be someone else?" I slur. "We'll tell them you're my wife. Mrs. Mellark." A lazy grin lifts my lips. Mrs. Mellark. I like that.

"No, Peeta," she starts, but I'm lost in my daydream.

"We're already more married than any piece of paper could make us." Her eyes well with tears.

"We are," she confirms, and kisses me, just lightly. "But we can't tell them that, Peeta. Promise me."

"What?" I'm getting groggy again

"Just promise. Don't come after me. Don't say my name, not even once. Promise, Peeta." Her voice is urgent; there are other voices in the distance now too.

"I promise." She hugs me hard, I can feel the wetness of her tears on my neck.

"I love you," she whispers in my ear, as the blackness once again takes over.

For days I drift in and out of consciousness as doctors pump me full of drugs to fight the infection.

The pain is unfathomable, I cry out for her and a hand grips my shoulder, hard. But it's wrong. When I open my eyes it's not Katniss gazing down at me. It's my father's pale, haggard face.

Confusion overwhelms me. "Dad?" I whisper. And he starts to cry.

Days later, when I'm moved from the ICU to a regular room, I have another visitor. Not the one person I need, desperately, to see. Instead, it's Graham.

Old Peeta would have pouted, would have blamed Graham for all of his troubles. But old Peeta died nine months ago, at the bottom of Arena Falls. Instead, I hug my brother. And when he apologizes for abandoning me, I forgive him. We all made mistakes.

She's gone, vanished as surely as if she'd never existed at all. I ask the nurses and doctors and social workers about the woman who brought me in, none can give me answers.

She told them my name though, and told them where to find my parents. Then she disappeared.

I can't tell them, can't tell anyone. I promised. As far as my family and the medical staff know, I've been alone in the woods for the past nine months. And when I got injured, I hitchhiked to the hospital.

Grief envelops me. Days go by where I don't say a single word. Even her name, forbidden.

The doctors see fit to release me after ten days. I'm so lost to my misery that I don't give any thought to where I'm going. It's Graham who brings me fresh clothing, and packs up the few magazines and papers I've accumulated.

I sit in his car, staring out the window, watching my happiness get farther and farther away. Every mile another nail in the coffin of my dreams.

It's as if spring has come overnight. Dandelions pop up on the lawn of the small house in Victor's Village, about an hour from Panem. Graham and I have been living here for two months now. It hasn't been easy, I'm certainly not the best roommate. After so many months away from technology, I'm hypersensitive to noise and light. Nightmares plague me and I'm prone to snapping at the silliest things; a bit of wasted food, a television left on. But Graham has been patient.

"Peet," he says, clapping my shoulder. "What do you say we find your car this weekend?" He's trying so hard to help me reintegrate into society. Once I realized that I didn't have to go back to the life I hated in Panem, I started opening up to him about why I'd run in the first place. It's been a slow, painful process of building trust between us.

One that hasn't extended to telling him about Katniss. Nor about anything that happened those nine months. He hasn't pushed, though he wears his curiosity plainly.

I see my father, from time to time, but not my mother. The police investigation into my disappearance all those months ago tore their marriage apart. Neighbours who had held their tongues about the abuse for so long suddenly had plenty to say. So she left. The price of my father's cowardice was steep, in the end.

Though it's been a year, I find the Civic fairly easily. My camouflage job impresses Graham. "You're going to kick ass in that art program, little brother." I grin at him, despite the deep melancholy I feel being back in this place.

Jumper cables and jerry can at the ready, we dig out the car. I slide into the driver's seat and pop the hood. And then freeze.

Sitting on the passenger seat is a two gallon ziploc bag. Inside is a sketchbook. Unmistakably mine, the one Katniss rescued from the lake so many months ago. And like that day I'm bewildered, and terrified.

Graham climbs into the car as I'm flipping through the pages. Sketch after sketch of Katniss, depictions of the simple, perfect life we had together. Tears stream down my face as he watches wordlessly.

I drew the last sketch in the book just days before the accident that changed everything. Katniss, lying in our sleeping bag early one morning, all rumpled hair and lidded eyes. But there's been an addition to it. Small, cramped handwriting spells out Merchant Marina. You know when.

When I can catch my breath I turn to Graham. "Let me tell you a story."

I choose a table that overlooks the docks, watching the boats while I slide my mug back and across the Formica top. It's May 8th.

The waitress in this shabby diner is solicitous; clearly she thinks I've been stood up. But I'm not worried. She'll be here. I doodle on the napkins while I wait.

"Almost didn't recognize you clean-shaven like this." My head snaps up; like a ghost she's materialized in front of me. She smiles timidly and I bark out a laugh loud enough to make the other patrons gawk before leaping to my feet and crushing her in a hug.

With her wrapped in my arms, everything makes sense again.

I buy us both lunch, if only to appease the waitress, and we hold hands while we eat, reconnecting. Just breathing each other in. And though the atmosphere in the noisy, crowded diner is completely different from our solitary campsite, my feelings are exactly the same. "Are you ready to go home?" I murmur in her ear.

Her smile is radiant. "With you?" she teases, and I nod. "Always."