Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

She's a little fixated on his eyelashes. They're so pale that they're almost invisible, except up close. So long she doesn't know how they don't get all tangled up when he blinks. The light filtering through the window catches them, turns them to spun gold, haloing eyes deep and blue, like pools of still water.

But it's his mouth that really captivates her.

Those lips; lush, almost too plump, and so incredibly soft looking. Lips that quirk up at the corners when he's amused, revealing a deep dimple in his left cheek. Lips that press tightly together, all but disappear when he's trying not to lose his cool, though that seldom happens. He's so sweet tempered, so boundlessly patient.

Lips that are now pursed in the most kissable pucker as he contemplates the screen in front of them.

She has never wanted to kiss someone as much as she wants to kiss him.

He turns, catches her staring. Those incredibly plush lips turn up in a smile so genuinely sweet, with just the right touch of shyness. Her heart flutters in her chest, a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

No one has ever made her feel like he does.

They're sitting side by side, his broad shoulder pressed against her, the muscles of his arm pulling and flexing where they touch. She's hyper-aware of his heat, of the clean, masculine smell of him, the spice of his cologne. Of the way his breath catches every time her hand brushes against his.

He says something she doesn't catch, too caught up in longing, in wondering what those lips would feel like pressed against her own. How that silver tongue of his might paint sonnets on her palate. He quirks an eyebrow at her, smirking. She bites her bottom lip in contrition and his eyes flit downward, follow her teeth.

The desire to kiss him is overwhelming. Basorexia. She gives in to it.

At the first press of her mouth to his he startles; she feels him tense. But she doesn't pull back, not now that she finally feels his lips under hers. Soft, like she was expecting, but also firm, taut. And then she feels him relax, feels those soft lips moving.

She raises a hand to cup his cheek, stroke the stubble just coming in. He says her name, "Katniss," a sigh of longing. Then his hand is on the nape of her neck, pulling her more tightly, angling her head to deepen the kiss.

The first stroke of his tongue against hers is electric; sparks race down her torso, pop behind her eyes. He explores every crevice of her mouth methodically, unstoppably. She doesn't want to stop, doesn't ever want to stop. The desire, the hunger increases. He moans low in the back of his throat; the sound makes her tingle and tense, every nerve on fire.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, it could be ten minutes, it could be ten hours. She wishes it could be forever.

She finally pulls back - panting, lips bruised - and looks at him. His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring as he struggles to catch his breath. His pink tongue, so velvety, so gifted, snakes out repeatedly to lick his kiss-swollen lips. As if he's savouring her taste. Finally, with a shuddering breath he opens his eyes, hooded and lust-filled, and for a moment he only stares at her with naked longing.

Then it's as if a bucket of cold water is poured down his spine, he stiffens, eyes widening, a myriad of expressions contorting his handsome face. Fear. Desperation. Shame. "No! I'm… I'm so sorry," he gasps, panting like he's run miles. "Katniss, we, I mean I… shit." He covers his face with hands that tremble, shoulders slumping forward. "I'm sorry," he mumbles again. "Oh God."

The realization hits her just a few moments later. The chair squawks in protest as she leaps to her feet. His head snaps up, but she's already running for the door. "Wait, please," floats down the corridor, empty of students now, but she doesn't slow. She ducks between a row of lockers and escapes out the doors by the gym, his frantic voice fading in the distance. She can't believe she did that. She can't believe she kissed Peeta Mellark.

Mr. Mellark.

Her twelfth grade English teacher.