It's past eight when I finally make it to the Hob. The gang is crowded around our usual table, and already it's littered with bottles and glasses. We have a standing date, drinks and pool every Friday night at six-thirty, but I seldom make it on time. I love my job, but my boss is kind of an asshole and I end up staying late more often than not.

Even from the door I can see that Annie is perched in Finnick's lap. I thought that when they got married last year the PDAs would stop, but marriage seems to have intensified their need to touch each other. Johanna is beside Finn, and probably stealing swigs of his beer when his attention is diverted. Cressida, Jo's girlfriend, and Thresh, my neighbour, have their heads bent in serious conversation. And, saving me a seat on the aisle, is my best friend in the world. Peeta.

Every time I see him my chest tightens, just a little. I'm so damned lucky to have him in my life.

Peeta and I both come from the same small town in eastern Pennsylvania. In fact, we were in the same classes growing up, right from kindergarten until my mother remarried the summer before 11th grade and we moved away. But I didn't really know him then. Fate is strange though, somehow we both ended up interning for the same company in the Capitol, right out of college.

That was three years ago. We've both moved on from the Capitol dungeons, as Peeta calls the archives where we toiled and forged our friendship. But not from each other. He's the first person I call when I see something funny or when I get good news. The only one I want to comfort me when I'm sad.

I slide into the seat he's saved me; he turns from his conversation to wrap me in a hug. "You're late, Everdeen," he scolds, but there's no bite to his words. I know he'd have waited all night, if it had come to that.

"Brainless, you finally showed," Johanna barks across the table. "Now you can ask her, Breadboy!" I turn expectantly towards Peeta, but the waiter arrives, and everyone orders another round, plus nachos to share. Chaos ensues as everyone talks overtop of each other, demanding the nachos have extra cheese, or jalapenos on the side, or no guac, or extra guac. Jo's strange directive gets lost in the cacophony.

It's not until much later, two gin and tonics later to be precise, that I remember. "Ask me what?" Peeta turns to face me, he's had far more than two drinks, the tips of his ears are bright red.

"Hmmm?" He grins lazily.

"Jo said you wanted to ask me something." He stiffens, as if suddenly remembering.

"Oh, it, uh. It was nothing. Never mind."

I shrug. I'm curious, sure, but I don't like to push Peeta. We're respectful that way.

Jo isn't.

"Bullshit," she roars, and half the bar turns to stare. "You wanted to ask her to go to that... that wedding thing." Peeta is squirming, shooting daggers at Jo, who cackles from her side of the table.

"What wedding thing?" He lets out a long sigh, picking at the label on his bottle.

"My uncle's wedding," he groans.

"I thought you were skipping that?" I saw the invite on his fridge a few weeks ago. He said then that he didn't want to go, that he and his uncle just weren't that close.

"My mother has a different idea," he grumbles.

"I'll come," I tell him. "You don't even need to ask." But he shakes his head, looks almost panicked.

"That won't be necessary. I'll go stag, it'll be fine. Better, really."

"Better?" This time it's Cressida who cuts in. "You said your mom was going to set you up with someone if you showed up without your pretend girlfriend." Peeta makes an odd whine, drops his head to the table.

"Your what now? Fake girlfriend? Like a sock puppet?" The back of his neck gets impossibly redder at my teasing. Peeta has rarely dated in all the time I've known him. I always joke about his socks seeing all of the action.

When he speaks his voice is muffled by arms and table, barely understandable. "Just drop it. Please?" I shrug again, though he can't see me.

Two days later, I bring it up again. We're having lunch - apple and goat cheese paninis - at my favourite sandwich shop. He sighs, defeated. He knows me well enough to know I'm going to keep asking. "Mom's been harassing me for a few months to come out and meet her friend's daughter," he says reluctantly.

"And…" I prompt.

"And I don't want to." I shoot him my very best duh expression. He sighs. "And I wanted her to stop hassling me about it… So I told her that I was already dating someone."

"But you're not." This time it's his glance that screams duh, and I laugh. "So you need a fake girlfriend, to keep your mom off your back."

"Something like that, yeah," he grumbles.

"I'd be great for that. I already know you, so I'll get all of the answers right when your family gives me the third degree!" He makes a choked noise, but says nothing, playing with the waxed paper wrapping in front of him, creasing and smoothing, creasing and smoothing. I don't know what to make of his reluctance, except to wonder if maybe he'd be embarrassed by me. The few women he's dated since I've known him have all been of the knockout variety and I, well. I am not. But surely I'm better than than the alternative of showing up alone and facing his mother's meddling?

Finally I break the silence between us.

"I… I want to do this with you, Peeta," I admit softly. "I haven't been back to Panem since my dad died." It's been nearly ten years since I've seen the town where I was born. Since I've visited his grave.

Peeta looks up, his eyes soft and sad. "Oh, Katniss," he murmurs, pushing aside the wrapper to grab my hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think…" I squeeze his hands, grateful for his understanding. We haven't talked much about my father, but Peeta knows how much I miss him. How much his death affects me still.

After a few reflective minutes where he holds my hands, plays with my fingers, he asks quietly, "Are you sure you can do it, Katniss? My family is…" He trails off. His family are mostly assholes, that I know. It's why he chose to stay here after college, instead of going back to Panem.

"I think," I start, and then stop to collect my thoughts. "It's just," I continue. "I've known you forever, and I've never even met any of your family."

"That's not quite true," he mumbles, and I look at him, perplexed. "You, ah. You came into the bakery a few times. With your dad." He won't look at me, which is probably for the best because my mouth is hanging open. My dad and I used to go to Mellark's bakery when I was really young. But I was eleven when he died. And my mother, well, for a long time she was a ghost. She went to work, bought groceries sometimes, but she certainly never took us anywhere. She started to live again only when my stepdad came into our lives. I haven't been to Mellark's in fifteen years, at least.

"I, uhm. I didn't realize that you remembered that." In my mind's eye I can see him, flushed and chubby-cheeked, helping his father behind the counter. He never said a word, those few times I'd seen him there. But he always had a shy smile.

"I remember everything," he says so seriously that it makes my pulse flutter.

My mouth is dry and my face feels hot. Generally, I deal with discomfort by running, but Peeta has my hands in a death grip. So I deflect. "Well, I've changed a little since I was eleven. Your dad probably doesn't remember me now anyway." He laughs, a breathy little noise, then releases my hands and grabs his cup of tea, effectively ending the conversation.

But the strange tension remains.

The drive to Panem takes four hours, during which Peeta gives me free rein over the radio. I sing, he laughs, and for the first three and a half hours we have a great time.

But he gets quieter and quieter the closer we get.

It's Wednesday afternoon, which is ridiculous considering the wedding isn't until Saturday. But I guess there are other obligations that go along with having your family member get married. Or so Peeta says. When my mom and step-father married it was just them, me, and Prim in a little room at city hall.

I'm just glad I had so much personal leave banked at work. My asshat boss was none too pleased when I told him I'd be away a whopping three days.

When the signs proclaiming our entry into the greater Panem area pop up, he speaks. "Do you want to look around town first?" And with a grin I tell him that I do.

He takes us right through the downtown, pointing out his father's bakery, among other places. Hardly anything looks like I remember and I'm more than a little disoriented. So I'm surprised when he unerringly turns down the street where I used to live, stopping just across from the tiny two-bedroom bungalow I called home for most of my childhood. I'm not sure I could have found it myself, and I don't know how he knew where it was.

Never before has the saying you can't go home again rung so true for me. The house is the same, the street the same, the little park on the corner unchanged. And yet none of it feels like home. Because it's empty; the person I miss so much isn't here. He hasn't been here for fifteen years. I turn to Peeta. "Could we…" I start, but stumble, unable to say the word.

"Do you want to go to the cemetery?" he asks so softly I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. But I nod.

It's a little ways outside of town, past the industrial parks and tract housing, just on the edge of where farmland takes over. It takes 45 minutes and the assistance of a caretaker to find his grave, a small brass marker embedded in the ground, partially overgrown. I kneel in the grass, pulling up the weeds that obscure his name, and Peeta crouches beside me. It's only when he wraps an arm around me that I realize I'm crying, silent tears that slip down my face and patter in the grass where my father's body lies but where, clearly, his spirit is absent. There is nothing here but dirt and dandelions.

Peeta's family home is at the opposite end of town from where I grew up, in an upscale development of stately family homes. Not quite McMansions, but not far off.

After the cemetery, I was in no shape to meet his family, so we spent some time at a coffee shop, drinking tea and talking until my breathing was calm again and my eyes had lost that red puffiness. Despite joking that he'd be in trouble if his father found out he was frequenting the competition, Peeta didn't rush me at all. He calmed and soothed me in that way he always does. And then we climbed back into his car to head here.

His father greets us at the door, flinging it open before we even reach the porch, as if he's been waiting for us. Watching the elder Mellark pull his son into a tight hug makes the melancholy I've been feeling since we started to climb into the mountains wrap even more tightly around me. Everything about Panem makes me miss my father, including, it seems, Mr. Mellark.

"Dad, this is Katniss," Peeta says, pulling away from his father and gesturing to me, his smile so genuinely sweet with a touch of shyness.

Mr Mellark smiles at me for a moment before his eyes light up in recognition, making him look so much like his son. Then I find myself engulfed in a hug.

"Welcome, Katniss," he says, and his voice, too, is like Peeta's. Warm and comforting. Safe.

He ushers us into the house, into a foyer of grey and white, all shiny surfaces and tasteful decor. Beautiful, but sterile, utterly impersonal, and silent. Before I can comment on it, the quiet is split by the clack-clack-clack of high heels on polished marble. Even before I see her I know it's Peeta's mother, I can feel it in the way Peeta stiffens beside me, his hand reaching over to clutch mine tightly.

"Peeta," she greets him, and though it's only a single word it holds a tacit rebuke.

"Mother," he replies, and I'm surprised by how cold his voice is. "May I present Katniss Everdeen." He pauses, and in the hush I can hear him swallow. "My girlfriend."

It takes a beat too long to register, a beat where I stare at him slack-jawed. Girlfriend. Right. I'm not just his best friend this weekend. I have a role to play.

I turn, and for the first time look directly at Peeta's mother. I'm not sure what I was expecting, a monster perhaps, from the stories Peeta's told me. Instead, standing almost regally before me is a tall woman, elegant and imposing. A face that was probably exquisitely beautiful in her youth, clothing both expensive and perfectly tailored. Her eyes rake shamelessly over me and, apparently finding me inadequate, she sneers. "Charmed, I'm sure," she mutters, completely insincerely. My defences go up immediately, but I force myself to stay calm. I'm not going to blow this for Peeta only 90 seconds into the visit!

"Likewise," I say, and she nods. Good, I think we have an understanding. She doesn't like me and I don't care for her either.

She turns back to Peeta. "You're late. The others have been waiting twenty-five minutes to begin the meal." I shoot a guilty glance at Peeta; I didn't realize we were expected for supper, and I made him late by lingering at the coffee shop. But when I open my mouth to apologize, he squeezes my hand so hard the joints pop, and drags me to follow his mother's retreating form.

There is a small crowd waiting in the opulent dining room, and my stomach sinks as I realize they're all dressed up. "You didn't tell me this was a formal affair," I hiss at Peeta, realizing that this is why he's wearing khakis and a pale blue button down instead of jeans and a t-shirt.

He just shrugs. "You look perfect," he whispers, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

Peeta introduces me to his brothers, Graham and Rye, along with Graham's wife, Leevy, a willowy brunette I vaguely recognise. It takes a moment to realize she was just a year above me in school, when I lived here. Rye, too, I remember from school. And even if I didn't, there's no mistaking he and Peeta are brothers. they not only look alike, they act alike. Rye wraps me in a hug, even as I cling to Peeta's hand. Graham, though, is far more standoffish, merely nodding at me. He's more like their mother in appearance too, tall and lean compared to Peeta and Rye's stocky, athletic builds.

There's an older woman, dressed in a pantsuit tending towards garish with hair so brassy it's nearly metallic. And to her right, one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Mrs. Mellark's expression is smug as she introduces her old friend, Effie, and Effie's daughter, Glimmer.

By the way Peeta's jaw clenches, I'm fairly sure Glimmer is the girl his mother has been trying to set him up with. A sick sort of misery washes over me. Glimmer looks like a supermodel in her royal blue dress with plunging neckline, her perfect golden curls piled on top of her head like a crown. And here I am, the girl Peeta supposedly turned Glimmer down in favour of, wearing jeans with stained knees and not a speck of makeup. The very idea of choosing me over her is going to be a damned hard sell.

If he even wants to sell it anymore.

Though there's an empty chair next to Glimmer, Peeta manoeuvres us around the table to sit by his sister-in-law, holding my hand until we're seated. He's great at this stuff, gazing at me fondly, always serving me before himself. I fare far worse, never having been in love before I don't have a very deep well of romantic mannerisms to draw on. But he merely smiles at my hackneyed attempts.

The meal is so very different than the raucous meals around my family's table. Conversation, what little there is of it, is formal and stilted. There seems to be a limited number of 'safe' topics, and Peeta isn't part of any of them. When Effie isn't listing all of Glimmer's attributes like a damned OkCupid profile, we get to hear about Graham's perfect life. It's exhausting.

Rye disappears as soon as the dishes are cleared, which seems to make their mother's mood even worse.

After dinner, and after an hour of excruciatingly strained conversation over drinks in the 'formal living room' (how many living rooms does a house need?) Graham and Leevy announce that they're heading for their own house a few blocks away. Glimmer suggests that she, too, is tired, and Mrs. Mellark makes a snide remark about the lateness of the evening while glaring at Peeta, despite the fact that it's not even nine-thirty. But she walks away in a storm of click-click-clicks to escort Effie and Glimmer to their rooms.

"They're staying here?" Peeta hisses at his father, who looks deeply uncomfortable.

"Yes," he mutters, turning away and rubbing the back of his neck. "Effie is staying in the guest suite. Glimmer will take Graham's old room."

"Why?" Peeta asks, but his father doesn't answer, and we stand in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

Until Mrs. Mellark returns. Then Peeta's father turns back to us. "Where are your bags, son?"

"I'll get a room at the Panem Arms, Dad," Peeta says, and his father nods. But his mother scoffs.

"You can't stay at a hotel, Peeta, and certainly not a fleabag place like that." She shoots me a dirty look, as if I'm the one who is dragging her son into the slums, though in reality I had no idea about a hotel until just now. I just assumed we would stay here. Mrs. Mellark echos my thoughts. "You won't embarrass me by staying anywhere but here."

"The house is already full enough, Mother," Peeta says through clenched teeth.

"Nonsense," she snaps. "I'm not naive enough to think you two won't be sharing a bed, even if you might have pretended to put her bags in the guest suite." I'm not sure if Mrs. Mellark can't remember my name, or has simply decided I'm not worthy of having one.

Beside me, I feel Peeta tense, and I know he's going to start arguing. I grab his hand, and he turns to look at me quizzically, his brows furrowed. I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile.

"It's okay, Peeta. We can stay here." I guess that's not what he was hoping to hear me say because his eyes widen with discomfort and something that looks like betrayal. But his mother huffs out a snooty little noise, and turns on her clattering heels to exit the room, leaving us, again, in uncomfortable silence.

Peeta doesn't say anything as he grabs our bags from his car, not a word as he leads me through the house to what must have been his childhood bedroom.

It's a large room, decorated like a Sears catalogue version of a teenaged boy's room. Heavy wood furniture and shelves with just a handful of books and mementos and, almost inexplicably, an old-fashioned wooden croquet mallet hung on the wall. There are no posters or sports trophies or any of the other detritus that generally litters a young person's bedroom. None of the artwork that decorates Peeta's apartment back in the Capitol either. "Home sweet home," he groans, tossing his bag and my own in the corner before flopping on his back onto the queen-sized bed.

"Tell me your room didn't look like this when you were a kid?"

He chuckles, but he glances at me for the first time since I somehow pissed him off downstairs. "No," he says simply, waving a hand at the dark navy curtains and plaid coverlet, neither of which are anything like he would choose for himself. I know Peeta prefers softer, more muted colours, and a lot more light.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, and his brow furrows in question. "You didn't want to stay here," I clarify. "And I forced your hand." He huffs out a little half laugh, and rolls to prop himself up on an elbow.

"You're right that I didn't want to stay here," he says. "But my mother would have gotten her way in the end. You just saved me an argument." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"We can go, if you want," I mumble. "I'll take the blame, your mother already doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like anyone," he sighs, and then his eyes widen. "I didn't mean-" he starts, but I just laugh.

"I get it," I tell him. "It's okay, I don't think I like her either."

Peeta directs me to his ensuite bath and I indulge in a hot shower. After the drive, and the emotional upheaval of seeing my father's final resting place again after so long, and the stress of spending time with his crazy family, the hot water is just what I need.

Dressed in my typical tank top and sleep shorts, towel-dried hair plaited in a simple braid, I slip back into Peeta's room to find him piling half the pillows onto the floor in some sort of makeshift mattress. "What the-" I ask, bewildered.

He flushes, pink crawls up from under the collar of his plain t-shirt, turning his neck and ears crimson. "I, uh, I need to stay in here with you," he stutters, and I have to bite back a smirk. "My mother, well, she'd shit if I tried to sleep on the couch, and Rye has a big mouth."

I lose the battle not to laugh, and for a brief moment he looks wounded. But then he relaxes. "You dork," I snicker, hauling the blanket off the floor and tossing it on a chair. "Of course we're sharing a room, that's what boyfriends and girlfriends do." But when I reach for the pillows he stops me with a hand on my arm. "Peeta, you're not sleeping on the floor and neither am I. This bed is massive and I'm not an axe murderer or bed-wetter."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Then don't," I say simply, handing him a pillow.

It's weird, a little, climbing into bed with Peeta. I'm struck by his immediacy, the sound and scent and sense of him in the darkness. Strange, but comforting. Safe.

When I wake, dappled light streams through the window as the curtains wave in a gentle breeze. My head is pillowed on one of Peeta's arms. His other rests protectively over me. No one has held me like this in a long time, and it takes a huge effort not to snuggle further into the comfort. But I don't want to make things weird for him.

I turn, being careful not to disturb Peeta, but he's already awake. He smiles shyly at me. "Good morning," he whispers; it feels like loud voices would disrupt the peace of this cozy, quiet space.

"Good morning," I say. "Did you sleep well?"

He nods, moving his hand from my waist to brush some hair off my forehead, a gesture so gentle and sweet it makes me smile. "I'd almost forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he admits. I feel exactly the same way. I haven't slept so well, so deep and dreamlessly, in longer than I can remember.

"Me too," I sigh. "Must be this cushy bed." But I know it has far less to do with the bed than with the man beside me, sleep-rumpled curls spilling over his forehead and eyes shining.

We manage to sneak out of the house before the princesses Effie and Glimmer make their appearance, for which I'm exceedingly grateful, even if I did put on a little mascara, just in case. Mr. Mellark feeds us breakfast in the bakery's kitchen, tea and flaky pastries straight from the ovens.

Part of the reason we are in Panem days before the wedding is to allow Peeta time to help his father with the wedding cake and groom's cake. Because apparently you need two giant cakes. So, I'm hanging out at the bakery with them, and with Rye, who covers the register out front.

The front shop is the same as I remember from my childhood; spotless black and white checkered floors, warm wooden tables, glass display cabinets. Bright and homey and a little old fashioned. The kitchen, however, is completely the opposite; shining stainless steel everywhere, ultramodern, designed for efficiency.

Peeta bakes back home in the Capitol; cheese buns and muffins and raisin nut bread. He even made a cake for my birthday a few months ago. But nothing like what he's doing here. Seeing him craft exquisite, life-like flowers out of nothing more than sugar blows my mind. His skill, his artistry… he's amazing.

Though there's a comfortable chair in the office, I prefer to sit at the prep table and watch Peeta. At first I'm captivated by his hands, the long fingers coaxing beauty practically out of thin air. But after a while I realize I've become fixated in his eyelashes, so pale they're usually invisible, but in the bright task lighting they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

He looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. I expect him to make fun of me. But he only smiles.

When Peeta steps away to move some of his sugar blossoms into the walk-in cooler, his father addresses me. "You're good for Peeta," he says softly. "I haven't seen him this happy in a long time." I want to argue that point, but I can't. Because it's true, he is smiling more. Something about being back here in Panem definitely agrees with Peeta. At least the part of the trip that doesn't involve his mother.

Another incredibly uncomfortable evening meal at the Mellark house. At least the food is good.

Effie and Mrs Mellark leave after supper, to play bridge at her women's club. Or something equally insipid. I admit, I haven't paid much attention to anything either of them have said.

Peeta and I end up in their family room, which is yet another living room. We drink a few beers, watching Brooklyn nine-nine on Netflix and laughing.

And then Glimmer shows up.

She plunks herself down on the couch beside Peeta; he's forced to scoot closer to me to make room for her. She casts me a disparaging look before turning her attention fully to Peeta, asking him about his work and life out in the Capitol. I try to pay attention back to the television, but it's just not as much fun without Peeta's running commentary.

When I tune back to the conversation occurring beside me, Glimmer is fawning over his pretty hair. Laying her hand on his knee as she bats her stupidly long eyelashes and flirts shamelessly. Anger bubbles up in my gut. Peeta and I might be pretending, but she doesn't know that. And it's disgusting that she's coming onto him right in front of his girlfriend, however fake.

I guess that's what prompts me to climb into Peeta's lap.

His face is a picture of shock for a moment, before a languid grin spreads, and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me snugly against his chest.

And holy crap does it feel good.

Glimmer recoils a little, though it's subtle. I don't think Peeta catches it. "So, how long have you two been dating," she asks, and the strange emphasis on that last word makes me sure that she already knows we're a sham. But Peeta merely smiles.

"Officially, we've only been together a few months," he says, parroting the story we agreed to. Then he continues. "But I've loved her forever." That's different. He holds my eyes, and for just a moment I almost believe him. He can spin lies so convincingly, it almost takes my breath away. I lean in and kiss his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. His breath catches.

I can feel heat rising in my cheeks, so I bury my face in Peeta's shirt. He strokes my back as I do. It's better in the shirt, warm and enveloped in the scents of bakery and spice. Better hidden where no one can see how muddled and confused I am. By the time he coaxes me back out, Glimmer is gone. "Thank you," he murmurs, and his smile is so sweet that I feel a stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious.

Needing to move around a bit, I agree quickly when Peeta suggests playing some video games. The console is old, but it has an archery game, I proceed to kick Peeta's ass over and over. I can't stop laughing when finally he tosses his controller aside in surrender. "You're just lucky there's no wrestling game," he grunts. "Be a far different outcome then." That makes me laugh harder. He affects an expression of mock hurt. "I could take you, Katniss. You're not very big." His eyes twinkle and he bites back a smirk.

Peeta wrestled in high school. I remember seeing him once, not long before I moved away. He was good, coming in second at that meet I think. But that was a long time ago, and I haven't seen him wrestle anything more taxing than my sister's cat lately. Oh he's still strong and fit, he runs and plays rec league hockey with Finnick and Thresh. But I'm faster.

"I doubt it, old timer. I'm pretty slippery," I tell him smugly, and almost before I've finished the sentence I'm pinned to the floor, face down with Peeta on top of me.

"What was that?" he murmurs in my ear, and I can hear his smile.

"You cheated," I pout. "I wasn't expecting it."

He laughs, and pulls me back up to sitting. "Fine," he says. "We'll try again. I'll even give you a handicap." At that, he wraps my hand around his wrist and swivels to bend his arm behind his back, so that I have him at a disadvantage. "Ready?" He chuckles.

I figure with him kneeling and one handed I should be able to hold him off a minute at least. Nope. As soon as I say ready, he has my wrists locked in his hands and has flipped me. His weight presses me down; I brace myself as I'm propelled backwards, waiting for my head to smack the area rug with a resounding thud. But he shifts. In less than the blink of an eye he's moved his big hand to cup my head, preventing it from hitting the floor.

For a moment I can do nothing but stare. He's hovering above me and his eyes are so bright, so happy. His thumb rubs circles against my scalp, just behind my ear. His other hand releases my wrist and slides up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. A lazy grin lifts the corners of his lips and my eyes are drawn to them, lush and pink. The tip of his tongue snakes out to wet his lips and I shudder involuntarily. When I can tear my eyes away from his mouth, I see that his pupils have dilated. He sucks in a ragged breath, and I don't think it has anything to do with the physical exertion of wrestling.

He's going to kiss me. I think I want him to kiss me.

But nothing is ever that easy.

"Peeta Ephraïm Mellark," a shrill voice thunders, and Peeta jumps back so quickly my head does hit the carpet. "Fornicating like a barnyard animal, and on my Persian rug! Have you no decency at all?"

He's still kneeling over me, strong thighs bracketing my hips. I should be completely humiliated. Instead, I'm captivated by the myriad of expressions fluttering across his handsome face. Embarrassment, certainly. Anger, which makes sense. But also disappointment. Disappointment in himself? Or disappointment in being stopped? I can't tell.

I know which one I'm feeling, though.

Mrs. Mellark grunts more insults under her breath as she stalks away, most of which have to do with her son's taste in female companionship.

Only when she's gone does Peeta seem to remember that I'm there. His eyes widen at me, still lying underneath him. I can see the apology in his face, defeat in the slump of his shoulders. But that won't do. I want to keep seeing that happy light in his eyes. "Did she actually say fornicating?" I ask, and the amusement is clear in my tone.

His jaw drops, and then he's laughing. He's laughing that big, uninhibited laugh that I love, eyes crinkled, just a hint of a dimple peeking out of his cheek. That laugh is completely contagious and I giggle along with him.

He flops onto the Persian carpet beside me, reaching for my hand as he does. "God, she's insufferable," he chuckles. "I'm sorry about that, Katniss." I just shrug, still grinning at him as we lie side by side.

"Don't be. It's not like you didn't warn me how she can be."

"Yeah," he says, the mirth fading. "But you didn't deserve any of that."

"Neither do you," I remind him. "If nothing else, I'd say we've convinced your mother that we're together."

Something flickers in his pretty blue eyes, but he merely kisses my hand before pulling me up with him. That's not new, he's done that before. But it feels different. My stomach erupts in nervous butterflies.

We tidy up together, then slip away to his bedroom. Once we are in bed together, face to face in the dim, it occurs to me. "Your middle name is Ephraïm?" I ask, botching the foreign pronunciation.

He laughs. "Ephraïm, yeah. It was my grandfather's name. It's my father's middle name too." He pulls a face, but I just smile.

"That's sweet," I murmur drowsily. "Someday you can give it to a son of your own." I think about Peeta in kindergarten, when we met for the first time. Chubby pink cheeks. Curls so pale they were nearly white. Same sweet smile. Someday, Peeta will have a gaggle of beautiful blonde babies with his gorgeous eyes. The thought makes me strangely melancholy.

He grabs both of my hands and squeezes them. "I'm so glad you're here with me, Katniss," he whispers.

Sometime in the night I awaken from a dream. I can't remember the details, only that it was somehow connected to Peeta. And I was happy.

But it's too warm, and as I surface from the gauzy, violet mists of sleep I see why.

Peeta and I are pressed together, head to toe. Entwined, like vines. My head is resting on his chest, over his heart. One of his muscular thighs is tucked between my legs, pressing exactly where I need it. Where I need him.

He's clearly sleeping, but he must be dreaming. His hips rock just slightly, just enough to feel him hard, thrusting minutely against my thigh.

I try to pull away, but his arms tighten and he moans, just softly. I can't stop the shudder that runs through me at the sound.

I shift, just a fraction of an inch. Just enough that the slight motion of his pelvis stimulates my clit. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. It feels so good. He feels so good.

My nipples are like chips of ice and I'm climbing rapidly. And it's not just that it's so damned incredible. It's him. It's Peeta, my best friend, the only person, apart from Prim, that I'm sure I trust. Why haven't we ever explored this before?

I can tell the exact moment he wakes up. His limbs lose that heavy sleep leadenness. He stills, and then he sucks in a shocked little breath. It takes every speck of restraint I possess to stay still and relaxed, to keep my breathing even when my heart is hammering in my chest. For a moment he does nothing. Then his arms tighten, subtly, and he presses his face against my hair. It's sweet and tender.

And then he carefully disengages himself from me, untwining our legs, pulling my arms from around his waist. Separating us completely. He tugs the quilt up over my shoulders when he crawls out of bed and heads for the ensuite, leaving me aching and alone. Bereft.

He comes back what feels like hours later, when I've convinced myself he's going to sleep in the bathtub rather than suffer the indignity of being pressed against me again. I know he's not that cruel, rationally I know that. But as he eases back into bed, perching right on the edge, as far as possible from me, I can't help but feel rejected.

Sleep didn't come easily after Peeta came back to bed, for either of us. His movements weren't those of a sleeping person, his breathing too irregular. And I couldn't sleep, not when every muscle was tensed with the effort of trying to not to appear awake.

But I guess I did fall asleep, eventually. Because sunlight is streaming through the window of Peeta's childhood bedroom. And I'm alone, the other side of the bed cold.

It must be far later than I ever wake up at home. I grab my phone from the bedside table. 10:40. I'm shocked I slept that long. There's also a text, from Peeta. -Gone to the bakery. Back by two.

He probably thought he was doing me a favour, letting me rest. But I'm pissed. Fair or not, I feel utterly abandoned. Alone in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people who can be described as hostile, at best.

The kitchen is, blessedly, empty. There's even coffee left in the pot. Armed with a cup, and my laptop, I head outside to the bright, sunny yard, and spend a few hours working. Not exactly a vacation, but at least there'll be less for my boss to complain about when I get back Monday.

We have a rehearsal dinner to attend, another bit of senseless over-the-top pageantry. I understand why the couple and the bridal party might need to rehearse the day before the big event. But why do we have to be there? Why on earth do I need to rehearse sitting in a pew?

Two days in the Mellark house have convinced me that, despite Peeta's assurances that this is no big deal, it's probably a big deal. I spend half an hour on the phone with Prim, talking about the contents of my suitcase and discussing what I should wear. We decide on the blouse Johanna insisted I borrow - sleeveless hunter green silk - and a pair of slim black slacks. I'm wearing them, and the one pair of heels I own, when Peeta returns from the bakery, later than he promised. But he barely glances at me, saying nothing more than a quick hello before disappearing to get ready himself.

The drive over to the hotel where the rehearsal is being held is awkward; after a couple of half-hearted attempts to engage him in conversation, I give up and stare out the window in stony silence.

Once we're parked, he grabs my hand as if touching me is a chore, as if it's repugnant to do so.

I'm right on the edge of losing my cool. He has no right to be pissed off with me, no right at all. I'm not the one who took off this morning, who abandoned him all day. "What's going on, Peeta?" I ask, and while I try for gentle, the irritation comes through in my voice.

He still won't look at me. "Nothing," he says gruffly.

"Nothing my ass," I retort. This is stupid, we've been best friends forever, we've fought once or twice, but he's never frozen me out like this, and I hate it.

"Just drop it," he grits out, but I can't.

"No, dammit! What the hell is your problem?" He stops cold, barely inside the lobby, and turns to me. Meets my eyes for the first time all day. And for the first time in our friendship, I wish he hadn't.

What I had thought was anger looks instead like… disgust.

In a flash I realize it's about last night. He's horrified by what happened between us. I can only imagine he was dreaming of someone else when he woke up practically dry-humping me.

White hot fury battles with complete humiliation. I'm so mad, so angry that he's repulsed enough by me that he can't even talk to me about it. So pissed off that I ever let myself question why we've never dated each other. This is why. This. Is. Why.

"Why did you bother dragging me to this if you don't want me here?" I spit. "Why didn't you just come with Glimmer?" He shakes his head, his jaw clenching in annoyance. "Maybe you should have come with Glimmer," I continue, unable to stop now that the dam has been broken. "You'd be a lot happier." I put my hands on my hips in a petulant posture, practically daring him to prove me wrong.

"Katniss," he hisses. "Keeping me away from Glimmer is literally the only reason you're here, remember?"

I almost reel from the shock of hearing those words. I have no place here, among his family and friends, except as a cover. An actor. And clearly, he regrets even that. After all, I'm standing in his way now. Keeping up this charade means keeping him from the object of his nocturnal fantasies.

My face feels hot, my throat tight. I'm going to do something stupid like cry. "Fine," I mutter, keeping my eyes resolutely fixed on my uncomfortable shoes. "Then let me do my job so I can go home." And I turn towards the ballroom, not bothering to see if he follows.

Apart from the bridal party, there are four dozen or so family members sitting at tables scattered around the room. Some watch as the groomsmen practice an unfortunate looking choreographed dance up the 'aisle', which is just a cleared section at the centre of the room. But most chat amongst themselves.

Not Peeta and I, though. We keep our eyes glued to the dancing as if it were the most fascinating thing on the planet, instead of a spectacle of awkwardly-shuffling middle-aged men second guessing the life choices that have them here today. But it's a first wedding, both for Peeta's uncle, and for his lovely bride, Maysilee, so I guess they're entitled to all of the bells and whistles.

Both of Peeta's parents are in the wedding party, and his brother, Graham, is entertaining the princesses at another table across the room, for which I am exceedingly grateful. I'm certain I couldn't tolerate even a moment of their obnoxious prattling tonight. Rye is absent. I wish I knew how he manages to extricate himself so easily from his family's lunacy.

I do notice Glimmer shooting looks at us, or rather at Peeta.

After the choreography has been practiced a dozen times, and the wedding coordinator has exhausted her list of 'cues and marks', a buffet is laid along the side of the room. Peeta and I line up robotically to fill our plates. Not that I have any appetite. As we wait in the queue, Peeta's uncle makes his way over to us.

"So this is the girl who has Miranda's knickers in a knot, is it?" Peeta's uncle stares me down, and I fidget under his scrutiny. Though he smells strongly of gin, and his eyes are bloodshot, there's no doubt in my mind he's seen right through this ridiculous charade. He knows that Peeta and I are only acting. Maybe they all do. The thought that I'm a failure at this, the only thing I'm even here for, makes me more miserable, and I scowl to hide my hurt.

But Peeta only nods, distracted by the baskets of different breads on the table. "This is Katniss," he says without even looking at me. "My uncle, Haymitch." Peeta vaguely gestures towards his uncle.

"Brrr," Haymitch says with just a touch of amusement. "You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." He wanders away, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and Peeta looking sheepish.

Showtime, apparently, means party games. Just when I thought this evening couldn't get any worse. Mostly, they're innocuous, if inane. There are little cards to fill in with marriage advice; I doodle a dandelion on mine. A game where we have to match celebrity ship names.

When the MC (why is there a master of ceremonies at a rehearsal?) announces bride and groom trivia, I barely listen. But one part does catch my attention. When the question is answered correctly, the happy couple kisses. When the answer is incorrect, a couple at the table that got the wrong answer has to kiss.

A chill runs down my spine. But our table is made up of Peeta's cousins, people who should know everything about their uncle. And there are lots of tables anyway. Surely the odds will be in my favour.

The first time our table answers a question wrong Peeta's cousin Delly practically leaps to her feet, laying a loud and wet-sounding smooch on her bemused husband that has the rest of the room laughing.

The second time it's Delly's brother who kisses his date shyly.

When our table flubs a third question I glance around in a panic. There are no other couples at our table; the other cousins are here stag. Delly shrieks, "Come on, Peeta, show them how it's done."

My heart is hammering in my chest as Peeta turns to me, a question in his eyes. I nod, just the slightest inclination of my head. He reaches for my hands, pulling me up to stand before him. Then his hands are cupping my face, warm and comforting. I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know, even as upset as he is, he won't expose me in front of his family. Won't condemn me with a half-hearted kiss.

He leans in; those soft, lush lips caress mine, wrap around my bottom lip, sucking it into the heat of his mouth. Almost of their own volition, my hands find his waist, bunching in the soft cotton covering taut muscle that quivers under my fingers.

His tongue tentatively pokes at the seam of my mouth, and I open eagerly, welcoming him. I whimper; I've been kissed before, but it's never been this good.

Whoops and hollers shatter our moment as Peeta's extended family members cheer raucously. We both pull apart. But he doesn't immediately release me, instead stroking my cheek gently with his thumbs. Gazing at me intently with the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. Lips that I've tasted now.

He only lets me go when someone yells get a room. But thereafter we cling to each other's hands.

The drive home is just as tense as the drive to the hotel had been, but in an altogether different way. Several times I catch Peeta taking a deep breath, as if to begin a long speech, then simply releasing it in defeat. It's clear he wants to talk, and that's no good, no good at all. Because I'm not ready to hear what he has to say. Not ready to hear that he loves me, but only as a friend.

So when we get back to the Mellark home and he heads to the bedroom, I grab my laptop, make an excuse about having work I can't put off, and hole up in one of the living rooms until deep in the night.

In the morning he's gone again, though not unexpectedly. I knew he had some last minute finishing touches to put on the cake.

The wedding is a two part affair, of course, because why do anything simply if you can make a big production of it? The first part, the only part that actually matters will happen at noon, at a little chapel here in town. Then in the evening there'll be a formal reception at the country club where Haymitch apparently plays golf.

That part has an open bar. I stopped listening after learning that.

I've finished dressing for the wedding when Peeta gets back to the house, breathless and in a rush. He changes in record time, and we hightail it to the church, being seated with only minutes to spare.

The ceremony itself is for family only, the same group I saw at the rehearsal last night. The vows are lovely and sweet, traditional. Haymitch is sober, Maysilee is radiant, and when I glance at Peeta, he has tears in his eyes. I reach for him in simple, uncomplicated friendship and comfort. He wraps an arm tightly around me.

The solemn sweetness is broken by the horribly cheesy choreographed dance up the aisle.

The bridal party disappears in limousines; there will be pictures and heaven knows what else for them. The rest of us scatter, to gather again later in the evening for part two.

Peeta and his brothers have to deliver the multilayer cake they've designed and assemble it on site while Mr. Mellark is with the other groomsmen, so he only drops me off at his house, puts work clothing on, and leaves again.

Mrs. Mellark, too, is gone with the wedding party. The others? Who cares. They're not bothering me, that's all that really matters.

I take off the soft blue dress that was my mother's, just vintage enough to be fashionable again, and change into pyjamas. Might as well be comfortable while I waste the day with my book. I curl up on Peeta's bed and lose myself in the pages.

I haven't yet found the good part of the story when I hear laughter filtering in through the perpetually open window. Boredom, and curiosity, drive me to take a peek.

Across the lawn, I see Glimmer. Her hair flows around her shoulders in perfect waves, glinting in the sunshine like some kind of damned Disney princess. And though I can't see his face, I'd know the broad back and narrow hips of the man facing her anywhere.

I guess he took my advice after all.

I can see, even from where I stand the way she touches his arm. Those flirtatious little touches I've never mastered. Until now, I've never needed to.

Until now?

It hits me, watching them talk and flirt on the lush, green lawn. I want that.

I want Peeta.

I think I've always known, at some level, how I feel about him. I've measured every other man against him for years; it's why I don't really date. No one else compares. And that's probably why I've never said anything. He's just too perfect for the likes of me. I'm lucky, I'm so, so lucky, just to be his friend. To share his life. It's enough.

It has to be.

But it hurts so much to see him with someone else, however perfect she might be. It hurts to know he's smiling at her, saying sweet things to her, thinking about kissing her, for real. Holding her in those strong arms. Loving her.

How am I ever going to be around them and act like it's not ripping my heart out?

I lay my forehead against the cool window glass and let the pain, the loneliness, the regret, wash over me. I already miss him. I miss him so much. But I'm fooling myself if I think I can go back to being just his friend, not now that I know for sure how I feel. Not now that I know what his lips taste like. How his body feels like pressed against mine.

A little sob escapes, and I press my fist hard against my mouth to muffle the sound.

"Katniss?"

I whip my head around so fast my braid hits the window with a melodic thump. Confusion floods me, so disorienting that I don't even attempt to disguise my tears. Peeta is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, concern and fear written across his face.

I can't stop myself from looking outside again. They're still there, Glimmer and…

It's Rye. It's Rye out there, it's Rye touching her arm. Rye playing with her hair.

Rye. Not Peeta.

I feel like I'm going to be sick. The flood of emotions threatens to overwhelm me completely. Confusion and relief and horror at being caught mooning like a jealous lover. I react the only way I know how.

I run.

"I have to get ready," I sniffle, darting into the bathroom and locking the door firmly behind me. Then I flick on the shower, to drown out him knocking and calling my name.

"Katniss?" His voice floats through the bathroom door, accompanied by the softest tapping. "Are you ready? We really need to go." I've been hiding in here for the better part of an hour. Hiding from Peeta, from the anxiety bubbling in my gut. Even though it wasn't actually him I saw with Glimmer, I can't deny the rush of jealousy it provoked. And I'm not sure I'm ready to face what that means. To face him, and what I'm sure he saw. But I can't put it off any longer.

I take a deep breath and push the door open. He's leaning against the windowsill, looking out over the yard, the same way I'd been when he found me. He doesn't hear the door, or doesn't acknowledge hearing it anyway, giving me a moment to observe him. The charcoal coloured suit pants he wears makes his ass look ridiculously good, and the flush I've been trying to quell all afternoon comes racing back up my face. His crisp white dress shirt is pulled taut over his broad shoulders, and the curls his mother complained were far too long brush the edge of his collar in the most heart-stoppingly delicious way. Crap.

Then he sees me, reflected in the window, and for just a moment we make eye contact. In the distorted image his blue eyes look sad, lost. But he turns, slowly, and his expression changes completely. His eyes widen fractionally, those soft pink lips part. "Holy shit, Katniss," he breathes as his gaze rakes down my body.

I fidget uncomfortably. "This is okay?" I ask. Prim talked me into buying the dress. She assured me it was appropriate for a cocktail reception, but it's definitely more revealing than what I usually wear. Black, and a little stretchy, the wrapped design clings to my modest curves and the neckline plunges, necessitating the very expensive push-up bra she also insisted I buy.

The fact that both it and the matching panties are a muted sunset orange was my own doing, though.

"You look beautiful," he says softly, and the earnestness of his words makes my heart pang.

"And nothing like myself," I deflect, rolling my eyes.

"You have no idea," he murmurs. "The effect you have." I scowl, because I don't know what he means. He shakes his head, smiling wistfully as he turns away to grab his jacket from the back of a chair, shrugging it on smoothly before turning his attention once again to me. "Shall we?" When he holds his hand out to me I don't hesitate to take it.

The last time I saw this many people in one place was my college graduation.

Peeta and I work our way down the miles-long reception line, hand in hand, exchanging air kisses with all of the aunties and uncles and cousins. Making small talk. Smiling, or grimacing pleasantly in my case. It's intensely painful. By the time we're finally done saying hello all I want to do is crawl under one of the multi-layered tablecloths and shut out the world.

It's tempting.

But Peeta grabs champagne flutes from a passing waiter and directs us both to a quiet corner, where we sip in relative peace. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he says softly. I just shake my head, absolving him. But he's undeterred. "No, I mean it," he continues. "I'm really sorry for what I said about you only being here to ward off Glimmer."

"It's fine, Peeta. I get it," I say quietly. I really don't want to do this now. Or here. Or at all.

"You don't, though." His eyes, wide and guileless, search my own. "I'm so grateful that you're here with me. Not because of Glimmer. Because of you. Because being with you makes everything better."

I close my eyes against the flood of emotions. He always has the most beautiful words. But I know he means them in friendship only, and the ache in my heart threatens to overwhelm me. "You know I'd do anything for you, Peeta." He hugs me. It feels like goodbye.

"I don't deserve you," he says against my hair, but I shake my head vehemently.

"You deserve the world, Peeta."

The food, at least, is impeccable. A clear green broth that I can only describe as tasting
like springtime. A frothy pink soup dotted with raspberries. Creamy pumpkin brew sprinkled with slivered nuts and tiny black seeds.

And a different wine with every course.

It's probably the only thing getting half the room through the interminable speeches.

With all of the money that's been poured into this soirée you'd think they'd have sprung for a live band. Or at least a half-decent deejay. Nope. The guy sitting behind two turntables apparently thinks Jive Bunny is appropriate party music.

The crowd in front of the bar increased significantly when the music started.

After the obligatory first dance, and bridal party dances, the dance floor emptied and has stayed that way through YMCA, The Macarena, and Love Shack, among others. Peeta and I have been chatting comfortably, making fun of Effie's feather-covered monstrosity of a headpiece and speculating about which guest will be the first to pass out.

It may well be his big brother, Graham. Because Graham is drunk. I mean, half of the room is drunk, but Graham? Graham is absolutely wasted. He saunters over to our table, leaning over Peeta's shoulder and wearing the most endearingly goofy grin. "I wanna steal your girl for a minute," he slurs, and Peeta shrugs him off. But he's persistent. "No, really. Imma give her back, I swear. I just wanna dance with her." No one over 9 or under 50 has danced all evening, and the deejay is playing some Celine Dion garbage, but I can't resist, leaving my shoes under the table and letting Graham drag me out onto the dance floor.

I can see Peeta chuckling at our table as I hold onto Graham's shoulders. He's much taller than his brother, but his smile tonight is just the same. "Listen," Graham says in an exaggerated whisper that threatens to send me into a fit of giggles. "I had an ul-ul-ulterior motive for asking you to dance." He looks so proud of himself, whether for his subterfuge or for finally being able to spit out the word, I can't be sure. But I snicker just the same. "No, really," he says so earnestly.

I think I like drunk Graham.

It seems like he isn't going to share whatever his ulterior motive is though. We sway for awhile, I hum along to the music. And that seems to remind him. "Yeah," he continues, as if there hasn't been a two minute pause in the conversation. "I wanted to say thanks. For making my brother happy." I smile at him. It's bittersweet; Peeta's father said the same thing, but I know it's not me who is making him happy. In private, he's been quietly miserable the past two days. Just putting on a show. "I can't believe after all of those years of pining, he finally grew a pair big enough to ask you out."

I shoot him a confused look, expecting to find him laughing. But he's not. "I don't- " I start, but find myself unable to finish my thought.

"He had such a crush on you in high school. It wrecked him when you moved away. And the day he told us that he'd found you again, it was like my happy brother returned from the dead." I shake my head in bewilderment. Drunk Graham is funny, but drunk Graham doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. He steps back suddenly, eyes wide. "Shit, I'm sorry," he groans, and I expect it to be followed with I'm kidding, or April Fools in June. Instead, he bolts for the door.

He doesn't make it halfway before tossing his cookies. I have that effect, I guess.

When the deejay takes a break, one of the younger cousins hijacks the sound system and tunes in the local college radio station. And then the party really begins. I'm not much of a dancer, but I find myself shimmying on the dance floor with Peeta's cousins and sister-in-law. Actually enjoying myself.

Peeta's ditched his suit jacket and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. I have to bite my tongue to keep the liquor from telling him how hot he looks. He's leaned back in his chair, feet resting on my chair, he looks completely relaxed.

But his eyes tell a different story.

He stares at me intently, song after song, only looking away when someone speaks to him. And I'm not the only one who notices. When a slow song starts, Delly practically drags him out of his chair. "Go dance with your girlfriend," she giggles.

Three hundred people vanish into the background the minute Peeta pulls me into his arms. We move in a slow circle with practically no steps at all. We're quiet for a while. Then he speaks in a strained voice. "You're my best friend," he says, "And I don't want to lose you."

"You could never lose me, Peeta," I murmur, leaning my head on his shoulder.

"I might," he says. "You might run away. But I have to tell you."

"Tell me what?" I ask when the silence stretches between us. His arms tighten around me, willing me not to bolt. I don't even know if the music is still playing, all I can hear is his heart beating a staccato rhythm against my ear.

"Ah fuck," he sighs. Then he's dragging me off the dance floor, down the corridor and out a side door into the clean night air. A thousand stars twinkle above us as he backs me into a wall, sheltered from view. "I want this to be real, Katniss," he says.

"I don't understand?"

"This," he emphasizes, gesturing between us. "I want to kiss you again, not because there are people watching. But because I want to. And because you want me to." My breath catches; I can only stare at him, unblinking. "Do you?" He's shaking, waiting for my answer.

"Yes," I breathe, and then his lips are on mine again. This kiss isn't slow or hesitant. He claims me, exploring every ridge and crevice, tasting me so thoroughly I almost can't tell where I end and he begins.

"I've dreamed of this," he pants against my lips. "So many times. Fuck, do you know how hard it's been, sharing a bed with you but not being allowed to touch you?" He sounds almost anguished.

"But…" I pause. I shouldn't bring it up, I know I shouldn't. He doesn't know I was awake, and I don't want to embarrass him.

"But what?" He's staring at me, like he's afraid I'm going to refuse him. I can't let him think that.

I press a gentle kiss to his lips, silently thrilling in being allowed to do so. "The other night," I start, barely a whisper. "While we were sleeping. You were dreaming, I think… and, well, after, you were… you were..." I can't say it, can't even meet his eyes. The pain is still too raw, even in the midst of everything he's said to me.

"I was ashamed that I'd taken advantage of you," he says.

"You weren't disgusted?" His eyes open wide, shock painting his features.

"Disgusted? You thought-?" He kisses me, hard, before pulling back just enough to curse. "Fuck, no. I was so hard I could barely get to the bathroom before my hand was wrapped around my cock." That word, so deliciously vulgar on his pretty lips, has me squirming, rubbing my thighs together. "I jacked off twice that night. And I was so mad at myself for doing that to you, when you were only supposed to be here to help me, not to reenact all of my teenaged fantasies."

"Teenaged fantasies?" I parrot. Could it be that drunk and incoherent Graham was onto something. Peeta's cheeks, already flushed from the alcohol and emotion, get impossibly redder.

"Uh, yeah. I - fuck. I had it so bad for you in high school. And, uh, for years after. Forever, really."

"You've never said a thing," I say, though I'm well aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. I grin. "I guess I never have either." I watch as my words register, as a smile spreads across his handsome face, dimpling his cheek in that way that makes me melt.

"Can I take you home?" he asks, and I smirk.

"I thought you'd never ask."

The one sensible thing that the family paid for in this entire farcical wedding weekend is drivers, to escort the drunken guests home.

Peeta and I giggle like teenagers in the backseat, sneaking shy glances and tame kisses.

But the light mood falls away the minute we cross the threshold to his childhood bedroom. We stand on the precipice of something big. Something that will change everything between us. "Katniss," he whispers. "Can I kiss you again?" And it's so sweet and painfully sincere that I almost laugh.

He surges forward, crushing my body against his and kissing me. How have I ever lived without this? Without his mouth and the sweet words he pants against my lips and throat?

Somehow, we manage to shuffle across the room, and land in a heap on the bed. I grin up at him. "So you used to lie in this very bed and think about me?" I tease, but he just groans.

"All of the damned time, Katniss. You starred in every adolescent fantasy I ever had." He smirks. "A fair number of the grown up ones too." Between bruising kisses, his hands wander, even as he continually seeks permission. But he doesn't need to. I want this, him, desperately. And I tell him so.

When he slides the dress off my shoulder he actually moans. "Oh fuck, Katniss. Did you wear this for me?" His fingers trace the strap of the slinky orange bra, and I nod. "God, you are so much better than my dreams," he pants, and then his head is descending, nuzzling me through the lacy cup, tracing my nipple with his tongue, teasing, driving me crazy with need.

"More," I pant. It's the only word I can get out. But he understands. He peels my dress off reverently, leaving me in just the orange bra and tiny matching panties, soaked with my desire.

"You are so fucking gorgeous," he says, each word punctuated by a flick of his tongue along my ticklish flesh.

"Take your clothes off," I beg, and he pulls back obediently. Each inch of skin revealed to me as he peels off his shirt and slips out of his pants is like a feast for my starving eyes. I've seen Peeta in less, at the beach, at the gym. But never like this.

He kneels beside me, wearing only boxer briefs, the outline of his rigid cock clearly defined. "Fuck," I whisper as I trace his erection with trembling fingers. He's huge.

He leans over me, wrapping me in his arms, kissing me. Pressing our bodies tightly together, only undergarments between us. Rocking together, like we did two nights ago, only intentionally this time. Dry-humping, like teenagers. The thought makes me smile. "If I hadn't moved away, do you think we would have done this in your bed sooner?"

He chuckles. "I'd like to think so," he says, nuzzling my throat as he laughs softly. "Though probably not in this bed. My mother, well, she didn't think too highly of us boys having lady friends sleep over. Not until recently, apparently," he modifies.

"So you never deflowered a virgin in this bed?" At that he snorts.

"Uh, no," he says.

"It's not too late," I murmur.

There's a lag of a few seconds where my words don't register, where he keeps tracing designs across my collarbone with his tongue, where his hand keeps inching down my hip. Then he stops cold, pulling back to hover over me with wide eyes. "Wait, what?" he asks.

I shrug, growing more and more uncomfortable with his unblinking scrutiny. But it's not like I could have kept it from him. If we're heading where I hope we're heading, he'd have figured it out eventually. Especially if, like my mother and even Prim say, it hurts the first time.

"You've… you've never? You're…really? Never?" I shrug again. Then he laughs, a strange, breathless little laugh, and I scowl. Being laughed at is a little bit of a mood killer.

"Not exactly the reaction a girl wants when she's lying half naked under a man," I grumble. He kisses me, hard, smiling against my lips, sucking on my throat when the grin is too wide to keep our teeth from knocking together.

"I'm just, fuck, Katniss, really?" he asks again.

"Really," I sigh. "Is that a problem?" I'm starting to feel awfully vulnerable. Every trace of mirth falls away; he looks at me with a raw hunger unlike anything I've ever seen.

"Fuck, no," he says. "It's completely the opposite. I'm just... you want me to be your first?"

"Well I did, before you started laughing at me," I grumble, but my breathless tone belies any real anger.

"I just can't believe I could be so lucky," he says. And then the talking stops as he takes control, kissing me, ridding me of my bra with a snap and a smirk, devouring my breasts like a starving man as I writhe and beg and moan shamelessly.

When I'm certain I can't take any more he returns to kissing me. But his hands sneak downward, shimmying the tiny panties over my hips until I'm bare for him, for the first time. He strokes my calves and stares at me, licking his lips.

"Take yours off too," I pant, but he shakes his head.

"Not yet," he mumbles. And then he's driving my legs apart, nuzzling my sensitive inner thighs even as his hot breath ghosts over where I'm wet and throbbing for him. I wait, holding my breath, desperate for him to begin. But instead he kisses my hipbone and raises his head. "I'm going to make you come now," he says, his voice deep and gravelly, and I get even wetter at his words. His next kiss lands on my mound and I whimper. "But we're not going to have sex tonight."

In my lust-induced haze I'm certain I've misheard him. "What?" I practically wail.

He paints his next words into my flesh. His tongue caresses the entire length of my slit, the sensation unlike anything I've ever experienced. "I've been waiting practically my whole life to make love to you, Katniss." His tongue seeks out my clit, teasing the little bundle of nerves while I buck against him, reduced to a whimpering mass of raw emotion. "I can wait a little longer. I want to do everything else I've fantasized about doing with you first."

I'm a wreck, pent up and confused and needy. He climbs up to kiss me again, I can taste myself on his tongue. "Is that okay?" he asks.

I'm disappointed, a little. But honestly, I'm a little relieved too. I'm not sure I want to face his mother over breakfast the day after losing my virginity in her son's bed. Mellark meals are awkward enough. And we're not actually teenagers anymore. "Yes," I whisper.

His eyes light up and he strokes my cheek just a moment more before flashing me the most wickedly sexy grin I could ever have imagined. "I'm going to make you come now," he says. "Fantasy number one, the face Katniss Everdeen makes when she comes on my tongue."

I want to laugh, but I can't. Not when his tongue and teeth and thick fingers are driving me to the edge.

We don't sleep until dawn is already curling over the windowsill. Until Peeta has made me orgasm in three different ways. Until I've stroked him to completion, seen the bliss that renders him the most gorgeous thing in the world.

Until we've exchanged breathless I love yous, and promises of always.

And when, in the morning, we face his very hungover family, we both know.

It's real.