"I'm sorry," Prim says over the phone. "I'd get out of it if I could. But you know how weird Hazelle is about family stuff." Hazelle is Prim's new mother in law, and she's been really good to Prim, and to me and our mother too. So I can't begrudge her expecting Prim and Rory to attend the handful of functions she hosts.

"I get it," I say, and I'm mostly successful at keeping the bitterness out of my voice. After all, expecting Prim to keep one day a year free for me is apparently unreasonable.

"You should spend the day with mama," she starts, but I cut her off.

"No." I've forgiven my mother for much of what happened in the past, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to spend the anniversary of Daddy's death with her.

"It's been eleven years," Prim says gently, but I can hear her underlying meaning. It's time for me to get over it already. She obviously has.

"I'll call you tomorrow," I tell her, anxious to let the conversation drop.

She sighs. "Don't be mad, Kat."

"I'm not, Little Duck." And I'm really not. I'm just sad and heartsick. It isn't Prim's fault that working on the ecotourism issue has made me miss my father so much more this year. And I know - rationally, I know - that she'd be with me if she could. I can't expect her to bail on the first Hawthorne family gathering where she's an official Hawthorne.

But we've always spent this day together. The day that changed everything for us. The day we lost not only our beloved father, but for so many years our mother too. Even when she was away at college, I'd drive out to spend the day with her, preparing my dad's favourite meal together and sharing our best memories of him.

I can't help feeling like I'm forgetting him. His beautiful voice that made the songbirds fall silent in wonder. His laugh, his hugs, his way of making me feel like the most important person in the world.

His death was the end of my innocence. It was the end of happy, carefree Katniss and the birth of this shuttered, staid woman who Jo says fun forgot. But fun didn't forget me. Fun left with my father.

o-o-o

The day falls on a Saturday, and I head into my office, intent on losing myself in the final details of my special issue, and catching up on my regular editorial duties that have fallen by the wayside in the two months I've been working on this project. I am a machine, headphones on, fully focussed on my work.

When I finally lift my weary eyes from my monitor, it's late and the sun is setting, a grimy twilight hanging over the city. The entire day gone with barely a thought. I should be elated.

But as I climb on the bus, the Saturday night crowd just beginning to assemble in the downtown, pleased is the last thing I feel. Instead, a sick kind of misery chokes me. How is burying myself in work honouring my dad? It's what I used to do in those early years, when my mother did nothing but lie in bed, when all of my energy went to keeping Prim and myself fed, keeping a roof over our heads. Giving Prim the childhood she deserved was my number one priority then, I wouldn't let it be stolen from her, like it was from me. I tamped down my own grief, buried under a mound of responsibility. Even celebrating Dad that one day a year was originally Prim's idea. One that she's outgrown now.

It's not exactly intentional when I climb off the bus not at my own stop, but at Peeta's. I've been to his place before, a couple of weeks ago to listen to him jam with Thresh and a few of their musician buddies. But as I stand in front of his apartment door, I realize I'm not sure it's all that appropriate for me to just show up, or that my unannounced presence will be welcome. We're not dating, or at least I don't think we are. I mean, I've kissed him twice, and we talk all the time, but that date we'd talked about never materialized. We've hung out a couple of times since the day he took me to his hometown, but never alone.

Yet he's the one person I want to see right now. The one I know will understand what I'm feeling.

Faint noise wafts through his door, the television probably. I pace up and down his hall on soft feet, trying to talk myself into knocking. Finally, I pull out my phone.

I dial his number and he answers on the first ring, but he sounds distracted. A horrible thought that he might not be alone hits me, and I almost hang up. "Katniss? He says through my phone's tinny speaker. "Are you there?"

"Yeah," I say. "Sorry. Is, uh. Is this a bad time?"

With a chuckle, he assures me it isn't. "I always like hearing your voice," he says, and it's so sweet and so warm that the tension and fear in me loosens, letting all of the other emotions of the day resurface. I sigh, and it's a sad, pathetic little noise. "Are you okay?" he asks when the silence has stretched out too long. I shake my head, but he can't see it through the phone. "Katniss?"

"I just," I start, but I don't know what else to say. Sniffling, I reach up to rub my nose and realize that I've started crying. "Can I see you, maybe?"

"Where are you?" His voice is sharp, worry colouring the words. I can hear shuffling in the background.

"At your door." The words are barely out of my mouth when his door is flung open. Peeta stands in the doorway, wearing a white tank top and loose grey sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips, a smudge of what looks like orange paint across his cheekbone. I almost don't notice his frightened expression because he's wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses and holy crap, he's like some kind of reverse superman, where Clark Kent puts on the glasses and becomes the hottest man on earth.

But then he's enveloping me in a hug and everything else falls away. Surrounded by his warmth and his sweet-spicy scent, I let out a deep, shuddering breath and slump against him. He half drags me inside, still in his embrace, and walks us to the couch.

He doesn't demand to know why I'm there or why I'm falling apart. He simply holds me. I don't sob or wail, that's not who I am, but tears continue to trickle down my face, wetting his shirt as I nuzzle his shoulder. We stay like that, him silent, me curled against him, wrapped in his warmth, his scent, until the storm abates.

Peeta presses a fleeting kiss to my hair before shifting so he can look at my face. I know I'm a mess; I'm not a cute crier, and my nose is running like a faucet. But he simply brushes a damp lock of hair away from my cheek.

"My dad," I start, then have to stop to force down the lump in my throat. "It's the anniversary." It's all I get out, but Peeta's eyes soften with sympathy.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently, and I know even without him saying that he won't pressure me. He'll listen, if I want. But he'll give me space instead if that's what I prefer.

Maybe that's why I do talk. Why I tell Peeta about my father's death, the horrible months afterward when I was terrified that social services would take Prim away, terrified I'd come home and find my mother dead. All of the things I've never allowed myself to say out loud, not to anyone. Jo doesn't know, nor do any of my other friends. My mother was practically catatonic at the time. And I did my best to shelter Prim from the worst of it. It's a burden I have always borne alone.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, embarrassed. I never cry in front of other people, I didn't cry at Daddy's funeral, didn't cry in the months I struggled to learn how to feed us, never cry when Prim and I reminisce. I keep it all locked up tight inside me. Vulnerability is dangerous. "It was a long time ago, I know."

Peeta shakes his head. "Grief doesn't have a timeline, Katniss. There's no expiry date." He passes me a box of tissues, then heads to the next room. I feel like an idiot, blowing my nose, still hiccupping from my tears. This probably marks the end of any chance he and I could be more than friends. But I can't regret coming here. His strength, his steadiness, I feel better and stronger just from having him beside me.

The clink of glasses on granite wafts from the kitchen as I glance around. His apartment is smaller than the one that Jo and I share - it has only one bedroom - but it's better laid out, making the living area feel much more spacious. Beside the big window, behind where I'm sitting, a partly-finished canvas sits on an easel, a paint-battered stool beside it, and I'm drawn to the swirls of pink and orange.

This must be what Peeta was doing when I interrupted him, the paint on his palette is still wet, glossy and mineral-smelling. Though the painting has only just been started, I can tell it's going to be a sunset. And even at this early stage, Peeta's talent is on display.

"Not much to look at yet." I glance back over my shoulder, Peeta is standing beside his couch, a pair of water glasses in his hands and a tupperware container tucked under one arm.

"It's already beautiful." I turn back to the painting. It's familiar, even in this preliminary form. The shape of the sky's reflection in what must be a little pond far below. "It's the lookout you took me to, right?" Though we hadn't been there at sunset, I can imagine what it would look like with the sky painted this colour.

He laughs softly, I can hear him setting his haul down on the coffee table. "Yeah. Good eye," he says, his voice a little tight. When I glance back at him again, he's rubbing the back of his neck, something I've noticed he does when he's embarrassed or uncomfortable.

"Sorry," I say, moving away from the canvas. "I didn't mean to snoop." I don't know a lot of artists, but Jo is a writer, and she's insanely secretive about her writing until she's finished at least a first draft.

"No," he says. "I don't mind if you look." But there really isn't anything to look at. Though he's an artist, Peeta's walls are covered in framed music posters, not any of his paintings. Apart from the canvas behind me, the only bits of Peeta's work I've seen are the watercolours at his family's bakery, and the infographics he designed several months ago for an issue I edited.

He seems to catch onto my meaning when I glance around his living room. "Right," he laughs. "Not much out here." He smiles tightly, though it almost looks like a grimace. "Did you want to see some of my stuff?"

The words are barely out before I'm nodding. I'm not oblivious to his discomfort, but I'm curious enough to take his offer at face value. His smile turns a little more genuine at my enthusiasm, and with a soft chuckle, he leads me to his bedroom.

I peeked in here before, throwing my coat on the bed when I came to listen to him play with his friends, but as he paws through his closet I allow myself to really look around the room. It's tidy, the bed is made and there's no laundry piled up. A stack of books sit neatly on a low dresser, I try to read the spines surreptitiously but the angle is wrong.

"Here we are," he says, and I drag my attention back. He's got a bunch of small and medium sized canvases in his arms, carelessly stacked one on top of the other. He sets them on his bed, then turns back to the closet. But I don't wait for an invitation, moving instead to study the paintings.

The first few are what I expected, the soft watercolours like at his family's bakery and brighter landscapes in acrylic like the one on his easel. But then I flip to one that takes my breath away, and I can't help but gasp. It's like some sort of dystopian nightmare. A lone figure, a young man maybe, cowers in the corner of a prison cell, spattered with blood and bathed in an odd acid-green light, as if in a dungeon. It's gritty and raw and oh so dark. I can almost smell the dirt, the blood, the stench of decay. It's extraordinary, and it's yet another hint that there is so much more to Peeta Mellark than meets the eye.

He grunts out a pained laugh. "Forgot that one was in there," he admits, though he doesn't attempt to stop me from looking. "It's a little experimental."

"It's mesmerizing," I tell him. The detail is amazing, sure, but it's the emotion that oozes from every brushstroke that compels me. As I stare at it I'm struck with the certainty that it's a self portrait, that the broken and battered prisoner is Peeta himself.

When I glance back at him it's with tears in my eyes, and his expression softens. "That's enough I think," he murmurs, as if he's worried about my feelings when all I want to do is wrap him up and put him someplace safe where no one can hurt him again. But I let him lead me out anyway.

Once we're again settled on his couch he hands me a small moleskine sketchbook. "Nothing crazy in this," he says. "I promise."

I flip through the pages with a smile while I munch on a homemade cookie from Peeta's container. Man can he bake. He sits beside me, golden head bent over the book in my lap, explaining some of the sketches when I ask questions. It's calming, absorbing and exactly what I need, his warmth bedside me, his soothing voice and the faint scent of cinnamon.

A few are clearly tattoo designs, which he tells me are early drafts of custom work designed by him and inked by his brother. It's these stories that interest me the most. "How do you decide which elements to use?" He takes my interruption with a smile.

"Mostly, I just listen," he says. "I listen to people talking about themselves, to the things that are important to them, and a picture emerges in my head."

"What would you design for me?" I'm not fishing, just curious, but he smirks, and flips through the book until he gets to a blank page. A pencil emerges from a neat stash in his end table, and he taps it against his lush lip while he studies my face.

Then he begins to sketch.

At first, I only pay attention to the pencil lines. But then my eyes are drawn to him instead. To his hands, long fingered and elegant as they move in swift, sure strokes. To his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the lamplight, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks. To the pale freckles that dot his straight nose like little fairy kisses. To his soft lips, pursed in thought. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. It's fascinating, and maybe just a little frightening.

"What do you think?" he says, catching me gawking at him like fanatic.

My eyes drop guiltily to the paper, and I gasp. It's only a simple black and white silhouette of a bird. But it's like he's captured my father's soul. "Oh my God, Peeta," I say, then press my lips together hard to stop myself from blubbering. With shaking fingers, I trace the pencil lines.

"You said when he sang, even the birds stopped to listen," Peeta whispers.

"They do," I whisper. "Or, they did. This is remarkable, Peeta, truly." So achingly perfect.

"Well, if you ever decide to get inked, I know a guy," he chuckles, joking. But I'm not.

"Would he do it tonight, do you think?"

Peeta's pale brows furrow. "That's not really a decision you should make lightly," he says, not in a lecture, but with clear concern. "Especially not your first one. You're upset. Take a few days to think about it."

I shake my head. "I have been thinking about it, ever since you told me the story behind this." I stroke my fingers across his shoulder, where the compass star whisk that represents his baker father is inked. "I just wasn't sure what would be fitting. Now I know."

"Are you sure about this? Tattoos are forever."

"I'm sure. I want this."

He searches my face again, in that way he has that makes me feel bare before him, like he can see all of my secrets. Then he nods. "I'll call Rye," he says. "See if he's free."

Forty-five minutes later, I'm in a tattoo parlour on the south side. It isn't anything like I was expecting, not dark or seedy or grimy. Instead, it's bright and welcoming, white tile floors gleaming and framed tattoo designs on the walls, each more incredible and elaborate than the last. I'm looking around, mouth agape in wonder, when what is clearly Peeta's brother emerges from the back.

This family is a genetic masterclass.

Rye Mellark is just a little taller than his younger brother, and his blond hair is long and pulled back in a man bun that should look stupid but somehow really works. But the wide grin he flashes when he sees us is exactly like his brothers. "Peet," he says, pulling Peeta into a hug. "You are a damned fine sight for sore eyes."

"Hey, Rye," he says, slapping his brother on the back. "It's been too long."

"Damn straight," Rye says. He steps back, and turns his attention to me. "And this must be the lovely lady you were telling me about."

"Katniss," I say, reaching out a hand to shake his.

He laughs, and instead pulls me into a hug. "I know who you are, darlin'. Peeta hasn't stopped talking about you in months." I glance over at Peeta, who is rubbing his nape, but also smiling. "So," Rye says, releasing me. "What are we inking tonight?"

It's clear the brothers have worked together before, they fall into synchronicity when we get to the area where the magic happens. Peeta uses a light table in the corner to transfer his design onto different paper, darkening the edges and cleaning up some details as he does. Rye keeps up gentle, distractings conversation as he helps me get ready, showing me some of the extensive artwork inked on his body and explaining what each piece is or means. He sets me at ease nearly as well as his brother does. But once I'm lying on my side on a table that's just a little too much like the one at my gynecologist's office for my liking, with pants shimmied down and skin disinfected, my nerves kick in.

Peeta pulls up and chair and sits right in front of me. "Okay?" he asks.

"A little nervous," I tell him.

Rye chuckles behind me. "Fear of the pain is worse than the pain itself," he says, snapping on a pair of gloves.

"That's what my dentist says. But she has a television in the ceiling to distract me." Both brothers laugh, but Peeta takes my hands.

"Just concentrate on me," he says.

And I do.

The first touch of the needle, I flinch. "Just relax, darlin'," Rye drawls, using his free hand to hold me a little more still.

It hurts, not intensely, but maybe a little more than I was expecting and I grit my teeth, panic rising. "Still okay?" Peeta says softly, too low for Rye to hear him over the buzzing of the tattoo gun. I nod, because my badass reputation with Peeta has already been tarnished by the crying earlier, and badasses definitely don't wimp out 2 minutes into a tattoo.

After a couple of minutes, the pain recedes. It still stings, but not too badly, and the conversation between Peeta and Rye keeps me distracted. But though he chats and jokes with his brother, Peeta's eyes never leave mine, his hands keep mine cradled in warmth. I'm almost drifting in it, the bit of pain, the strange tension, the warmth and affection in Peeta's eyes. I feel drugged.

Rye says something about a cheese bun, and I perk up a little. "I had a Mellark's cheese bun," I slur.

Rye, who has moved in front of me to ink from another angle, glances at Peeta, surprise on his face. "You took her to the bakery?" Peeta nods, and Rye grunts, his expression somewhere between irritation and fascination. I want so badly to ask why these two young men are so conflicted about their family business. But it isn't my place.

Apparently, Rye doesn't agree. "Was the witch there?" he asks, and though he keeps his voice even the undercurrent of anger is obvious.

"No," Peeta says. "Just Brann. He asked about you."

"If he cared, he'd have walked away," Rye says, his jaw flexing. This is what Peeta would look like angry, I realize. It's such a foreign expression, makes the brothers look completely different.

Peeta sighs. "You know he couldn't. Not really."

Rye grunts in response, and I wonder if maybe it's not the best idea to get the guy with the sharp thing full of very permanent ink angry. But he continues gently and professionally, and conversation moves to sports and whether the Jays will make the playoffs. I'm lulled by the chatter, the droning cadence of the gun, and the warmth of Peeta's big hands which never leave mine.

Before I know it, Rye is wiping away the excess ink and reaching for a mirror. Peeta helps me position the glass so that I can see the design.

It's exquisite.

"Oh," I whisper, tears springing into my eyes. "It's perfect."

"It's a real beauty," Rye agrees. "Peeta is damned talented."

"You are too," I say, though I'm not looking at him. My eyes are still fixed on the black ink, on the reminder of my father now permanently adorning my body.

He chuckles, taking the mirror before I'm ready, and covering the spot and reddened skin around it with some sort of ointment, then a layer of saran, taping it all in place.

Peeta helps me sit up, I'm a little wobbly and a little light-headed, like there was booze in the ink or something. His hands steady me, but it isn't enough. I tug him closer, to stand between my knees, then wrap my arms around him. "Thank you," I murmur into his chest. He cradles me in his arms for the longest time, rocking just slightly. The fleeting press of his lips against my hair makes me sigh. It's ridiculous that holding his hands and staring at him for an hour while I got repeatedly stabbed by a little sharp thing should make me feel so warm and affectionate, so needy. But it has.

Behind me, the sounds of Rye cleaning his equipment stop. I have the strongest sense that he is giving us a bit of privacy.

I'm not going to waste it.

I lift my head from Peeta's chest and wrap my arms around his neck. Sitting on the table while he stands, I'm nearly the same height as he is. It only takes the gentlest of tugs to have his face level with mine. "I'm going to kiss you now," I tell him.

Then I do.

I pour all of the gratitude I have for him into the kiss, trying to tell him without words how glad I am to have him in my life. How much he means to me.

When we break apart, Peeta looks as dazed as I feel. "Wow," he says, stroking his thumb across my bottom lip. "Should ink you more often," he says, and I laugh. He's so good at this, so good at knowing the right thing to say in every situation. He's just so good.

"Why haven't we gone on that date yet?" I ask, my arms still around his shoulders, my fingers toying idly with his curls.

He laughs breathlessly. "I wasn't honestly sure you wanted to," he says. "Today is the first time you've ever called me. I thought maybe I was reading you wrong, that you were only putting up with me because I was being so aggressive. You've, uh. Well you've never said that you want to see me" That can't be right? I bite my lip as I think back. And it becomes heartrendingly clear that I've been so wrapped up in work and, well, everything really, that I haven't made any moves.

That stops now.

"I know you've been busy, with the special edition," Peeta continues, but he's not looking at me anymore, and he's managed, despite my grip on his hair, to shuffle back enough for a gap that's far too wide to exist between us.

I tug on his hair until he's forced to meet my eyes. "I want to," I tell him, and my voice only wavers a little with the unnatural boldness of the statement. "I want to see where this could go."

Peeta smiles, wide and bright, and his whole body seems to relax. "Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah. Are you busy tomorrow?" I smile, and despite how awful the day started, everything feels a little brighter. "I'd like to take you on a date."

"I don't know," he says. "I might be washing my hair." I tug his hair again, and he laughs, then leans down to kiss me. "I'd love that," he says against my lips.

o-o-o

Peeta drops me at home and leaves me with a sheet of aftercare instructions after pressing me against my apartment door and kissing me until I can barely remember my name.

The apartment is quiet. I fish my phone out of my bag to message Jo and make sure she's okay, but as I'm scrolling through my texts, my mother's name jumps out at me.

It's just after midnight, but I know she's working the night shift.

Every other year, I've ignored her on this day. I know Prim calls her, but I've always been too full of pain and regret to reach out. But this year, with my heart full, I click dial. "Hi Mama," I say when she answers, surprise in her voice.

We chat for nearly an hour, and we cry at least half of it. We only hang up with a promise to meet for lunch during the week.

I climb into bed feeling freer than I have in many, many years, and fall right asleep.

My bedroom door creaking open sometime later makes me drift up into a violet-shrouded half-wakefulness. "Damned Millers have their grandkids over again," Johanna grumbles. The Millers live in the apartment next door, and their spare room shares a wall with Jo's bedroom. "They're throwing a ball or something against the wall. I can't wait until we switch rooms." I'm too tired to counter that, so I only groan my acquiescence as Jo climbs into bed behind me, jostling me as she settles in. But when she flings an arm over my hip, I yelp.

Jo is wide awake and flipping on the light in a heartbeat. "What the hell, Brainless? Are you hurt? What happened? Who touched you?" She pulls at the waist of my pyjama pants, and I don't try to stop her. I know she won't be appeased until she sees that I'm okay. It's one of her quirks, one I love about her. "Is this…" she trails off, perplexed, when instead of an injury she encounters the saran wrap and medical tape shield Rye affixed hours earlier.

Her eyes flit up to mine, a question in them, and I nod my permission. She carefully picks the edge of the tape free. "Holy shit," she breathes, and it almost sounds like awe. "You got inked!" She pulls more of the tape away, exposing the entire tattoo. "Wow."

Jo has enough tattoos that she knows not to touch it, peering closely but moving her head instead of my hip to see the details. The beautifully rendered bird, his head dipped, encircled by music notes. Simple, but oh so poignant. A symbol of the man who sang like a mockingbird. "It's for your dad," she murmurs, and I nod. A couple more moments pass before Jo's head snaps up. "Oh shit," she says. "That was this week."

"Yeah," I say, voice rough from sleep and emotion. Jo gently pats the tape back into place, then grabs me in a hug.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I forgot. Are you okay?"

"I think I am," I say against her shoulder. I still miss him, I think I always will. But I feel better. Like I'm allowed to be sad about his death, but like I'm also allowed to move on. Like it's okay for life to be good again. I think he'd want that for me.

We settle back into my bed together, Jo with her hands to herself, me facing away so as not to lie on my newly marked skin. I'm dozing again when she pipes up, "I can't believe you did something so badass. I'm impressed."

I snicker. "I think this should count as number four on the list."

Johanna laughs hard enough to shake the bed. "Fine, Brainless. I'll give you this one. Think of it as a freebie." She settles back onto my extra pillow. "Just means the last one is going to be extra challenging."

"I'll take it," I murmur. There are only 11 more days until my birthday, with one more ticked off I might actually accomplish the whole list after all.

"I'm proud of you," she whispers, and there is no trace of mockery left in her tone.

I'm proud of me too.