He's not in class the next day. Nor the day after.

Rumours abound, as they're wont to do in high school hallways. Did you hear about Mr. Mellark? He's on indefinite stress leave. I heard he punched principal Abernathy in the face. I heard he tried to jump off the Arena St bridge!

She's terrified. Horrified. Heartsick. Has she destroyed his career? Has her impetuousness, her stupid school-girl crush, cost this kind and gentle man not only his job, but his sanity?

He must hate her.

Panem is a big place, but she's been paying attention. She's seen him at the ravine multiple times with his canvasses and paints, almost every Saturday morning when she jogs the wooded trails just after sunrise.

Today is no different.

She's waiting when he arrives, sitting in a tall oak tree. Hidden from view, listening to the morning birdsong. She hears his approach long before she sees him, the heavy clomp-clomp-clomp of feet he's clearly never had to walk softly on. He too is earlier than usual, she thinks.

As he sets up his easel, she takes a few minutes to calm her breathing. And to observe him. Out here, in a simple t-shirt and khakis, he looks much younger than at school. He could easily pass for one of his students. And that makes sense, she guesses, since he was a student at Panem High only six years ago.

But he looks terrible. Tired - no, exhausted. His hair is a rumpled mess, his back bowed. In the thin morning light the circles under his eyes look like bruises. It hurts her heart to see him this way, like the joy and light that always infused him has been drained away. She knows it's her fault.

Though he startles when she jumps out of the tree and lands not 10 feet away from him, he doesn't look surprised to see her.

They stare at each other far too long. She sought him out; she knows that she should be the one to speak. But words have never been her strong suit. Finally she starts with the one thing she knows is true. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, hardly a whisper in the wind.

His face falls. "No," he says equally softly. "I'm sorry, Katniss. I am so, so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," she says, looking down at her sneakers. She can't look at his face. The sadness in his striking blue eyes, the downward turn of those plush lips, it's too much.

His hands twitch at his sides. "I do," he says. "I should never have kissed you, and especially not like that. I took advantage of you." The shame, the self-loathing in his voice, it makes her sick. It makes her angry.

"You didn't take advantage of me," she practically spits. "I kissed you. I wanted to kiss you." There's a long pause, filled with her heart pounding in her ears. "And I'm eighteen anyway," she adds.

"I know," he says, looking out over the ravine. The sun's orange rays crest the mountain's edge, bathing him in gold. "But I'm your teacher." He glances back at her; she expects him to yell, to chastise her, to berate her for throwing herself at him. Maybe she even wants that, a little, to assuage her guilt. But he doesn't. "Will you sit?" he asks, indicating a fallen log a few steps away.

She's a little surprised when he lowers himself beside her, close but not touching. Comforted by his nearness, by the familiar smell of him. Comforted, but confused. She expected his disapproval, but there's no anger in his expression, no judgement. Just sadness. "Katniss," he starts. "I know you're an adult. But I'm in a position of authority over you. It's my duty to be the one who maintains the boundaries between us, and I didn't do that. I failed you, and I failed myself."

"You didn't do anything wrong," she insists, but he shakes his head.

"I did, though. It's my responsibility to keep a professional distance. And I failed pretty spectacularly at that." He smiles at her, a little self-effacing. Not as easy as before, but genuine. Sweet.

"What happens now?" she can't help but ask. "You weren't at school yesterday, or the day before."

"I'm taking a leave of absence, for the rest of the school year," he admits, and she frowns.

"No, that's not fair," she tries to argue, but he cuts her off with a gentle finger across her lips. The move stuns her silent, makes her heart pound a staccato sonata against her ribcage. His hand lingers just a little too long, electric, sensuous. He stares into her eyes, longing and hunger laid bare. Then his hand falls away, and his eyes follow.

"It's for the best," he says softly.

"But I… I threw myself at you. It wasn't your fault." Even to her own ears it sounds like a plea.

"Katniss," he says, and her heart stutters. The way his mouth wraps around her name, tongue caressing the syllables. It sparks something inside her like nothing she's ever felt before. Nothing she could possibly explain. "I kissed you back. I… shit." He swallows hard, her eyes follow the motion, the bob and flex of his throat. "I wanted to kiss you. I…" His mouth opens and shuts and opens again, but no sound comes out, and after a moment he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. I can't. We can't." The words are firm, but the tinge of regret obvious.

He stands suddenly, walking over to his easel, the plain white canvas stark against the riotous late-spring green of the valley below. "I'm glad you came today," he says. "I was hoping you would." He turns then to stare at her. The desire in his eyes is evident. But it's tempered with remorse. "But we can't meet up again. I can't see you again."

She wants to argue, to beg. But she doesn't. Because she can see in his face that it would be futile. And she knows in her own heart that he's right. She can't look at him without remembering how his lips felt against her own. The sound of his low moan of pleasure. The entirely new kind of hunger he stirred deep inside of her. She can't go back. "Okay," she whispers.

She heads back down the path, resisting the urge to look behind her, to indulge in one last glance. But she can feel his eyes following her.

Running through the woods is like being cradled in the arms of a much-missed friend. Her college campus in the Capitol has plenty of green space for her morning jogs. But it isn't the same.

She sucks in great lungfuls of clean mountain area, enjoying the sounds and scents of her woods. Her home.

She hasn't run this path in more than a year. But now that she's back home for the summer, she couldn't wait to get back out here.

It's reflex that slows her gait as she crests the rise before the ridge, and a hint of melancholy too. She's startled to see him there, silhouetted by the rising sun. But down deep she's not really surprised.

He's even more impossibly handsome than she remembers, broad and strong and steady.

He turns and smiles at her, sweet and a little shy. "Hello Katniss," he murmurs, that liquid honey voice turning her name into something exotic.

"Mr. Mellark," she smiles, and he laughs.

"It's Peeta, please. After all," he smirks, ocean eyes sparkling. "I'm not your teacher anymore."