"We're so happy you came over tonight, Auntie Katniss. Aren't we?" I cringe at the baby talk falling out of my best friend's face, but since he's bouncing his nine-month-old nephew in his arms I guess I'll have to tolerate it. For now.

We're babysitting little Emmett tonight. It's the first time Peeta's brother and sister-in-law have gone out since the birth, and the first time Peeta's ever taken care of a baby. I'm here as moral support.

"Yeah, yeah," I groan. "Just don't expect me to change any diapers."

Peeta shoots me a lopsided grin. "Noted," he laughs. "I'm going to go tuck this monkey into his crib, how about you pick out the movie?"

"Deal!" He walks out of the living room, leaving me to figure out his brother's entertainment system. I'm not a technophobe, but this is state of the art, and German, and the four different remotes look like they could control the Hadron Collider. It's a far cry from the third-hand laptop I usually watch movies on. But Peeta and I have been having Friday night Netflix marathons together since college, and we aren't going to let some two-toothed drool machine change that.

I have no idea where to start, so I pick up the biggest of the remotes, aim it at the television, and push the oversized power button. Nothing happens on the TV screen, but the remote comes to life. Which is when I realize it's not a remote.

The staticky noise coming from the unit in my hand resolves itself into little cries. It's a baby monitor I'm holding. Damn, I'm glad Peeta isn't here to laugh at my ineptitude. I toss it on the couch, and continue trying to figure out the remotes.

Behind me comes faint notes. Peeta singing. I've never heard him sing before, not even in the shower when he stays over. I can't resist picking the monitor back up and listening.

He's crooning 'What a Wonderful World', though crooning is perhaps too generous. I don't think I have ever heard a more off-key rendering of that song, or of any song, ever. I have to cover my mouth to stifle the giggles. Emmett cries harder. I can't blame the kid for that. His ears must be bleeding, listening to that caterwauling!

The 'singing' stops, and gentle shushing comes through the tiny speaker. "I know, buddy, I know," Peeta says. "I'm a terrible singer. I wish your Auntie Katniss was the one singing to you. She has the most beautiful voice." His words surprise me, and his wistful tone makes me blush.

I've sung for Peeta only once, and that was more than two years ago. He was getting over a bad breakup then. We spent an evening on my couch, making ice cream and tequila floats, and trash-talking his ex. When he laid his head in my lap and asked me if anyone would ever love him it broke my heart. Peeta is the sweetest guy I've ever met, the kindest, the most gentle. I sang him the lullaby my father used to sing to me when I was sad, and stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

But I don't sing for others, ever. And honestly, I didn't realize he even remembered that night.

Humming comes through the monitor, tuneless but soothing over the heavy clomp of Peeta's footfalls. In my mind's eye, I can see him pacing the nursery, one of his giant hands Emmett's little cue ball head. It's a surprisingly compelling image. I've never wanted children, but watching Peeta with his nephew almost threatens to change my mind.

His vaguely melodic murmuring is background music while I fiddle with the other three remotes, mentally and emotionally distracted. And I almost miss it. Peeta, saying something. I know how fundamentally wrong it is, to be eavesdropping this way. But I pick up the monitor again anyway. "When I heard her sing," he's whispering. "That's when I fell in love with her. That's when I knew I was a goner."

My eyes feel like they're going to bug out of their sockets. Me? Is he talking about me? Peeta and I have been best friends for nearly four years, he's never said anything. Never given me any indication he thinks that way about me.

Or maybe he has? I think about all of the things, little and big, that he does for me all of the time. How he bakes me cinnamon rolls, even though he hates cinnamon. How he lets me steal his comfy broken-in shirts because they're softer than my own. How he changes the oil in my shitbox Corolla religiously without me ever once asking. Maybe he's been telling me all along, in his own way?

"Someday," Peeta sighs through the monitor, crackling with static. "Someday I'm going to tell her." Then the words stop and the humming begins again.

I keep my ear pressed against the little speaker for awhile longer but he doesn't say anything else, only hums and sighs and bumps around. And I find myself daydreaming. Of what it could be like, dating Peeta. Of what his pouty pink lips might feel like moving with my own. Of what other things might feel like, under the cover of darkness.

At the first thump of Peeta's solid steps in the stairwell I jump. "Shit," I hiss, flicking the monitor off and dumping it, and the remotes, back on the shelf. He finds me curled up on the sofa, idly flipping through a magazine.

"You haven't picked a movie yet?" he asks.

"Couldn't figure out how to launch the space shuttle," I confess, not looking away from my article.

Peeta wanders over to the entertainment unit; I watch his back as he effortlessly sets everything up. "You're, ah, you're good with him. With Emmett, I mean," I stutter as I watch the pull and flex of his muscles through the thin white t-shirt he's wearing.

He snickers. "Thanks," he says, but dismissively. He's so humble about everything, always. He definitely doesn't need to be. In addition to his other charms, he's hot. I've always known that at some level, but I've never really let myself think about it before now. But as I watch him absently running his hand through his thick blond waves the attraction is undeniable.

He turns suddenly and catches me staring. I look away, certain my thoughts are clear on my face, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Ta-da," he laughs, indicating the Netflix prompt with a flourish.

"Handsome and smart," I grin. "You're the real deal, Mellark." A pleased expression flits across his face before he smirks.

"Flattery will get you cheesebuns," he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and I laugh.

We sit side by side, like always. And like always, he wraps a gentle arm around my shoulders. I lean my head on his shoulder, melting into him, breathing in his scent. Cinnamon and dill and the faintest hint of baby powder. Comfort. He sighs in contentment. "Thanks for coming tonight, Katniss," he says softly, his lips against my temple.

I pull back just enough to look into his face, into those blue eyes I know so well. Those blue eyes I want to know even better. And I smile. "There's no place I'd rather be."