It should be the stuff of dreams, me and Katniss, cruising down the highway, her gorgeous voice rising above the Christmas carols pumping from my car radio. And it was, for awhile.
But I flipped the radio off twenty minutes ago, when the light snow morphed into something a whole lot scarier. And the only sounds coming from the passenger seat are Katniss softly muttering about middle of nowhere as she watches the blizzard unfold.
Well, this is a fabulous start to my Christmas vacation.
Katniss and I have known each other for more than a decade, but really only became solid friends when we both moved to the Capitol for work after college and found ourselves living in the same apartment building. As teens, I thought she was hot but completely unattainable. As adults, well, she's even hotter.
And equally unattainable.
She's never once given me any indication she sees me as more than a buddy, a confident, and a connection to home. But honestly, it's okay, because she truly is the best friend a guy could have. She's smart and funny and fun. She gets me. And she's always there to soothe me when life goes to shit.
So, yeah, I wish we could be more. But I'm happy with our relationship as is.
It's December 23rd, or as Katniss calls it, Christmas eve eve. I had intended on driving home on the weekend, but one of my design clients needed a last minute change that couldn't wait. So instead of a leisurely Saturday drive home with my best friend, we're white-knuckling through a rapidly intensifying storm, trying to get to our hometown of Panem in time for my little nephew's very first Christmas concert.
I should have told Plutarch, the client, no when he asked for one last round of changes this morning. Owning my own business means I often bend over backwards for my clients. But in this case I not only inconvenienced myself, but Katniss too, since she waited for me instead of heading home on the weekend like we'd planned. Her sister has been whining by text for two days about missing out on their time together.
In my defence, I did tell her to go without me. I could have caught a flight into the little regional airport on the outskirts of Panem. True, it would have cost more than I'll make from this contract. But if I'd insisted, Katniss wouldn't be looking out the windows of my Jeep pale-cheeked and afraid.
The Jeep is all-wheel drive, but still it skids unhappily in the snow accumulating on this deserted stretch of highway. Katniss makes a choked noise beside me, and I grip the wheel tighter. We're still a hundred and forty miles from Panem.
"Maybe we should pull off," she says.
"I don't think we'd be any safer on the side of the road." If anything, we'd be in more danger since I'm not convinced another driver would even see us.
Katniss pulls out her phone. "I can barely get a bar of service here," she says, voice shaking.
"We're fine," I say, but the white-knuckled grip I have on the wheel belies my words. "I'm sure we'll be though it soon."
"The weather app says the storm is just going to get worse."
My irritation rises. I've made this drive a hundred times in the 4 years since we both moved out to the Capitol. "We're fine," I repeat through gritted teeth. She falls silent, thumbs flying over her phone screen.
"I could look for a mall or something where we can stop just for a little bit. Maybe have some caffeine?"
The fear in her voice guts me. I don't have the heart to tell her we're at least 40 miles from a city big enough to have a mall, or even a WalMart. We've made this drive so many times together, you'd think she'd know that. But I've always been the driver. And she's always been my cheerful companion.
Not today though. There's nothing cheerful in this car right now. I grunt noncommittally.
We drive in silence another 10 minutes. There's not another soul on the road and no light apart from my headlamps. It's eerie.
"There's a motel at the next exit," Katniss says. "We can shelter there until the worst of it passes."
A motel. My heart sinks. I need to get to Panem tonight. Clearly, Katniss has already decided that's not going to happen.
"I think we should push through," I say, and this time I'm unsuccessful at keeping the irritation out of my voice.
"Please?" she says softly.
What can I do? At this point, even if we keep going we're not going to make it in time for the concert. And Katniss is shaking like a leaf.
I pull off the highway where she indicates and down a lonely road, rutted and rough, as the windshield wipers struggle to keep up with the rapidly intensifying snow. "Here," she says, pointing out a driveway on the left, lit by a single wan streetlamp.
The motel is old and only just this side of decrepit, half the neon sign burned out and sun-faded orange paint peeling everywhere. Hav-a-Nap Motel. Sounds like one of those by-the-hour places. Maybe it is. "Are you sure about this?" I ask Katniss. This place is a dump.
"Yeah," she says, distracted, tapping into her phone. "Jo's uncle owns it. She says he'll give us a deal."
"Is it really a deal if the place is too gross to wait out the storm? I don't want to pick up a communicable disease."
Katniss glances over at me through thick black lashes and smirks. "Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like a raging case of typhoid," she snickers. I know she's teasing me, trying to lighten the mood, but I'm not amused. If I'd flown out, like I'd intended, I'd be in Panem now instead of in the middle of nowhere with a huge snowstorm bearing down on us and my mother's wrath waiting when I call her to let her know I won't make tonight's Christmas concert.
I grunt and climb out of my Jeep, slamming the door a little more forcefully than required. The parking lot is flooded with sound, Christmas music blasting from a speaker mounted beside the lone lamp. Fucking great. I stomp through the biting wind towards what I think is the office, a vacancy sign flashing through filthy windows. Though I don't hear her leave the car, Katniss is behind me when I yank open the door.
Inside the office is like walking through the wardrobe into Narnia, if Aslan had been an interior decorator in the mid-80s who was obsessed with Laura Ashley. Every piece of furniture, every surface both flat and vertical, is covered in floral prints in shades of pepto bismol pink and powder blue. "Woah," Katniss whispers behind me. "It's like someone ate the botanical gardens, then projectile vomited."
I bite my lips together to stifle the laugh. Katniss has always been able to make me laugh, but I'm not ready to let go of my pique just yet.
"You just gonna stand there, letting the snow in?" a gravelly voice lifts above the Christmas music still wailing behind us. We shuffle in, and the door groans closed behind us. Behind the floral-papered counter sits a man with greasy salt and pepper hair and a large coffee stain on his yellowed undershirt. He squints at us, and I have the distinct feeling he's drunk. It's not even five o'clock.
"We'd like a room, please," I say, mustering up my most charming smile. It falls when the guy behind the counter belches.
"No can do, we're full," he says, turning back to the ancient computer screen by his side. I fist my hands tightly, trying to keep in place the neutral expression I've spent years perfecting. I'm about to point out that his vacancy sign is still lit. Or half-lit anyway. But Katniss steps in before I can say anything further.
"We'd like to speak with the owner," she says, arms crossed over her chest. Katniss is small, laughably small, but she's mighty, and lesser men have cowered before her 5 feet, 1 inch of righteous indignation.
The old man raises an eyebrow. "That's me, sweetheart." I bristle at the familiarity of that greeting, but Katniss doesn't flinch.
"You're Haymitch?" Her cute button nose scrunches up, probably thinking the same thing I am, that this guy looks about as much a businessman as I look a prima ballerina.
"In the flesh," he says, and my skin crawls.
"Johanna Mason sent us," Katniss says, confusion evident in her tone. "She said you'd have a room for us."
I want to laugh, that she's put such faith in Jo, who is flaky at best and would screw us over just for the fun of it. Like she could actually do anything with the twelve minutes or so of notice Katniss gave her anyway, even if she were being serious for once. I reach for my phone, to google other options. But the old man surprises me, grimacing in a way that I think is supposed to be a smile. He reaches under the counter, then tosses a floral print keychain at Katniss. "Room twelve," he barks. "It's the last one. You're lucky. If Jo-jo had called ninety seconds later it would already be gone too. We're the only place for forty miles, and this storm is gonna be a big one."
Katniss moves to pay, but the old guy waves her off. "Taken care of, sweetheart," he grumbles, and though Katniss stiffens - at the name or because Johanna has apparently either paid for our room or finangled a freebie I'm not sure - she takes my arm and guides me back out into the storm.
She's mumbling under her breath as we squint into the snow. Twelve must be the very last door, at the back of the building. We drive there, parking right in front of the window, so I'll be able to keep an eye on my Jeep. With nothing but woods and snow as far as the eye can see, I'm not keen to take any chances.
The door opens, reluctantly, with a key instead of an electronic key card. Katniss's sharp intake of breath as she flips on the light immediately raises my hackles. What new horrors await? I peer over her shoulder. The room is small, really small, a bed and a pair of nightstands. Like the lobby, the room is plastered in floral print; yellow floral wallpaper, navy floral carpeting, a pink floral bedspread on the bed.
The one bed in the room.
Katniss is stiff in front of me, frozen in place. Part of me wants to rescue her, to tell her I'll figure something out. But the bigger part, the part that has been hoping for years that one day she might see me as a potential partner, that part just gets mad. I have never pressured Katniss, or any woman, ever, and I never will. That she is so upset about the single bed wounds me in ways I can't even articulate. We've been friends a long time, and I have prided myself on being a good friend. Yet she doesn't even trust me enough to share a queen-sized bed for a single night in an emergency situation. "Oh, fuck," she whispers. And I snap.
I push past her with a grunt, accidentally jostling her and she jumps.
The room is warm, that's really all I can say about it. With all of this faded flower print, it's hard to discern if it's clean. I toss our bags on the rickety rack beside what appears to be a bathroom, if the hint of mint green tile is any indication.
"I'm, crap, I'm so sorry," she mumbles.
"For what?" I growl. "For us being stuck in the damned middle of nowhere?" Her gaze drops to the carpet, and my anger swells. "For the fact that I'm going to have to sleep on a disgusting carpet that probably hasn't been cleaned since Reagan was in office? For screwing up my entire vacation?" That's not fair, but the way her shoulders slump just pushes me harder.
I toss my jacket on the bed, show-caked shoes hit the wall where I kick them off in a fit. This shit hole motel doesn't have a restaurant or a bar. I pace the room, looking at the dated furniture. There isn't even a damned mini fridge. I yank hard at my hair. This endlessly sucks. I'm going to have to sleep in a bathtub, where I probably will catch typhoid, all for the joy of listening to my mother screech I told you so. I could have flown out. But no. I had to listen to Katniss, about how fun it would be to drive home together. Fun my ass.
"Peeta," she whispers, a world of apology in those two syllables.
"Did you plan this?" Her sharp silver eyes snap up to mine, confusion written in every line of her face. But I'm too far gone. "The only motel for miles just happens to be owned by your friend's uncle, and he just happens to have a room free. Pretty coincidental." Katniss scowls, I can hear the snide tone in my voice, but I can't stop. "Was this your plan all along? Trap me here? You get some sort of pleasure out of seeing me suffer?"
I don't even know what I'm insinuating, but Katniss's face fills with an expression I've never seen, and one I hope I never see again. Anger, lots of anger, that's not unfamiliar with Katniss. But also hurt. And a not insubstantial amount of disgust. "Fuck you," she spits, then spins and is gone, the motel door slamming behind her.
Four long steps have me standing at the door, hand poised to follow her, to keep yelling. But I realize the puddle of slush where she'd been standing is seeping through my socks. I hadn't even let her take off her jacket before I'd attacked her. What the hell is wrong with me?
A bellow of abject frustration erupts from me, and I launch myself onto the bed, tantruming like a freaking toddler.
It takes five, ten, fifteen minutes to get a hold of myself. Then the resignation sweeps in. I'm stuck, and no amount of whining or raging is going to change that. Time to man up. I'll start by dealing with Mother. Then I'll figure out the food situation.
I dial with trepidation, bracing myself for Mother's rage. But it's Dad who answers, and his voice fills me with homesickness. He sounds like cookies and parent-teacher conferences and Sunday night football. He sounds like home.
All of my residual anger melts away.
I fill him in on our trip so far, the late start, the snowstorm, the shitty motel. I leave out the part where I was a dick to my best friend and she bolted.
"You did the right thing, son," he says, voice warm across the miles. "News says the interstate is closed outside of Watertown. No one's getting anywhere tonight." I make a sound of agreement and he chuckles. "Is Katniss with you?"
No. "Yeah."
"Good. You keep our girl safe." Dad loves Katniss and her little sister. I sometimes think he'd have preferred a house full of girls instead of the rambunctious meatheads he got.
"Yeah," I say again. The digital clock beside the bed is flashing 12:12, so I pull the phone away from my head briefly to check the time. 5:47. I'm not sure how long we've been here but it feels like Katniss has been gone a long time. I should find her, and apologize. "Gotta go, Dad," I tell him.
"See you tomorrow," he says, and probably some admonishment to stay safe. I'm not really listening.
Even as I was yelling at Katniss, I knew I was wrong. I just felt so damn guilty for holding her back and for her being so afraid in the car, and for some stupid reason twisted it around to blame her. Like she'd ever have chosen to be stuck in a shitty hotel with me. What an idiot I am.
I dial Katniss's phone and it goes straight to voicemail. I don't bother leaving a message. Instead, I slide into my boots and pull on my coat. Opening the door, I'm met with a blinding wall of white and the wail of wind over the shitty piped in Christmas music.
I trudge down to the office, but it's empty, the lights dimmed, the door locked. There's nothing else anywhere in sight, no other buildings, just swirling, angry whiteness and the constant wailing of tinny carols. Lyrics shrieking about a storm. How apt.
The whirling snow has mostly obscured my footprints after only a few moments, there's no hope of finding Katniss's path. And there is nothing here except the other rooms. Could she have knocked on a stranger's motel room door? I can't even allow myself to think of that as a possibility, that she would risk her life just to get away from me.
Only now does it occur to me to worry. I was too wrapped in anger and a healthy dose of self loathing before. Now I'm just scared. It's pitch black outside of the weak circle of lamplight, and cold. The highway was a solid three miles down that rutted track of a road. The idea of Katniss being out here alone…
Above me, Justin Bieber croons, 'you should be here with me, safe and warm.' Even the Biebs is chastising me.
I pull out my phone again, hoping against hope that she's texted me. There are no messages. But as I plod back down towards our room, I can see the faintest of blue light glowing underneath the snow encrusting the windows of my Jeep.
She's huddled sideways in the passenger seat, knees drawn up under her coat. Her head snaps up when I open the door, only her cold-reddened nose and those sharp grey eyes peeking out from the fur-trimmed hood of her parka. But that's all it takes to see her anger. And more than that. I can see I've really hurt her. I've seen that expression before, but I've never been the one to cause it.
I climb into the driver's seat, closing the door behind me. The overhead light fades to blackness, leaving only the watery blue glow from Katniss's phone for illumination. It takes several deep breaths before I can speak. My every instinct it to make a joke, to brush away what happened. But she deserves better.
And so do I.
"I'm sorry," I start, and her gaze flits away, back to her screen. Unimpressed. I close my eyes and sigh. Of course she won't make this easy for me. Nor do I deserve for her to. I pull up my hood, and settle in. It's warmer in the car than outside, but just barely. She must be frozen. But the cold won't affect her stubbornness. Finally, I try again. "I was frustrated, and panicking about having to tell my mother I wouldn't make Leo's concert, and I took that out on you. You didn't deserve any of that." It isn't the whole truth, and I think she knows that, her eyes remain fixed on her screen, though she hasn't been scrolling since I climbed into the car.
Screw it. What do I have to lose from telling her the truth?
"And when you froze up, looking at the one bed, I guess I was a little offended. Like you don't trust me." Her eyes lift to mine, sadness floating in their mercury depths.
"I was surprised, that's all," she mumbles, mouth still obscured by her coat. "I trust you, of course I trust you."
Her admission surprises me a little. It's the appropriate response, but Katniss never does anything for mere propriety. "I know you've done nothing but try to help," I continue. "Finding this place, keeping me company on the drive." She nods, but says nothing else.
We sit quietly, puffs of fog between us, as more and more snow crusts the windows. I'll wait forever for Katniss, but my hands are starting to freeze.
"Will you come back inside with me? We can try to salvage the evening?" We've fought before, we've been friends for years and known each other since we were 16. But usually we'd each retreat to our own worlds and lick our wounds a few days. That's just not possible here.
"Yeah," Katniss all but huffs, then unfurls her legs from under her jacket. It doesn't feel like much of a victory. We trudge inside, and divest ourselves of our outerwear.
Katniss perches on the edge of the bed, her back partially to me. The room, already small, feels crowded with the hurt between us.
"Do you need to call Prim?" I ask, just to fill the silence.
"Already did."
"Is she upset?"
"She'll get over it." I nod to myself and slump against the windowsill, only the velvet drapes shielding me from the cold glass.
It takes me a moment to realize that Katniss is trying to rub some warmth back into her feet. I sigh, feeling, if possible, even worse. "Let me," I mutter, and kneel before her, pulling one icy foot into my lap.
She watches me, expression wary, but doesn't pull away. And after a few moments, she starts to relax. "Thank you," she says, a hint of a smile gracing lips that in the bright of the room I can see are slightly blue-tinged. Man, I am the worst kind of asshole, letting her sit out there so long. We're alike that way, both much too stubborn for our own good.
I reach behind her, our bodies brushing, and pull the purple blanket that graces the end of the bed, wrapping it around Katniss's shoulders, then returning to my position in front of her, switching for her other foot.
"Feeling any better?" I ask, glancing up at her. I'm surprised to see that she's staring at me with something like wonder.
"Yeah." Katniss takes a deep breath, but doesn't look away. "Thank you for stopping here," she says. "I'm sorry I wrecked your plans."
"You didn't, it isn't your fault. I should have left earlier," I remind her. "And we can't control the weather. We'll relax, watch some TV, and get an early start tomorrow morning. It'll be okay."
She nods, but then as if to mock me the lights flicker, and go out.
The darkness is stunning, no lamplight or moonlight through the windows, no LEDs blinking from the electronics. Just blackness. "Fuck," I gasp. I hate the dark, have hated it my whole life.
Only moments later, Katniss has turned on her phone's flashlight, aiming it at the ceiling, bathing us in reflected blue light. "You okay?" she asks, grabbing my hand.
"Yeah." I'm not afraid, not really. It just makes me deeply uneasy. Growing up in town, it was never truly dark, so I never got accustomed to it. I'm pretty good at faking it when other people are around, a man who hates the dark is pretty prime for mockery. But I don't have to pretend with Katniss. She knows, and she doesn't care.
"Do you think we popped a breaker?" She tugs me to my feet, then tucks herself under my arm and I squeeze her shoulder in gratitude. We might have had a little spat, but we're still in this together.
We walk to the window and look down the long line of motel rooms. There not a speck of light coming from any of the other windows. "No," I say. "I think it's the storm."
As one, we move back to the bed and sit side by side, Katniss's phone light still glowing between us. I have no idea what to do now. "He didn't give us any papers when we checked in," Katniss mumbles. "How should we know how to contact him?"
The bedside table yields a pink-covered bible and a flyer for an aromatherapy service. Nothing else.
I'm scrolling through my phone, looking for the contact information for this place, when a knock sounds at the door. "It's Haymitch," comes through the wood.
"Power's out," he says when I pull open the door, and I roll my eyes. He thrusts a pair of battery operated lanterns into my hands. "We still have heat, the boiler runs on propane. But I wouldn't count on any electricity tonight."
"Wait," Katniss says as Haymitch opens the door again. "How can we reach you if we need anything else?"
"Don't need anything else," he growls, and she aims her fiercest scowl at him. He laughs. Bastard has a death wish. "I'm in room one," he says, then he's gone.
"He lives here?" Katniss shudders. I'm a little grossed out too.
The pair of lanterns are remarkably bright for battery operated, and I feel a lot better. Except that I'm starving. I'd meant to make Katniss some of the cheese buns she likes, but I ran out of time. She has no food with her either. "I have wine," Katniss says, pulling a bottle of red from her duffle bag. "No glasses though."
"We'll survive," I laugh.
The bottle is, thankfully, a screw cap. Katniss and I settle in against the headboard, the bedspread pulled over us, passing the wine back and forth, and as the alcohol warms us from inside, the easy, comfortable friendship we've always enjoyed comes back. We've shared many bottles over the years, but it's nice to do so without the distraction of television or other people.
And it reminds me, as spending time with Katniss always does, how much I love her. She's my best friend, and always will be. But we fit so well together, I can't help imagining how well we'd fit as more than friends. I wish we could explore that. But Katniss, though she's always softer and gentler with me than with our other friends, isn't into me.
But she leans against my shoulder, and I turn my face to press a kiss to her sweet hair, and warm and comfortable and just a little drunk, I can let myself pretend.
A sharp bang-bang-bang sounds and we both jump. Someone screams. It might be me.
I spring off the bed and open the door cautiously; on the other side is a woman, perhaps my mother's age, dressed head to toe in fur, in full makeup and with pink curls sticking out from under a ridiculous elf hat. She's carrying a large wicker basket. "I am Effie Trinket," she chirps. "I am the proprietress of this fine establishment." It takes me a moment to register that she means she owns the place. I bet she's the one responsible for all of this flower print. I glance over at Katniss, whose expression is carefully blank but who is biting the inside of her cheek against the laughter we're both fighting. She couldn't be more different from Haymitch, I wonder if they're partners or partners. I don't see a car behind her, she must live here too.
"It's nice to meet you," I hazard, and it almost sounds sincere.
"I've brought you something to eat, since Johanna tells me that you're staying with us unexpectedly and haven't stopped for the evening meal." I look at Katniss again and she averts her eyes. She must have been texting with Jo while she was hiding out in the car.
"Thank you," I say, taking the basket Effie thrusts at me. It's significantly heavier than I expected.
"I'll be back for the dishes in the morning. Bon appétit!"
"Well that was unexpected," I say, but we're both distracted by the warm food smell wafting from the basket.
Inside are fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples and a tureen of some sort of stew. "Lamb, I think," Katniss says, sniffing delicately. Effie has even sent us silverware and china plates.
It's not exactly a candlelit dinner, sitting cross-legged on a slightly sagging bed, floral-patterned china balanced on our laps. But it feels intimate. We feast by lamplight, making small talk and finishing the wine.
I'm warm and content, watching Katniss with heavy eyes and a languid smile, playing with the end of her braid as she leans against my shoulder. "You're tired," she says softly. "We should sleep."
I have no idea what time it is, my phone died sometime before we ate, but like a toddler I try to protest that I'm not sleepy. Katniss snorts, as if she knows that the stress and darkness are making me drowsy. She probably does. Nobody knows me as well as Katniss Everdeen.
She climbs out of bed and rifles through her bag, looking for pyjamas. When she takes one lantern into the bathroom, I find my own sleepwear. At home, I generally just sleep in my boxers, or in nothing at all, but because I'll be staying with my parents, my brother, his wife, and their two little boys, I've packed plaid flannel pyjama pants. I'm wearing them, and a t-shirt, when Katniss comes back out.
I almost laugh when I see her sleepwear, and she scowls. "Shut up," she says. "Prim got it for me." She's wearing nightclothes that look right out of a Dickens novel, a knee-length shirt-like thing and knee socks. All she'd need is a night cap to be Scrooge himself. She's so damned adorable.
It's the least sexy nightgown in the history of nightgowns, but still, when she climbs under the blankets beside me, I get hard. I can't help it. She smells so good and she's only a few inches away. But she rolls to face away from me.
The two lanterns are extinguished, and then it's just her soft breaths in the darkness. I am sleepy, but uncomfortable in the dark, unfamiliar place, and also still feeling guilty. "Katniss?" I say, and the darkness makes my voice seem loud. "Are you still angry with me?"
The pause feels interminable. "No," she says finally. "I know you didn't mean it."
I reach out and lay my hand flat against her back. Her warmth and solidity calm me. I'm drifting in the gauzy violet mists between awake and asleep when she speaks again. "What if I did?"
"Did what?" I mumble.
"Plan it. Plan this. Would that have been so bad?"
I freeze, suddenly wide awake. "Did you?" I whisper.
Katniss doesn't answer. I wait, hardly daring to breathe. But all that follows are the soft, even puffs that say she's asleep.
o-o-o
It's morning when I open my eyes, greasy grey light shining weakly through the window, making time impossible to discern. Katniss is still sleeping, facing me now, our faces just inches apart. How I would love to wake up like this every day.
I think back to what she said, just before we fell asleep. What if I did? I know she didn't, there were just too many crazy variables in this trip beyond anyone's ability to plan. But I can't help wondering what she meant. Katniss is very spare with her words, and she's not a navel gazer. She never says things she doesn't mean and she never hypothesizes just for the hell of it. She wouldn't have said what she did just for shits and giggles. Could she have been telling me, in her Katniss way, that she wanted this?
I'm still rolling her possible intentions around in my head when her eyes slide open. The way she moves from asleep to awake like a switch amuses me, but I brace for her reaction to our closeness. We've never shared a bed before, and as far as I know Katniss hasn't been in a relationship since college, so she's definitely not used to waking up with someone else. Yet she doesn't freak out, doesn't roll away or jump out of bed. Instead, she smiles, gaze softly affectionate. "Good morning," she murmurs, sleep-roughened voice husky and hot.
"It is," I say. Her braid has come loose in the night, her long, black hair floats around her face. I reach out to tuck a tangled lock behind her ear, and her smile widens. My heart threatens to crack under the perfect sweetness of the moment.
"Hey," she says, a little line appearing between her brows. Her soft, cool hand comes up to cup my cheek and I lean into her touch, eyes drifting closed. "Are you okay?" All I can do is nod.
Katniss doesn't pull her hand away, instead she slides it upward, sifting through my hair, pushing the overlong bangs back over and over. I sigh. It feels so good to be touched like this. So natural. "This is nice," I whisper. I probably shouldn't have said it, with the moment so strange and fragile. But I'm tired of hiding my feelings.
"It is," she says, repeating my words. I crack open an eye, and she's still watching me, still wearing that soft smile.
What if I did? runs through my head again. I open both eyes, and hold her silver gaze. Could it be that she's trying to tell me that spending the night in a cheesy motel with me isn't a nightmare for her? She slides that gentle hand lower, stroking my cheek, skimming a thumb over my bottom lip. I catch her hand and, praying that I'm reading her signals right, press a kiss to her palm. She shudders, and not in revulsion. Her tongue darts out, a fleeting swipe of pink across her plush lip. I grip her wrist more tightly.
I've been playing it safe with Katniss for a decade. Is it possible she's been doing the same?
"If I kiss you right now," I ask, and her eyes widen. "Will I ruin everything?"
"I don't know," she whispers, and that bit of honesty makes me smile. There are never platitudes with Katniss. Then she continues, "but I'd like to find out."
Slowly, slowly, I inch closer to her, watching her lips, listening to each shuddering breath that escapes them. Releasing her wrist, I cup her cheek, the way I've dreamed of so many times. Then I lean in.
I've fantasized about kissing Katniss since I was a teenager, have envisioned this moment a thousand times and a thousand ways. None of those compare to reality. At the first gentle press of my lips, she opens beneath me, a flower blooming.
We start slowly, a cautious exploration, learning each other. But then her hands are in my hair, tugging, and mine are stroking the smooth expanse of thigh under the hem of her nightshirt. "Peeta," she gasps against my lips when I squeeze her ass. I pull back enough to meet her eyes but see no censure, only lust.
My dick is an iron spike, and I thrust against her hip, desperate for any bit of friction. She growls, then pulls at my shoulder, urging me on top of her. I'm clumsy in my haste, but then I'm lowering myself to her, the softness of her small body beneath me overwhelming.
Her firm calves wrap around me, pulling me flush to her, and I can't help but rock against her. She cries out, the most erotic music I've ever heard.
Dry humping with my best friend in a shitty motel room. It's by far the best sexual experience of my life. Katniss licks down my throat, biting just lightly on that spot that's my undoing. She already knows how to make me lose my fucking mind, and I can't even be surprised. No one knows me like she does.
I slide my shaking hand higher, cradling her rib cage possessively. Katniss gasps, a breathless "yes," falling from her perfect peach lips across my sensitized skin. Higher still, my thumb brushes the bottom of one firm swell. I groan. I've known since Madge's pool party in eleventh grade that Katniss has glorious tits but I never thought I'd get to touch them.
"Please," Katniss whimpers beneath me, arching helplessly. "Please. I've waited so long."
"Me too," I grit out, hand closing around that incredible peak, her nipple stiff under my palm.
I don't know which one of us cries out more loudly. This is everything I've ever wanted, my best friend kissing me, writhing beneath me, touching me with tender intent. Her hands grip my face, forcing me to look into her eyes. "My Peeta," she murmurs, then kisses me as if her very life depends on it.
I am such a goner.
The little noises she makes as I tweak her nipple will forever be the soundtrack to my filthy dreams. I never guessed she'd be this responsive. This eager. And all for me.
Then her hands slide under my flannel pants, grabbing my ass, urging me against her again, hard, insistent. I almost can't believe this is real. It's everything I've always wanted, but never thought possible. I want to ask her, to demand that she label this thing between us. But I can feel her heat through my pants, and all I can do is moan into her mouth.
A sharp rapping at the door tears us apart. Panting, I stare down at Katniss. She's as turned on as I am, pupils blown wide, lips moist and reddened. She's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. "Ignore it," she whispers, arching up to kiss me again.
I'm so close to coming, just from kissing and rubbing against my Katniss. I paw at her nightshirt, wanting to push it up, to taste those ripe tits. But the banging comes again, accompanied by a bellow. "You kids all right in there?"
Haymitch. And he probably has a key.
I groan, dropping my forehead to hers, and she laughs lightly, her breath against my lips. "Fuck," I gasp, then roll off of her, throwing an arm over my eyes.
My cock is throbbing, tenting the front of my pants, my breath coming in short gasps. Katniss sits up beside me, ready to move away. Disappointment sharp as a spear pierces me. But then her hand is sifting through my sweaty hair. She presses a gentle kiss to my temple. "I'll be right back."
I roll onto my side, facing away from the door. No way I'm giving that guy an eyeful.
Haymitch sounds genuinely apologetic for waking us, I can't tell from his tone if he knows we weren't sleeping. I can't hear all of their hushed conversation but I catch the gist of it. The power is expected back by noon, the highway should be cleared soon after. We'll be back to our regular lives in a few hours.
The ache of it is bone deep. I want to be selfish, to demand more of Katniss, to beg for everything. But that's not fair. I have no idea what will remain once we leave this strange otherworld. Will we go back to just friends, and laugh awkwardly about that one time we made out like horny kids? Or will we drift apart, our former closeness hobbled by discomfort?
The bed depresses behind me. Katniss returning. She places her palm against my spine, like I did to her last night. Comforting. "Did we ruin everything?" I ask. I try to use a joking tone, but the plaintive edge in my voice would fool no one.
Her hand disappears. Then she's speaking again, but not to me. "Hey Primmy," she says, and I can hear Prim squeal faintly through Katniss's phone. I'm taking deep breaths, trying to get my emotions under control. Because of that, I almost miss it. "I'm sorry," I hear Katniss say, "but they're not going to be able to dig us out until morning."
What?
I roll over. Katniss is kneeling beside me, phone pressed to her head, mischief in her sterling eyes. "Me too," she says, a soft smile playing over her lips. "But I should be there in time for Christmas lunch." She nods along to whatever Prim is saying. "My phone is almost dead, Primmy. Can you call the Mellarks and tell them Peeta won't be there until tomorrow either? They'll take it better from you."
She barely says goodbye before she tosses her phone on the bedside table. "You asked me if I planned this," she says, eyes shining.
"Katniss…"
"This time I did." Her expression is defiant, but also so incredibly vulnerable. "I want," she starts, but then falters.
"What do you want?" I ask. I need her to be clear. But I soften the demand by stroking the soft skin just above her knee, bared by her nightshirt.
"You," she whispers. That's good enough for me. I grin at her and my heart feels like it'll explode. "Do you want me?"
"More than my next breath," I say, surging up, pinning her to the bed. She arches under me, eager to take up where we left off. But I need more. "I want more than your body," I tell her, nipping at the swatch of collarbone exposed by her shifting nightclothes. "I want us, together. I want to date you. I want your heart."
"It's always been yours," she sighs. "No one else has ever come close."
And then I kiss her. I have twenty-four or so hours to start making up for all of the years we've wasted. We'll have time to figure out the rest after. If I have my way, we'll have always.