Archive of Our Own

8 Weeks

Golden sunlight pours through the open bedroom window, warm and languid, pooling across the tangled sheets. The air carries fall’s breath—chilled earth, faint pine, and a sweet trace of bread from the bakery below. My legs intertwine with Peeta’s, his body curled around mine, as if we were shaped to fit this way, two pieces of a whole.

Hunting’s out of the question now; the morning’s too far gone. Not that I mind. My skin still hums from last night, a warmth that lingers like an echo. I could point fingers at Peeta, but truth be told, I sparked it. I knew exactly what I was doing when I leaned across the kitchen counter, wearing that worn shirt he loves—nothing else—teasing him as he rolled out pie dough. I should’ve seen it coming.

Or maybe I did. Maybe that was the thrill. There’s something electric about watching his careful control unravel, his eyes flaring with hunger, heat, and something deeper—love. The moment he crossed the kitchen, lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to our room, I knew we were done for.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as I recall the strength of his arms around me. Peeta stirs in his sleep, his breath warm against my shoulder, his arm tightening around my waist. His hand splays across my stomach, grounding me, holding me close. I melt into him, safe in a way I never thought possible.

I’ve told Peeta his arms are my sanctuary. Every time, he murmurs back, “Yours are mine, too,” his voice soft but sure.

My hand rests over his, and the sunlight catches the ring on my finger—a simple gold band, its only ornament a single pearl. My pearl. No gaudy diamonds, just this quiet, luminous gift from a time when death felt certain. Peeta gave it to me during the Quarter Quell, a piece of him I’ve carried ever since. It’s more than a possession; it’s us, distilled into something small and eternal.

Effie nearly had a fit when she learned we skipped a “proper” wedding. She wielded that word like a Capitol reprimand, her voice shrill over the phone. Proper, as if love needed an audience or extravagant lace to hold weight. But Peeta and I never craved spectacle. We toasted in the quiet of our apartment above the bakery, fingers entwined, foreheads touching. No grand gestures, no crowds—just us, raw and real. That night, for the first time in years, peace settled over me like a blanket.

The next morning, we made it official at the Justice Building. Word spread fast in District 12. Greasy Sae grumbled about missing the betting pool, her eyes glinting with amusement. Thom’s handshake nearly knocked Peeta off balance, and Delly showed up with a lemon cake, “Finally!” scrawled in messy, cheerful frosting. I couldn’t help but laugh. Effie, though—she called and ranted for an hour. I slipped into the pantry to hide my giggles while Peeta, ever patient, weathered her tirade with a roll of his eyes.

Marriage wasn’t something I ever pictured. For years, it felt like a foreign ritual, pointless in a world of survival. But Peeta… he didn’t want it to claim me or cage me. He wanted it to choose me, every day, in every way. Over time, the idea took root, warming me like spring after a brutal winter. It wasn’t about tradition or expectations—it was about us, a vow forged in the quiet moments after the world tried to break us.

Now we live in the apartment above the bakery, a space Peeta designed with care. It’s nothing like the cold precision of his childhood home or the hollow vastness of Victor’s Village. This place breathes. Potted plants crowd the corners and windowsills, and a smear of paint lingers on one sill from when I distracted Peeta mid-project. The air hums with sugar and spice, flour-dusted mornings, and warm vanilla. It smells like home.

I’m still wrapped in Peeta’s arms, the sheets twisted around us like a makeshift nest, when his lips brush the curve of my neck—soft at first, then deliberate, sending a shiver racing down my spine. My breath catches, sharp and unbidden, because even after all these years, he knows exactly how to ignite that spark. His touch is never accidental; it’s a quiet language we’ve built together, wordless and intimate.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly from sleep, the words vibrating warm against my skin like a secret shared in the dim light.

“You’re so warm,” I whisper back, my eyes still closed as I pull his arm tighter around my waist, savoring the solid weight of him behind me. It’s like being anchored in a storm that’s long since passed, his body a shield against memories that sometimes still whisper in the dark.

“And you’re breathtaking,” he replies, his lips trailing lazily to my shoulder, unhurried, as if we have all the time in the world now. No more arenas, no more rebellions—just this quiet life we’ve carved out in District 12. “No hunting today?”

“Too late,” I say, my voice soft and laced with a hint of amusement. The sun’s already climbing higher, painting the room in golden stripes through the half-open curtains. “Slept in. Wonder why.”

His chuckle rumbles low against my back, a lazy sound that makes my toes curl. “In my defense, you were the one who lit the fuse last night. And then fanned it again after midnight. And, let’s see... around three in the morning?”

“That last one was all you,” I counter, a smirk tugging at my lips as I shift in his embrace, turning to face him. The movement brings us closer, our legs tangling anew, and I meet his gaze—those blue eyes, clear and open now, free from the hijacked shadows that once clouded them. There’s no war in them anymore, just a steady, unshakable love that’s aimed right at me, like an arrow finding its mark.

“I’ve been waiting for you since I was five, Katniss,” he says softly, his hand coming up to trace the line of my jaw with his thumb. It’s a confession he’s made before, but it still hits me like the first time—raw and real, pulling at something deep inside. “Wanting you since I was sixteen. So if I’m a little... eager sometimes, can you really blame me?”

A genuine laugh bubbles up from my chest, light and unexpected, as I thread my fingers through his tousled blond hair, the strands soft and sun-bleached from our days outside. “A little? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He grins, that boyish glint in his eyes sparking like sunlight on water. “I could try to dial it back, play it cool. But honestly, where’s the fun in that? Life’s too short for pretending.”

I lean in then, closing the small distance between us, and kiss him slowly, deeply, letting the world fade to the rhythm of our breaths mingling. His hand slides to my hip, steady and warm, holding me close without demanding. My fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently, and for a moment, time stretches out, unhurried and untethered from the past. We’ve earned this—these stolen mornings where the only hunger is for each other.

His touch drifts lower, his palm skimming over my bare chest, squeezing my breast with a gentle firmness that sends heat pooling in my core. Then his hand continues its descent, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my belly, tracing patterns that make my pulse quicken. When he slips between my thighs, his fingertips brushing that spot that always sparks fire through me, I gasp into his mouth, arching closer, my body responding instinctively—

But then my stomach twists violently. Nausea crashes over me like a wave, sharp and relentless, shattering the haze of desire. I pull back abruptly, shoving his hand away as bile rises in my throat. My legs feel unsteady as I scramble out of bed, the cool wooden floor shocking against my bare feet while I rush to the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth.

“Katniss?” Peeta’s voice follows me, laced with instant worry, his footsteps quick and concerned behind me. The bed creaks as he gets up, always ready to follow, to protect.

I barely make it to the toilet, dropping to my knees just in time as I retch, my throat burning, body trembling with the force of it. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I hate this vulnerability—the way it strips me bare, reminds me of the times I’ve been broken before. But Peeta’s there in an instant, kneeling beside me without hesitation. One hand gathers my dark hair back from my face, gentle and sure, while the other rubs slow, soothing circles on my back, grounding me through the misery.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice steady and soft, like a lullaby against the storm inside me. “I’ve got you. Just breathe through it.”

When the heaving finally subsides, leaving me hollowed out and shaky, I flush the toilet with a trembling hand and slump against the cool tile wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my wrist. Peeta doesn’t say a word at first; he just reaches for the glass on the sink, fills it with water from the tap, and hands it to me. His presence is a quiet anchor, solid in a world that still feels off-kilter sometimes.

“This is the third morning in a row,” I rasp, my voice raw and scratchy, like I’ve swallowed ash. I take a sip of the water, letting it soothe the burn. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just feel... off. Tired all the time, and now this.”

He settles beside me on the floor, his shoulder brushing mine, warm and reassuring. “Want me to stay home? Ashen can handle the bakery for a few hours. He’s been itching to try that new cinnamon roll recipe anyway.”

“No,” I cut in, shaking my head even though the motion makes the room spin a little. “It’s Friday—your busiest day. You don’t need to babysit me.”

“Katniss,” he says, his tone gentle but firm, brows furrowing in that way that means he’s not convinced. He cups my cheek, turning my face to his, searching my eyes. “You’re not a burden. You’re my wife. Let me take care of you.”

“I’m okay,” I insist, softer now, leaning into his touch despite myself. His palm is callused from kneading dough, from rebuilding our life brick by brick, and it grounds me. “Really. You’ll be right downstairs if I need you. Just... go bake something that smells amazing and chase this away.”

He sighs, a reluctant sound, but he presses a lingering kiss to the top of my head, his lips warm against my hair. “In sickness and in health, right? We promised that.”

I nod, my fingers curling into against the bare skin of his chest. “I remember. Every word.”

My thoughts drift back to that vow, spoken quietly in the Justice Building years ago, surrounded by the ghosts of a shattered Panem but choosing each other anyway. The nausea still churns faintly in my gut, an unwelcome intruder twisting my insides, but with Peeta’s warmth beside me, his steady heartbeat under my palm, my racing heart begins to slow. I don’t know what this sickness is but here, in the quiet intimacy of our home, with him by my side, I feel like I can face whatever it brings. He’s my strength when mine falters, just as I’ve been his. And in a world that once tried to tear us apart, that’s enough.

We shower together, not out of passion, but for the simple solace it brings—the kind that’s become our quiet ritual on mornings like this. The warm water cascades over my tense muscles, easing the knots that the nausea left behind, as Peeta’s hands move with a gentleness that knows every inch of me. He lathers shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp in slow, rhythmic circles, working out the last traces of unease. Then he washes my body, his touch light and reverent, tracing the scars that map our shared history without a hint of hesitation.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fill the steam-filled air with unnecessary words; it’s just the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine, his presence a balm against the lingering queasiness. Under the soft spray, he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his face nestled in the crook of my neck. He presses gentle kisses there, feather-light and reassuring, as we sway slightly in place, his chin resting on my shoulder. The steam curls around us like a protective veil, and slowly, the knot in my chest begins to loosen, replaced by a fragile calm.

After we step out, the cool air of the bathroom raising goosebumps on my skin, Peeta wraps me in a thick towel with the same care he uses when handling delicate dough. His lips brush my damp forehead in a lingering kiss, and I feel steadier, more grounded, as if his touch has chased away the worst of the shadows.

While he gets dressed for the day—pulling on his worn trousers and a simple white shirt—I slip into fresh underwear and one of his softest shirts, the fabric worn thin at the collar from years of wear, grazing mid-thigh like a comforting embrace. It smells like him—yeast and warmth and a hint of the herbs we grow in the little garden at the back of the bakery—and wearing it feels like carrying a piece of him with me.

In the main room of our apartment, with its mismatched furniture we’ve collected over the years—a sturdy oak table from Thom’s workshop, cushions Delly sewed during one of her visits—Peeta stands by the door, keys jingling softly in his hand. His gaze finds mine across the room, soft and unwavering, as if I’m the center of his universe, the one thing that makes all the rebuilding worthwhile.

“If anything changes, come downstairs right away,” he says, his voice low and earnest as he pulls me into a hug as I walk over to him, his arms enveloping me completely. His chin rests atop my head, and I can feel the steady thump of his heart against my cheek. “Anything at all, Katniss. Don’t tough it out alone.”

“I will,” I murmur into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him. It’s a promise I mean, even if my stubborn streak sometimes whispers otherwise.

He cradles my face in his hands then, his callused thumbs grazing my cheeks with a tenderness that still catches me off guard after all this time. He kisses me slowly, deeply, as if pouring all his unspoken worries into it, anchoring us both before the day pulls him away. “I love you,” he whispers against my lips, his breath warm and mingling with mine.

“I love you, too,” I reply, my mouth curving into a small, genuine smile as I lean into him, savoring the moment.

He pulls back just enough to tuck a loose strand of hair from my braid behind my ear, his fingers lingering. “There’s fresh cheese buns on the counter if your stomach settles enough to eat.”

I nod, mustering the most reassuring smile I can, even though a faint wave of unease still lingers in my gut. He presses one final, tender kiss to my forehead, his lips warm and lingering, before he unlocks the door with a soft click. It swings shut behind him, and I listen to his footsteps thumping down the creaky wooden stairs to the bakery below, fading into the hum of the ovens.

The apartment settles into a familiar quiet then—a faint drip from the sink in the kitchen, the muffled voices of Peeta greeting Ashen and the other bakers downstairs, their laughter filtering up through the floorboards like a distant melody. The scent of rising bread seeps in, usually a comfort that wraps around me like a warm blanket, but today it twists my stomach anew, sharp and unwelcome.

I curl up on the couch, knees tucked to my chest, my cheek pressed against a throw pillow. Outside the window, a rooster crows faintly from a neighbor’s yard, and the sounds of District 12 waking up drift in: shop doors creaking open, the clatter of carts on the cobblestone streets, some distant joyful shouting from children playing before school.

My mind drifts, unbidden, to the first time I helped Peeta open the bakery, nearly fourteen years ago now, in those fragile early days after the rebellion. It was predawn, the stars still pinpricks in a fading sky, and the air crisp with the promise of a new beginning.

Peeta was elbow-deep in dough, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint scars from his time in the Capitol. A streak of flour smudged across his cheek, and I lingered in the doorway, watching him. The way he moved—fluid and focused, kneading the dough with a rhythm that spoke of healing, of reclaiming something the Games had tried to steal—stirred something deep in me, an ache too vast for words, a pull I couldn’t ignore anymore.

Once he finished shaping the loaves, he flashed that crooked smile of his and convinced me to let him teach me how to make an apple pie, even though I protested that my hands were made for bows, not baking. He guided my fingers as I crimped the crust, his touch patient and warm, but then I accidentally dusted flour across his arm in a clumsy swipe. He retaliated with a playful sprinkle over my shoulder, his eyes sparkling with mischief. I dodged, laughing—a sound that felt foreign after so much silence—and slipped on a patch of spilled flour on the floor.

Suddenly, I was pinned against the workbench, both of us breathless and coated in white powder, our laughter echoing in the empty bakery. His kiss came fast and urgent then, and in that moment, I felt truly alive for the first time in years. By then, it had only been two years since he’d returned from his treatment in the Capitol, his mind painstakingly pieced back together, fragments of the real Peeta shining through the cracks.

We were twenty, still raw from the wars we’d fought—both the public ones and the private battles in our heads. Our relationship had been cautious up to that point: stolen kisses in the woods, tentative touches under the covers, always holding back for fear of shattering what we’d rebuilt.

But that day, the tension that had been simmering for months finally boiled over. By the time we stumbled back to my house in Victor’s Village—which had slowly become ours, filled with his paintings on the walls and my hunting gear by the door—everything shifted.

That night, our bodies intertwined in a way that felt like forging armor, something deeper and unbreakable, a vow written in sweat and whispers rather than words.

Life with Peeta isn’t flawless, of course—no life is, especially not one built on the ruins of Panem’s old regime. We’ve bickered over the years, silly things, though it’s never vicious or long-lasting. He’s infuriatingly good at diffusing my temper, wrapping me in his arms or cracking a joke before it can spark into something more. This year alone, I can count our real arguments on one hand, and it’s already October.

Nightmares still creep in sometimes, shadows of the arenas and the rebellion that refuse to fade entirely, waking us in the dead of night with sweat-soaked sheets and racing hearts. But even in those hard moments, this life is ours—real and warm, woven from years of choosing each other, day after day, through the scars and the silences. It’s mine, unshakably, and as I lie here curled on the couch, the world outside finally growing quiet around me, I hold it close, letting the steady rhythm of my breath match the distant hum of the bakery below.

The day drags its feet, thick and syrupy, the way only sickness can stretch time until it feels like a punishment. My head pounds in a dull, relentless rhythm behind my eyes, and my stomach—traitor that it is—still hasn’t forgiven the single cheese bun I forced down at mid-morning. Every movement feels borrowed, like my body belongs to someone else and I’m just the reluctant guest inside it.

The apartment is too quiet, too full of smells. Even the ghost of last night’s bread clings to the air, sweet and yeasty, and it turns my enemy now. I make the mistake of opening the cold box for water and the faint raw-meat scent from the meat I had recently hunted hits me like a slap. I slam the door, stumble to the bathroom, and grip the sink until my knuckles go white while my stomach tries to turn itself inside out. Nothing comes up anymore—there’s nothing left—but the dry heaving leaves me shaking and furious at my own weakness.

By noon I know I have to eat something or I’ll be useless when Peeta comes upstairs. I toast two slices of stale bread, plain, no butter, and carry the plate to the couch like it’s a loaded weapon. I manage three small bites before the texture turns to ash in my mouth and the sight of the crumbs makes bile rise again. I set the plate on the coffee table and push it as far away as the low table allows.

I try to read—one of the botany books Peeta brought home from the rebuilt library, the one with hand-drawn plates of edible roots—but the words blur and swim. I read the same sentence about arrowroot five times, six, before I give up and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until sparks dance behind my lids.

The radio is worse. I turn the dial slowly, hoping for the scratchy Capitol orchestra or even one of the District 12's weather broadcasts, but all I find are the folk songs they play at the mid-morning part of the day. The first fiddle note of “The Valley Song,” the one my father used to sing, slices straight through me. My throat closes, eyes sting, and suddenly I’m eleven years old again accepting a medal after my dad dying. As if that compensates the void his death left on my family. I snap the radio off so hard the knob nearly comes off in my hand.

I flee down the short hallway to our bedroom, barefoot on the cool wood, and crawl straight onto Peeta’s side of the bed. The sheets are still rumpled from this morning; his pillow carries the warm, familiar scent of him. I drag it against my chest like a child with a stuffed toy, curl my whole body around it, and pull the quilt up over my head. The world shrinks to the muffled darkness and the faint creak of the building settling.

I’m not asleep, but I’m not awake either. I drift in that gray place where thoughts come unbidden and jagged.

I should have let him stay. He would be stretched out beside me right now, one arm heavy across my waist, fingers tracing idle in my hair, humming off-key until I laughed in spite of myself. He’d murmur ridiculous things like, “You know, some people pay good money for this kind of dramatic suffering,” just to watch my mouth twitch. I miss the weight of him so sharply it feels like a bruise under my ribs.

I, who once survived on loneliness the way other people breathe air, now undone by a few hours apart.

It’s unsettling, this ache. I spent years perfecting self-reliance: how to disappear into the woods, how to sleep with one eye open, how to need no one. That stubbornness kept me alive through two arenas, a war, and the long hollow months after. It feels almost treacherous now, the way I crave him the second he’s out of reach. Like I’ve traded armor for something softer and infinitely more fragile.

I press my face deeper into his pillow and breathe him in until my lungs burn. The nausea ebbs, just a little. Exhaustion finally wins; it rolls over me like a tide. My limbs grow impossibly heavy, thoughts fraying at the edges, and I let myself sink, down, down, until the room, the smells, the sick, aching want all blur into merciful nothing.

()()()

“Katniss…”

Peeta’s voice drifts to me like a gentle breeze over still water, pulling me from the depths of sleep. I stir slowly, groggy and disoriented, the world sharpening into focus around me. The room is dim, softened by the warm glow of the lamp on his bedside table—he must have switched it on before waking me.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, right in front of me, his face etched with quiet concern. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek, light as a feather. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his tone soft and reassuring. “You’ve been out for hours.”

I rub my eyes, my throat dry and scratchy, like I’ve swallowed sand from the arena floor. “The whole day?” The words come out hoarse, and I blink against the lingering haze.

He nods, his blue eyes steady on mine. “I got back about two hours ago. You were dead to the world—didn’t even twitch when I came in.”

“You didn’t wake me sooner?” I ask, propping myself up on one elbow, the sheets pooling around my waist.

“You looked so peaceful, curled up like that.” His smile is gentle, but the worry lines around his eyes don’t fade. “I figured rest was what you needed. Thought maybe dinner would help perk you up.”

I sit up fully now, the room tilting just a fraction before righting itself. A faint wave of dizziness lingers, and I press my fingers to my temple. “Do I feel warm to you?” I murmur, watching as he reaches out, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead, then my cheek.

“No fever...” he says, his brow furrowing deeper as he lowers his hand, intertwining his fingers with mine instead. His grip is warm, grounding. “But you’re pale as milk.”

I sigh, the weight of the day crashing back over me like a sudden downpour. “I’ve been sick all afternoon. Couldn’t keep anything down—not even plain toast. And the smell from the freezer... that venison I brought in? It hit me like it was rancid. I’ve been heaving over the sink half the day.”

“I’ll toss it out first thing in the morning,” he replies without missing a beat, his thumb stroking the back of my hand in slow circles.

“But I hunted it just two days ago.” My voice cracks a little, and to my surprise, a prick of tears stings my eyes. Why does something so small feel like such a defeat? “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Peeta. This isn’t like me.”

He tilts his head, his gaze calm and unwavering. “Maybe it’s time we see Dr. Carina at the hospital. Just to be safe.”

The thought of the district hospital makes me grimace, even though it’s a far cry from the cold, sterile places of the past—now it’s a symbol of our rebuilt world, specializing in real medicine, not just patching up miners. But hospitals still carry the ghosts of too many losses for me. “I’m sure it’ll pass on its own.”

He gives me that look—not stern, but quietly resolute, the one that says he’s not backing down. “I know it’s not your favorite place, but seeing you like this... it scares me, Katniss. You’re not yourself, and I hate feeling helpless.”

His words chip away at the stubborn wall I’ve been hiding behind all day, the one built from old habits of toughing it out alone. I nod slowly, squeezing his hand. “Okay. I’ll go tomorrow.”

Relief washes over his face, softening the tension in his shoulders. “Good. That’s my girl.”

A quiet beat passes between us, the kind filled with unspoken understanding. Then he shifts, his voice lighter. “Think you’re up for some dinner? I’ve got something special waiting.”

I press a hand to my stomach, and to my surprise, a sharp pang of hunger answers instead of nausea. “Actually... yeah. I’m starving all of a sudden.”

His eyebrows shoot up, a spark of amusement lighting his eyes. “Well, that’s a turnaround. Come on, let’s get you fed before you waste away.”

He helps me to my feet with that effortless strength of his, his arm steady around my waist as we pad into the main room. The aroma hits me first—rich and savory, curling through the air like an old friend. On the table sits a steaming pot, flanked by a bowl of fluffy rice and a woven straw basket overflowing with golden bread rolls. As I draw closer, I recognize the stew: lamb with dried plums, the same one that became my favorite during those tense training days in the Capitol before our first Games. It’s hearty, comforting, a taste of survival turned into something loving.

“You know me too well,” I tease, settling into my chair with a small smile.

He grins as he takes the seat beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table. “Thirteen years of practice.”

I laugh, the sound lighter than I’d expected after such a wretched day, and reach for one of the bowls. I scoop a generous heap of rice, then ladle the stew over it, the chunks of lamb and plums swimming in thick, aromatic broth. I grab two bread rolls for good measure and dig in, the flavors exploding on my tongue—tender meat, sweet-tart plums, all mingling perfectly.

To our shared surprise, I don’t stop. One bowl turns into two, then three, four, even five. I tear through at least five bread rolls, dipping them into the stew until they’re soaked through. Peeta watches with a mix of mild confusion and amusement, finishing his own second serving while I plow halfway through my sixth.

“Wow,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair with raised brows, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.

I pause mid-bite, my cheeks puffed out like a squirrel’s. “Don’t judge me,” I mumble around the mouthful, swallowing before adding, “I’m making up for lost time.”

“Judge?” He laughs outright now, warm and bright, the sound filling the room like sunlight. “I’m impressed. I’ve never seen you eat like this before.”

I stir what’s left in my bowl, watching the remnants of meat swirl in the rich sauce atop the dwindling rice mountain. The strangeness of it all settles over me, these wild swings in my body the past few days. “It’s odd,” I admit, setting down my spoon. “One minute I’m ravenous like this, the next I’m so sick I can’t stand the smell of food. No middle ground at all.”

“Could be a cold catching up to you,” he offers thoughtfully, reaching to cover my hand with his.

I shrug, though doubt nags at me. “I’ve never had a cold hit like this. It feels... different.”

He hesitates, his thumb tracing patterns on my knuckles, then asks gently, “Should we call your mom?”

My stomach tightens, not from the food or nausea this time, but from the familiar weight of that tangled knot. Even thirteen years after the rebellion, my relationship with my mother is a fragile thing, pieced together from old hurts and unspoken regrets. Our last call was two years ago, right after my birthday—surface chatter about her work running the hospital in District 4, me mentioning the unseasonably warm weather in 12. It was polite, distant.

Then she’d probed deeper, asking about plans for our third wedding anniversary. I’d shut her down with a curt “Just spending it together,” unwilling to let her in. Not because I’m ashamed of what Peeta and I have—far from it. Our love was forged in the fire of the Games, twisted into a spectacle under the Capitol’s merciless gaze, broadcast for a nation that felt entitled to our every heartbeat. We were just kids then, playing at survival with stolen kisses and desperate promises.

She doesn’t get to claim a piece of that now. What Peeta and I built from the ashes is sacred, hard-won through nights of nightmares and days of quiet rebuilding. Over the years, I’ve come to understand her grief better—losing my father, trapped in a district haunted by his memory. If I lost Peeta... well, I glimpsed that abyss when he was captured by the Capitol, starved and tortured while I unraveled in Thirteen, barely holding on. The mere thought nearly broke me.

But I’m still her daughter. I lost Prim too, and in those raw months after, when I needed her most, she was lost in her own void. Peeta was the one who stitched me back together, piece by painful piece. That last call grew strained after her question, ending in awkward silence. She didn’t reach out for Prim’s next anniversary or my following birthday, and eventually, I stopped waiting. Peeta is enough—my anchor, my reason to face each dawn. He makes the pain of her absence fade to a dull, distant echo.

I shake my head, meeting his eyes. “No. She’ll just worry. I’m seeing Dr. Carina tomorrow anyway.”

Peeta searches my face, as if weighing whether to push, but he knows me too well; forcing it would only build walls. Instead, he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Okay,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “Whatever you need.”

He shifts the conversation then, easing us into lighter waters with a story about his day at the bakery—how he joked with Ashen that if he burned one more loaf, he’d be demoted to sweeping floors forever. I laugh, the tension in my chest uncoiling like a released bowstring, grateful for the reprieve from the day’s heaviness.

Finally full, I push my empty bowl aside and lean my head on Peeta’s shoulder, our fingers intertwining in a lazy dance as he continues talking about the quirky customers and the new cheese blend he’s experimenting with. His words wrap around me like a warm blanket, and for the first time today, I feel truly at peace.

After dinner, I help Peeta with the dishes, the rhythmic clink of bowls and the warm, soapy water grounding me in the simple routine we've built together. It's a small act, but in the quiet of our apartment, it feels like a part of our relationships foundation—reminding me that life now is made of these unremarkable moments, far from the chaos of arenas and uprisings.

Once everything is dried and put away, we head to the bedroom. I keep his shirt on, the one I've been wearing since morning. Peeta strips down to his boxers, his movements easy and familiar, before sliding under the covers with a contented sigh.

I follow suit without hesitation, slipping beneath the quilt and curling into him, my body seeking his warmth like a moth to flame. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me close, and I rest my head on his bare chest, right over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His fingers begin their gentle dance up and down my back, tracing lazy patterns that soothe the last remnants of tension from my muscles. This is home—not the walls around us, but him, solid and unchanging in a world that once shifted like sand.

“You had me worried today,” he murmurs after a long, comfortable pause, his voice low and edged with a vulnerability he only shows me. “Coming home and finding you asleep like that... it scared me a little.”

“I’m okay now,” I whisper against his skin. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

He presses a soft kiss to the crown of my head, his lips lingering as if to seal the words. “Always will be. No matter what.”

A peaceful silence falls over us then, the kind that's woven from years of trust, needing no words to fill it. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, letting the rise and fall of his chest guide my own breathing. The lingering ache in my stomach and the heavy drag in my limbs feel less overwhelming with him near, like burdens shared and halved. His heartbeat pulses steadily beneath my ear—strong, unwavering, the most reliable rhythm I've ever known, a far cry from the frantic pulses of survival we once endured.

We lie there, entwined in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, his warmth seeping into my bones and dulling the sharp edges of the day's unease. The nausea, the bone-deep exhaustion, the nagging uncertainty about what's wrong—they all retreat in his embrace, like shadows fleeing the dawn. My thoughts drift lazily, anchored to the life we've forged from the ruins: the bakery's hum below us, the woods waiting beyond the district's edge, the quiet victories of choosing each other every day.

This is enough—more than I ever dreamed possible after the Games. His steady heartbeat becomes my lullaby, lulling me deeper, and as my body finally softens into his, I surrender to sleep, slipping into a restful darkness where nightmares dare not follow.

The morning ambushes me again, as merciless as the ones before it. I jolt awake, a vicious twist in my gut hurling me from the bed before my mind fully catches up. My bare feet slap against the cold bathroom tiles, and I barely make it to the toilet, gripping the porcelain edge as bile surges up, bitter and unrelenting. My body trembles with the force of it, sweat prickling my skin despite the chill.

Peeta's footsteps hurry behind me, quick but soft, and in moments, his hand gathers my dark hair, pulling it gently from my face—just as he's done these past few mornings. His other palm rubs slow, steady circles on my back, a silent anchor through the storm. He murmurs something soothing, but they blur under the roar of my heaving, lost in the misery.

When it's finally over, my stomach feels scraped raw, leaving only a sour tang clinging to my tongue. I can sense Peeta's worry radiating from him—it's in the subtle tighten of his arms around me, a fraction more insistent than yesterday, as if he's bracing for whatever this is to worsen. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in his bare chest, inhaling his familiar warmth, but regret from last night's feast crashes over me.

All those servings of stew, so satisfying then, now churn like poison. The nausea brews again, building fast, and my hands clutch his biceps, nails digging in as I try to breathe it away. It's useless; I push him back gently, hovering over the toilet once more as another wave wrenches through me.

Peeta stays right there, his voice a steady murmur through the violence but it's hard to focus on anything beyond the spasms racking my body. Panic flares as my mind slips, dragging me back to the arena in my first Games: the acrid smoke from the fireballs, the way it choked me until I vomited what little I'd scavenged. The memory grips me like a vice, and I reach out blindly, clutching Peeta's thigh to tether myself to the present, to him, before the past swallows me whole.

Finally, after pressing my forehead against the cool toilet lid, praying this is the end, my stomach settles into an uneasy truce. I rise on shaky legs, rinse my mouth at the sink, and splash cold water on my face, but my reflection stares back pale and ghostly, dark circles bruising under my eyes, hands trembling as they grip the edge.

Peeta stands just behind me, our gazes locking in the mirror. Worry carves deep lines into his face, and he runs a hand through his already sleep-tousled blond hair—a nervous habit I've come to recognize all too well.

"Come on," he says, his voice still husky from sleep, gentle but edged with that firm resolve he saves for moments like this. "Let's try some tea. It might settle things."

He guides me to the kitchen with a steady arm around my waist, settling me in the chair by the open window where a soft breeze drifts in, carrying the fresh scent of dew-kissed earth and distant pine from the woods. He drapes a woolen blanket over my shoulders, tucking it snugly before pressing a kiss to my cheek, lingering just long enough to make my chest ache with gratitude.

I watch him move around the kitchen, the muscles in his bare back shifting as he reaches into cupboards and slices bread. If I weren't feeling like death warmed over, I'd appreciate the sight—maybe even let it stir something warmer, dragging him back to bed with a teasing pull. But right now, even the thought twists my gut.

A few minutes later, a plate of plain buttered toast appears before me, golden and simple. I manage half a slice, each bite a small, hard-won victory against the rebellion in my stomach. Then he sets down a steaming mug of dandelion tea—my favorite, brewed strong and plain, no sugar or milk to muddy it.

But the floral scent hits me like a wall, and my stomach revolts instantly. I'm on my feet before I can process it, the blanket tumbling to the floor as I bolt back to the bathroom. I collapse to my knees just in time, the nausea claiming me again in a brutal rush. Peeta's there in a heartbeat, his hand on my back once more.

When it's done, he presses a tender kiss to my forehead and steps out, giving me the space I need to pull myself together. I strip off his shirt and step into a warm shower, letting the water cascade over my aching muscles, hoping it will wash away the fatigue that's settled bone-deep. It helps a little, but not enough—the exhaustion clings like fog.

I force myself to dress, ignoring the scream of protest in my limbs and the dull throb in my head. Dark blue jeans, snug but comfortable, and one of Peeta's flannel shirts—black and green plaid, soft from wear and faintly scented with him. I braid my damp hair quickly, the familiar motions grounding me, and step back into the main room. Peeta's at the table now, fully dressed in his bakery clothes, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped, chin resting on them. His brows are furrowed in deep thought, the worry lines making him look older than his years.

"I think I should go to the hospital now," I say, tying off my braid before he can voice whatever's brewing in his mind.

His head snaps up, surprise flickering across his face and softening the edges of his concern. "You sure? If you're feeling this rough, you could just stay in bed. I can bring Dr. Carina here instead."

His suggestion tempts me—the bed calls like a siren—but I shake my head. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm tired of this dragging on. Maybe she has something to knock it out quick."

"I'll come with you—"

"No," I cut in gently, stepping closer to sit in his lap, running my fingertips along his jaw, my other arm draping over his shoulders. "You've already missed two days at the bakery this week. They need you down there—the district counts on that bread."

He leans into my touch, pressing his forehead to mine with a soft exhale. "The bakery can wait, Katniss. You're what matters. Always have been."

I smile, brushing a light kiss across his cheek, feeling the stubble there. "I know. And I know I'll always need you, Peeta. But I can handle this one on my own. Promise."

He opens his mouth to argue, but pauses, searching my eyes with that intense gaze of his. His hands settle on my hips, warm and steady through the flannel. "You're absolutely sure?"

"I'm sure," I say, chuckling softly to ease the moment. "You worry too much. It's going to give you gray hairs before you're forty."

He grins then, a playful spark breaking through the clouds in his expression. "Says the woman who'd tie me to the bed if I so much as sneezed wrong."

I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and loosening the knot in my chest. "Fine, you're right. I'd be just as bad—maybe worse."

"Okay," he concedes, his tone softening to something almost pleading, "but at least let me walk you there. Deal?"

"Deal," I agree, my smile widening as he relaxes beneath me, his hands giving my waist a gentle squeeze.

We linger like that for a moment, his warmth seeping into me, steadying the lingering unease. My mind drifts back to a night years ago, just a few months after he returned from the Capitol, his mind pieced back together but still fragile around the edges. I'd been restless, haunted by nightmares that clawed at my sleep, and found him in the kitchen of my old Victor's Village house, kneading bread under the dim glow of a single lamp.

I didn't say a word, just perched on a stool and watched him work, the rhythmic push and fold of his hands mesmerizing. Eventually, he started talking—about the type of bread he was making, the way the dough should feel under your palms, little stories from his childhood in the bakery. The more he spoke, the more the vast emptiness of that house shrank, the ghosts retreating as his voice filled the space. That night, we didn't kiss or even touch, but something fundamental shifted. It was the first time I realized I didn't just need him to survive the wreckage of our lives; I wanted him as my home, my constant.

Now, with his breath warm against my temple, that certainty anchors me again. This sickness, whatever shadow it casts, unsettles me deeply—a reminder that control is still an illusion. But Peeta's presence is my tether, pulling me back from the edge every time. The nausea and exhaustion are real, gnawing at my edges, but so is this life we've built from the ashes: quiet mornings, shared laughter, years of choosing each other through the scars. I lean into him a little more, letting my thoughts quiet, the steady rhythm of his breathing soothing the pit in my stomach like nothing else can.

We step out into the heart of District 12, the sun now climbing high, bathing the morning in a warm, golden light that softens the edges of the rebuilt streets. People bustle about, weaving through the market stalls or ducking into shops, their faces familiar after all these years of shared recovery. A few offer small smiles and nods in greeting—old neighbors, new families drawn here by the promise of work—and Peeta returns them with his easy warmth, a quick wave or a "Morning" that draws smiles in return.

My nerves, though, keep me from mirroring him; instead, I cling to his right arm, my fingers wrapped tightly around his bicep, drawing strength from the solid feel of him as I try to quiet the butterflies fluttering wildly in my chest. Peeta senses it immediately, like he always does, and starts our little game to pull me out of my head.

"Your turn," he says, nudging me gently with his elbow, his voice light and teasing. "Best act of kindness you saw this week."

I think for a moment, the crunch of gravel under our boots and the distant chatter of the market filling the brief silence. "On Monday, I caught Ashen slipping an extra loaf to Sae's granddaughter when she wasn't looking. He just tucked it into her basket and waved off her thanks like it was nothing."

Peeta nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ashen's got a good heart—takes after his old man. Mine's Mrs. Fudrow. She came into the bakery yesterday, saw young Mandy short on coins for her order, and slipped her the difference before I could even say not to worry. Quick as a flash."

I smile, picturing the sturdy older woman with her no-nonsense braid, her kindness hidden under that gruff exterior. "That's a good one."

"Your turn again," he prompts, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that way that always grounds me.

I hesitate, scanning my memories, then nod. "Mrs. Clemmons. She's been sneaking extra portions from her garden to that new family from District 3. Thinks no one's noticed her leaving baskets on their porch at dawn."

He laughs, a low, warm rumble that eases the knot twisting in my stomach. "She's not as sneaky as she thinks."

We trade stories like this the whole way, each one a tiny thread weaving together the fabric of our district's new life—a reminder of the warmth that's bloomed here since the rebellion's end. It's still strange to me, thinking of District 12 as Panem's medical hub.

After the war, they poured resources into building that massive hospital on the outskirts, its sleek glass and steel a stark contrast to the ramshackle clinic from my childhood, where my mother patched up miners with herbs and hope. Now it's a beacon of advanced care, drawing healers and patients from across the districts, a symbol of the progress we've clawed our way toward.

Peeta and I steer clear of the place when we can, preferring the quiet comfort of home remedies and each other's company. But we've built a tentative trust with Dr. Carina, one of Dr. Aurelius's old colleagues who relocated here to lead the hospital. It took time for me to let her in—my walls don't come down easy—but her willingness to make house calls chipped away at them, one visit at a time.

I remember a brutal winter a few years back, when Peeta came down with a fever that burned through him like wildfire. He tossed in fitful sleep, his coughs ragged and endless, his voice scraping raw. I was useless, my limited knowledge of healing nothing compared to what Prim or my mother could have done. Panic clawed at me as I paced our apartment, the wind howling outside like an old enemy. When Dr. Carina showed up at our door, bundled against the snow, her calm demeanor cut through my fear like a knife through fog.

She examined him gently, prescribed antibiotics from the hospital's stock, and walked me through the dosing with patient explanations. I hesitated at first, eyeing the unfamiliar pills warily, but by the next day, his fever broke, and his cough eased. Within a week, he was back to himself, teasing me about my relentless hovering with that crooked grin of his. Since then, I've held a quiet gratitude for her—a bridge to trusting someone beyond just Peeta and our tight-knit circle.

We reach the hospital all too soon, its towering glass facade gleaming under the sun, sharp and imposing against the softer lines of the district. My stomach twists again, not from the nausea this time but from the weight of stepping inside, into the unknown. Peeta stops at the entrance, turning to face me, his hands warm on my arms as he pulls me close. He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, lingering there, his touch conveying everything words can't: Please be okay.

I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him tight, breathing in the faint scent of flour and something sweet that clings to him. "I love you," I mumble into his chest, my voice muffled but steady.

"I love you, too," he whispers back, his words thick with emotion, his hand cradling the back of my head.

I pull away just enough to meet his eyes, offering a small smile to reassure us both. "I'll be fine," I say, though my nerves hum like a drawn bowstring beneath the words.

He nods, his grip on my arms squeezing one last time, reluctant to let go. "I'll be at the bakery when you're done."

I nod, steeling myself as I turn toward the doors, my heart pounding with the uncertainty of whatever this sickness is. But as I walk forward, I carry the echo of Peeta's presence with me, a quiet strength that bolsters my steps. This place may intimidate me, stirring up old ghosts of loss and pain, but I'm not truly alone. Whatever awaits inside—answers, fears, or something in between—I'll face it, because he's waiting on the other side, and that's always been enough to keep me moving.

()()()

The hospital waiting room closes in on me the moment I step inside, a sterile trap of stark white walls and harsh fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like distant thunder. The air is thick with antiseptic, sharp and stinging in my nostrils, mingling with the faint echo of metal trays clattering behind closed doors. It sets my teeth on edge, stirring old memories of places where pain was measured and mended—or not.

The room is nearly empty: an old man in the corner hacks quietly into his sleeve, and a young mother by the window hums a soft lullaby, rocking her bundled baby with rhythmic sways. I choose a hard plastic chair in the back, curling into it like a cornered animal, knees drawn up to my chest. My stomach churns faintly, the nausea a persistent shadow, and I shut my eyes, pressing my forehead against my knees, desperate for anything to distract me from the cold weight of this place.

My thoughts turn to Peeta, as they always do when I need an anchor. I picture him in the bakery, his tongue poking out in concentration as he pipes intricate swirls of frosting onto cupcakes, the sleeves of his white cotton shirt straining against his biceps with each careful motion. The way his smile lights up for every customer, warm and genuine, turning even the simplest transaction into something kind.

How he always saves the last bite of our shared desserts after dinner, nudging the plate toward me with that shy, boyish grin, even when I protest that he doesn't have to. Or on those chilly mornings when he pulls me back into bed with kisses and cuddles, his lips soft and insistent, his hands tender in ways that make my resolve melt. By the time I give in, it's too late for hunting, but I can't even summon anger—leaving the warmth of his arms feels impossible. A faint smile tugs at my lips now, the memories wrapping around me like a shield, softening the hospital's grip.

"Katniss?"

Dr. Carina's voice pulls me back, gentle but firm, cutting through the haze. I blink, startled, and see her standing in the doorway, her smile warm and practiced, clipboard in hand. "Come on through," she says, gesturing down the hall with a nod.

I follow her along a narrow corridor, my nerves humming. The exam room is small and clinical, its pale blue walls a half-hearted nod to calm, with a faint scent of lemon cleaner lingering in the air. I perch on the edge of the paper-covered table, tugging nervously at the sleeve of Peeta's flannel, the fabric soft and familiar against my skin.

Dr. Carina settles into the chair across from me, balancing her clipboard on her knee. "So, what's bringing you in today? I could've come to you at home, you know—saved you the trip."

I fidget with the hem of the shirt, avoiding her eyes at first. "I've been sick. Nausea, vomiting, weird food aversions. It's been... rough. Peeta's worried sick about it, and honestly, so am I. Figured a full check-up might ease both our minds."

She nods, her expression a blend of warmth and professionalism. "Smart thinking. Let's go through it step by step, okay?"

I recount the symptoms while she checks my vitals—blood pressure steady, temperature normal, heart rate a little elevated from nerves. I tell her it's been creeping up for about two weeks, maybe longer if I'm honest, but this past week it's hit harder, more intense. The relentless nausea, the bone-deep exhaustion, the way even the smell of raw meat sends me reeling to the bathroom. She listens intently, jotting notes with quick strokes, offering soft hums of acknowledgment that make me feel heard without pity.

"And how's Peeta holding up through all this?" she asks, glancing up with a small, knowing smile. "He hasn't started baking you some kind of anti-nausea pastry experiment yet, has he?"

I huff a quiet laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. "Not yet, but give him until tonight. He's probably already brainstorming something ridiculous."

She chuckles, setting her stethoscope aside with a gentle clink. "That sounds exactly like him. You've got a keeper there, Katniss."

"I know," I say softly, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the table. "He's... the one person I'm sure of. In everything."

Her smile softens further, and she leans back slightly, studying me with a thoughtful gaze. "Okay, based on what you've described, I don't think you're sick in the way you're imagining."

I blink, confusion knitting my brows. "I've been throwing up half the day for days now. That feels pretty damn sick to me."

She laughs lightly, not mocking but understanding, and slides a small white box across the counter toward me. "Take a look at this."

I stare at the box, the words "Pregnancy Test" jumping out. My heart stumbles in my chest, a cold rush flooding through me. "You're kidding. I'm not... I can't be pregnant."

Dr. Carina raises an eyebrow, her tone calm but pointed. "Are you and Peeta using any protection?"

My cheeks flame, and I look away, muttering under my breath, "No. Not really."

"Then it's definitely a possibility we should rule out," she says. "Your symptoms—all day nausea, fatigue, those strong food aversions—they're classic signs of early pregnancy. Let's start here and see."

I shake my head, willing the words to rewind. "But it could be something else, right? A virus, or... I don't know, off food I ate? I can barely stand the smell of meat without gagging."

"That's also pretty common in the first trimester," she counters gently, her eyes steady on mine. "Look, take the test. If it's negative, we'll run some blood work and dig deeper—maybe check for infections or digestive issues. If it's positive..." She pauses, her smile turning encouraging. "We'll figure out the next steps together. No pressure, no rush."

Tentatively, I pick up the box, the cardboard cool and unyielding in my hands. We both stand, and Dr. Carina nods toward the door. "Come back when you have the results. I'll be right here waiting."

I manage a tight smile, clutching the box as I shove it under my shirt, desperate to hide it from any prying eyes in the waiting room. My mind reels as I step into the corridor, the hospital's sterile hum pressing in like a vice. The box tucked against my ribs feels like a seed planted without my say, sprouting wild and unbidden. My heart pounds with each step, echoing the uncertainty churning inside me—fear, denial, and something else I can't quite name.

I step into the bakery, the familiar scent of yeast and sugar enveloping me like an old friend, but it does little to calm the storm raging in my chest. Peeta's at the counter, his hands and forearms dusted with flour, helping an older woman decide between rye and multigrain.

His apron is creased and smudged with streaks of color from the day's baking, his cheeks flushed from the oven's relentless heat. There's that spark in his eyes, the quiet joy he draws from these simple moments, as he gestures animatedly with a loaf, his voice carrying over the bustle of customers in warm, enthusiastic tones I can't quite make out.

His gaze locks onto mine the instant I cross the threshold. His expression softens, a silent question flickering there as he mouths, You okay?

I nod stiffly, forcing a smile that feels brittle and false, barely touching my eyes. My feet carry me behind the counter, where I brush a quick kiss against his cheek as I pass, slipping through the kitchens toward the stairs to our apartment.

Peeta can't pull me aside—the line of customers keeps him and Ashen tied up, their hands a blur of wrapping and exchanging coins. I couldn't face him yet anyway, not until I have answers, not until I can untangle the chaos in my head. The small box from Dr. Carina burns against my skin, tucked beneath Peeta's flannel.

The stairs blur under my hurried steps, the hum of voices and the cheerful chime of the bakery's bell fading into a distant murmur. I cling to those ordinary sounds, anything to drown out the whirlwind spinning in my mind.

Peeta has always wanted children. He's never said it outright, never pushed, but I've known it for years. It's in the way he crouches down to meet a child's gaze, listening intently as if their words hold the secrets of the universe. The way he crafts cookies with tiny frosted birds or delicate chocolate flowers for the kids who press their grubby noses against the display case, their gasps of delight pulling a genuine grin from him every time.

Or how his voice softens when he talks about Delly and Thom's four rambunctious children, a quiet longing woven through his stories like an unspoken thread. He never demands, never complains, but I see it in those fleeting glances when we pass families in the market—hopeful, patient, always laced with that boundless love he has for me.

Over the years, I've watched him sneak free cookies to wide-eyed little ones, making them giggle while their parents insist on paying, only for him to wave them off with a wink. How he'd hand out leftover pastries to schoolchildren lingering after classes, admiring his icing work with awe. Or the grin that lights his face when a toddler wails in the square, tugging at their mother's skirt for sweets. Those moments etched themselves into my mind; I'd replay them for days, catching the pure, unguarded longing in his expression that he didn't even realize he wore.

It was only a month ago that I finally gave voice to it. We were tangled in bed, moonlight spilling through the open window like a silver veil, his fingers intertwined with mine in that effortless way of his.

"We don't have to be careful anymore," I'd whispered, my voice barely cutting through the quiet night. "If it happens... it happens."

His eyes had widened, searching mine in the dim light, as if he couldn't quite believe the words. Then he'd pulled me closer, kissing me slow and deep, like he was sealing a vow we both understood without speaking. I just hadn't expected it to happen so soon—if it's happening at all.

Now, I sink onto the edge of our bed, the small white box trembling in my hands. It feels impossibly heavy, as if it contains every hope and fear I've ever buried. My breath hitches, and I clutch it tighter, my mind spiraling into the unknown.

If I'm pregnant, my body won't be just mine anymore. It'll become a vessel for something fragile and new, a life that depends on me in ways I've never been prepared for. The thought terrifies me—surrendering the control I've fought so hard to keep, becoming more than the girl who survived two arenas, more than the Mockingjay who ignited a revolution but burned herself in the process. I've guarded my independence like a weapon, and the idea of letting it go feels like free-falling without a branch to grab.

But if I'm not... that scares me just as much. It would feel like another betrayal, my body turning against me, a cruel echo of all the choices I've made, all the lives I couldn't save. Rue's face flashes before me—small and still, surrounded by the flowers I laid in that cursed arena. Prim, erased in a blast of fire I was powerless to stop. Even now, thirteen years later, their names taste like ash on my tongue, a reminder of the voids I've carried. What if this is just fate's way of saying that peace, family, the simple hopes others cling to—none of it was ever meant for someone like me?

I think of Peeta again, his steady hands that have rebuilt our world from ashes, his unwavering love that pulls me back from every edge. He'd hold me through whatever comes next, I know that without question. But the uncertainty gnaws at me, a shadow I can't outrun. I sit there, the box still gripped in my white-knuckled hands, my thoughts a tangled web of fear and fragile possibility, as the quiet of our apartment enfolds me like a cocoon—safe, yet so easily shattered.

I drift into the bathroom, my steps slow and detached, as if I'm observing myself from afar, a spectator in my own life. I set both tests on the edge of the sink, their sleek plastic casings gleaming mockingly against the worn porcelain, as if they already know secrets I'm not prepared to hear. I fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down, the chill settling like lead in my uneasy stomach.

I wait, counting the seconds until the familiar pressure builds—faster than usual, my body defying its own patterns. With trembling hands, I unwrap the tests, positioning them carefully as I sit on the toilet, the whole process feeling mechanical, almost unreal.

When it's done, I snap the caps back on and lay them flat on the sink, my fingers unsteady as I reread the instructions—twice, then a third time—tracing the printed words like a lifeline. I twist the timer to the required minutes, set it on the counter, wash my hands, and perch on the edge of the tub, staring at the sticks from across the small room. Two tests. Two potential answers. Each one bears the weight of a future I'm not sure I can carry.

The timer ticks relentlessly, each second dragging into an eternity. When it finally shrills, vibrating against the sink before falling silent, the bathroom fills with a deafening quiet. But I don't move. I squeeze my eyes shut, counting to five, then ten, willing my racing heart to slow. Finally, I force myself to stand, my legs wobbly as I approach the sink. I look down.

Two lines. Bold and unmistakable, etched in deep purple.

My breath snags in my throat, sharp and ragged. I snatch up the box, flipping it over frantically, scanning the key as if the symbols might rearrange themselves. But the words stare back, unyielding: Two lines = Pregnant.

The word explodes inside me, louder than the wind rattling the windows, drowning out the muffled clatter of trays from the bakery below. It throbs in my chest, echoing through my ribs like a war drum. Pregnant. My hand drifts unbidden to my stomach—still flat, still mine. But everything else feels alien, the ground tilting beneath me as if the world has shifted on its axis.

I've glimpsed this in fleeting dreams before, on rare nights when nightmares didn't claw me awake. In those hazy visions, I saw tiny feet pattering across the bakery floor, heard laughter that blended Peeta's gentle warmth with my own fierce spark. I imagined blond curls catching the sunlight, Seam-gray eyes wide with wonder, chubby hands tugging at my braid, smeared with flour or sticky with frosting. But those were distant fantasies, safe in their ambiguity. Now, the abstract has become achingly real, and it's terrifying.

I sink to the floor, my back sliding down the cool tile wall until my knees pull up to my chest like a barrier. My forehead rests against them, and I try to breathe, but the air thickens in my lungs. A crushing weight bears down, squeezing until I'm drowning in slow, suffocating waves.

My life is about to change—irrevocably, forever. I always knew a child would rewrite everything, but I expected something else: joy, perhaps, or tentative hope amid the disbelief. Instead, fear surges through me, raw and all-consuming. It's like boarding a train with no brakes, no clear path, and no recollection of choosing the journey.

This world, even thirteen years after the rebellion, remains fractured. Cruelty hides in shadowed corners—poverty, loss, the lingering ghosts of tyranny that refuse to fully fade. How can I bring an innocent life into that? What if I can't protect them? What if I pass on my broken edges—the anger that simmers, the guilt that weighs like chains, the scars that never quite heal? What if I love them with everything I have, and still, I lose them—like Rue; like Prim.

And Peeta... my heart twists at the thought. He'll want to whisper to the baby, rest his hand on my belly with that quiet wonder in his eyes. Of course he will—he's Peeta, the boy with the bread who turned survival into something beautiful. I can already picture his smile, the one that lights up our dimmest days, brimming with pride and unbridled hope. But what if I can't match it? What if my fear eclipses his joy? What if I'm not enough—for this, for them?

I press my fists to my temples, desperate to silence the storm raging in my head. I told him I was ready. I was the one who whispered that we didn't need to be careful anymore. And in that moment, I thought I meant it. But maybe I was deceiving us both. Maybe I wasn't thinking at all.

The tests sit on the sink, their lines glaring and immutable. There's no escaping this. And despite the terror clawing at me, my trauma threatening to suffocate, I won't destroy something that's half Peeta—not after everything we've endured, everything we've rebuilt from the ruins of the Games. He's my partner, my home, my dandelion in the spring... and this child is part of him, part of us.

Curled on the bathroom floor, I cling to our shared memories, to the unshakeable certainty of his love. The sounds of District 12 filter in through the open bedroom window—children's laughter, the creak of carts, life persisting in its steady rhythm.

This child, this unforeseen possibility, terrifies me to my core, but it's also a fragile thread binding me tighter to Peeta, to the future we've dared to claim. I don't know if I'm ready, but I know I won't face it alone. That thought, stubborn and flickering like a distant flame, holds me together as I sit here, the weight of two lines reshaping my world.

The sun dips low, casting golden streaks across the apartment walls as Peeta steps through the door. The scent of warm bread clings to him, his curls even more tousled from the bakery's oven heat. He shuts the door softly, slips off his shoes with that familiar ease, and scans the room. His eyes find me instantly, curled on the couch with my knees tucked to my chest, the sleeves of his flannel swallowing my hands. I must look small, like I'm trying to fold myself into the cushions and disappear.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle but laced with caution, as if he's sensing the fragile air around me. He sets his keys on the table by the door with a faint clink that echoes in the quiet. "How'd it go at the hospital?"

I open my mouth, but my throat tightens, the words trapped behind a wall of nerves. I swallow hard, forcing them out. "I'm... not sick."

He pauses mid-step, his brow furrowing as he crosses the room and sinks down beside me on the couch. "Not sick? Katniss, you've been throwing up every day. You could barely keep toast down this morning."

I don't respond right away. My left hand, hidden in the flannel's sleeve, brushes against the two plastic tests tucked against my wrist. They feel impossibly heavy—such tiny things, yet capable of reshaping us both forever. I glance at him, meeting those blue eyes that search mine with quiet intensity.

Wordlessly, I slide the tests from my sleeve and place them in his hands, my fingers trembling. He looks down, confusion etching his features as he turns them over, studying the small windows.

"What am I looking at?" he asks softly, his tone mirroring the uncertainty in his expression.

My heart pounds so fiercely I'm sure he can hear it. I shift, tucking one leg beneath me, and draw a shaky breath. "I'm not sick," I say again, quieter this time. "I'm pregnant."

He freezes, his hands stilling around the tests. His eyes snap to mine, wide and unguarded, and I brace myself—for a rush of excitement, for that overwhelming joy he holds so easily, something too big for this room. But Peeta doesn't move. He holds himself utterly still, as if he's afraid the slightest breath might send me bolting. I watch disbelief crack in his gaze, giving way to a tender, cautious joy, like dawn breaking through storm clouds.

"Pregnant?" he whispers, glancing back at the tests as if they might vanish. "You're... really?"

I nod, a small, hesitant dip of my chin, my throat too tight for words.

He exhales slowly, a soft, shaky sound, and sets the tests carefully on the coffee table, handling them like fragile relics. He turns to me fully, his hands reaching for mine, warm and steady. "Katniss," he says, his voice low and even, "how are you feeling about this?"

The question catches me off guard—not an outburst of celebration, not declarations of how blessed we are or how our lives are about to change for the better, but a simple, steady focus on me. On my feelings. I blink, my eyes stinging, and look down at our joined hands.

"I don't know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "We stopped being careful, so it's not like this came out of nowhere. But it's... fast. I thought we'd have more time. I thought..." I trail off, swallowing the lump in my throat. "You can be happy, Peeta. I want you to be. I just—I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if I can be a good mother."

He doesn't rush to fill the quiet with easy assurances. Instead, he lifts my hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to my knuckles, his breath warm against my skin. "Katniss," he murmurs, his tone steady but tender, "you don't have to have it all figured out right now. You don't have to do any of this alone. I'm right here—every step, every day. And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that you're going to be an incredible mother. This baby is going to be so damn lucky to have you."

His words wrap around me like a gentle embrace, not erasing the fear but blunting its sharp edges, like a blanket draped over jagged rocks. I close my eyes, nodding as a shaky breath escapes me. When I open them, a faint smile tugs at my lips, and the knot in my chest loosens just enough to let me breathe.

Peeta's eyes glisten, and he lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. He leans in, kissing me slowly, reverently, pouring all his unspoken emotions into it—hope, love, a quiet vow. I melt into the kiss, letting his warmth steady the trembling inside me.

He pulls back, his hand lingering on my cheek. "I love you," he murmurs, his voice thick with feeling.

"I love you, too," I reply, reaching up to brush a stray tear from his face, my thumb lingering on the curve of his cheekbone.

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to my stomach, a shy question flickering in his eyes. "Can I... just once?" he asks, almost whispering, as if the words are too fragile to say louder.

The instinct to pull away surges, fierce and automatic, but I push it down. He's not demanding control or answers—just a moment to connect with this new reality we've stumbled into. I nod, my heart thudding.

Peeta slides from the couch, kneeling gently before me on the floor, the space between us feeling almost sacred. His hands, slow and careful, lift the hem of my flannel, and he presses a tender kiss just above my navel, his breath warm against my skin. He rests his cheek there, against the flatness of my belly, and closes his eyes. "Hey, little one," he whispers, so softly it's nearly lost in the quiet. "I love you, too."

I bite my lip, fighting the tears that well up—not from fear this time, but from the quiet peace he's weaving into the moment, a peace I didn't know I could feel amid the chaos. We stay like that, the world narrowing to the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine.

This pregnancy terrifies me—its weight, its permanence, the way it will rewrite everything I know. I think of Rue, of Prim, their losses still sharp enough to cut, and wonder if I can bear to love something so fragile again. But Peeta's love, his unwavering presence, is my tether, grounding me in a world that feels unsteady. This child, this life growing inside me, is part of him, part of us—a new beginning forged from everything we've survived. The fear lingers, but so does the possibility of hope, fragile and untested, blooming in the quiet space between us.

()()()

Haymitch sits across from us at his battered kitchen table, his glass of white liquor frozen halfway to his lips. His eyes dart between me and Peeta, narrowing as he searches our faces for any sign of a joke. The silence stretches, thick and heavy under the weight of his stare.

"Seriously?" he finally mutters, blinking slowly as if trying to clear a haze. "You're pregnant?"

I nod, a single, tight gesture, my damp palms pressed flat against the rough grain of the table. I fight the urge to wipe them, to hide the nerves twisting like vines in my gut.

Haymitch lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a creak, his fingers scratching at the graying stubble along his jaw. A flicker of a smile ghosts across his mouth, vanishing just as quickly. "Never thought you'd come around on kids, sweetheart," he says, his voice rough but measured, like he's treading carefully over fragile ground.

The words prick at me—not cruel, but sharp enough to stir old echoes of my ironclad resolve, swearing I'd never bring a child into this broken world. I feel Peeta's hand, already covering mine, tighten in a silent show of support, anchoring me.

Haymitch's gaze drops to our joined hands, and something in his weathered face softens, the hard lines easing just a fraction. "Didn't mean it like that," he grumbles, not quite defensive but close to an apology in his own way. "Just... I know the ghosts you two carry." His eyes flick to Peeta, then back to me, carrying a depth of understanding only someone who's staggered through the same flames could hold.

Peeta clears his throat, his voice steady but laced with quiet protectiveness. "We're not here to dredge up the past, Haymitch. We've all got to keep looking forward."

Haymitch studies him for a long beat, then gives a curt nod. "Fair enough, boy." He takes a slow sip of his liquor, the glass glinting in the fading light. "All I'll say is... I hope it goes smooth for you both. Kids are a handful—hell, you two were proof of that—but sometimes they're the only damn thing that makes sense in this screwed-up world."

It's the closest he'll ever come to a real congratulations, and it lands with a quiet warmth, like an ember flickering to life through layers of ash.

"Thanks," I murmur, my throat tight, the word slipping out soft but sincere.

Haymitch doesn't push or make a scene. He just refills his glass, muttering under his breath, "Guess I'll drink to that little Mockingjay in there," and raises it in a small, crooked toast, his lips twitching with what might be approval.

Peeta downs the rest of his tea in two quick gulps, glancing at me with a subtle check-in. "We should head back," he says, his tone light but his eyes attuned to mine. "It's getting late, and we need to start dinner."

"Make sure there's leftovers for my lunch tomorrow," Haymitch grumbles, already pouring another drink, though his gruffness carries a hint of fondness now.

I roll my eyes at him, standing as Peeta does. But as we head toward the door, Haymitch's gaze catches mine, and there's something new in it—not just the old guilt or the shared scars, but a flicker of pride, steady and unspoken. It's enough to make my chest ache in a way that's almost hopeful.

The walk back to the bakery is short due to Haymitch's little single story house being built just on the outskirts of town but it's also hushed, the crunch of gravel under our boots the only sound breaking the stillness. Peeta doesn’t try to fill the quiet with words, and I’m grateful for his silence. My hands stay buried in my jacket pockets, fingers curling and uncurling around nothing, as if I could grasp the fraying edges of my composure.

The sky is painted in soft pinks and bruised oranges by the time we leave Haymitch’s, but his words trail after me like smoke I can’t outrun. Never thought you’d come around on kids, sweetheart. He didn’t say it to be cruel; I know that. Still, the truth in it slices clean through old scar tissue.

By the time we reach the apartment, my skin feels too tight, like it no longer fits the person inside it. I slip through the door without speaking, toe off my boots, let my jacket fall where it lands, and head straight for the bedroom. The door shuts with a soft click. I crawl fully clothed under the covers and pull the quilt over my head like I’m twelve again, hiding from the world.

Minutes later the mattress dips. Peeta’s warmth settles behind me, steady and patient. He tugs the blanket down just enough to uncover my face, then rests his hand on my back, tracing slow, familiar circles. He doesn’t crowd me. He never does.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, voice low and careful. “I’ve got you.”

He offers water I don’t take. He brushes hair from my damp cheeks. He tells me I’m brave, that I’ll be an incredible mother, that he loves me, that I’m not alone. Each word is a rope tossed into dark water, but I’m sinking too fast to grab hold.

Because I do feel alone. And that scares me more than anything. If even Peeta can’t reach me right now, what hope do I have when a child—a real, helpless child—needs me and I come up empty?

Haymitch’s voice loops again, softer this time but no less cutting. I know the ghosts you carry. What if he’s right? What if the war hollowed me out so completely there’s nothing left to give?

A sob rips out of me before I can stop it—raw, ugly, unstoppable. Another follows, and another, until my whole body shakes with them. Shame burns hot on its heels. I haven’t even held this baby yet and I’m already failing.

I curl tighter, trying to disappear. Peeta doesn’t flinch. He simply slips under the covers behind me, chest to my back, legs tangling with mine. One arm slides beneath my neck, the other wraps around my waist, and he laces his fingers through mine, anchoring me to him. He says nothing now—just holds me while I fall apart, letting the storm spend itself against his steadiness until the sobs fade into hiccups and exhausted silence.

I don’t remember drifting off, but when I surface again, faint gray light is seeping through the curtains. My eyes are swollen, my face stiff with dried tears, my body heavy like I’ve been dragged through the woods behind a horse. But Peeta hasn’t moved. His arms are still locked around me, his breath warm against my neck.

I turn in the circle of his hold. His eyes are already open, soft and watchful, the way they always are when he’s been guarding my sleep.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleeplessness and something gentler.

I manage a tiny nod. My throat feels scraped raw.

He guides my hand to his chest, pressing my palm over the steady thump of his heart. “You don’t have to be okay yet,” he says quietly. “It’s allowed to be terrifying.”

The air I’ve been holding leaks out of me, shaky and thin. His permission cracks something open.

“Haymitch can say whatever he wants,” Peeta continues, thumb stroking slow arcs across my knuckles. “But he doesn’t know you the way I do. He doesn’t get to decide what you’re capable of. You’re not broken, Katniss. You’re healing. And that’s its own kind of strength.”

I press my forehead to his shoulder, the words I’ve been choking on finally spilling out, small and cracked. “What if I fail at this? What if I can’t do it?”

He’s quiet for a beat, long enough that I feel the fear swell again. Then: “Maybe we will mess up sometimes,” he says, honest in that disarming way only he can manage. “But failing? That’s not who you are. I’ve watched you survive things that would have shattered anyone else. And through it all, you still protected the people you love with everything you had. That’s not going to change because there’s a baby now. It’ll just have somewhere new to land.”

I swallow hard. “I’m scared I’ll disappear when they need me. Like my mother did.”

“You won’t,” he says, fierce and certain. “You’re not her. You never were. When the world went dark, you burned brighter, not out. And if you ever start to flicker, I’ll be right here to remind you who you are.”

He cups my face, thumb brushing the hollow beneath my eye. “I’m scared too, you know. Terrified, actually. But we’ve faced worse things together and come out the other side. We’ll do it again.”

For the first time since those two purple lines appeared, the crushing weight in my chest shifts—just a fraction, but enough to draw a full breath. I’m still afraid. I may always be. But the terror doesn’t make me feel quite so alone anymore.

I close my eyes and let his heartbeat steady mine. The baby is still tiny, barely real, and the road ahead is long and unknown. But Peeta’s arms are around me, his quiet strength holding the pieces together until I can manage it myself. And for now, that’s enough to keep me from falling apart.

It takes me two weeks to summon the courage to call her. My mother's number has haunted the edges of my thoughts like a persistent shadow—always there, but untouched, the silence between us a sharp, heavy thing after two long years. Now, with my stomach churning relentlessly and even plain toast and crackers failing to offer any reprieve, I find myself on the couch beside Peeta, our home phone clutched in my hand. My fingers tremble as I punch in the numbers on the small keypad, then press the device to my ear.

The ringtone drags on, each trill stretching my nerves taut. Then, finally—

"Hello?" Her voice is cautious, thinner than I remember, edged with a wariness that mirrors my own.

I swallow, my throat dry. "Hi, Mom. It's me."

A pause hangs between us, deliberate and weighted. "Katniss," she says, as if tasting the name, unsure if it's safe to let it linger.

"Yeah." My free hand drifts unbidden to my stomach—still flat, still deceptively unchanged. "I... I thought you should know. I'm pregnant."

Silence. I brace for the detachment that claimed her after Dad died, or worse, some quiet judgment that would reopen old wounds. My heart hammers, and I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone until my knuckles ache.

But then she exhales, soft and unsteady. "Pregnant," she echoes, her voice catching on the word. A shorter pause follows, then: "How are you feeling?"

The simple question startles me, cracking open a guarded place in my chest. I huff a laugh that's half groan, half relief. "Awful, mostly. I can't keep anything down. I've got the bathroom tiles memorized by now."

Beside me, Peeta sketches quietly, his pencil moving in rhythmic strokes. He doesn't look up, but a grin tugs at his lips, catching my wry tone. A faint chuckle filters through the line, unexpected and almost warm. "That rough?" my mother asks, a hint of sympathy threading her words.

"Worse," I say, slumping deeper into the cushions. "Morning sickness is a myth. It's all day, every day, no mercy."

There's a rustle on her end. Her voice slips into that practical rhythm I remember from her healing days. "Have you tried ginger tea? Or keeping crackers by the bed to eat before you even sit up? Something bland can settle things first thing."

"Crackers, yeah," I admit. "Ginger tea... not yet. I'll give it a shot."

"It can help," she says, her tone soft but assured. "Peppermint sometimes works too, if you can stomach the smell."

I nod, even though she can't see it, her advice stirring an unexpected ache—a reminder of the mother she used to be, before grief stole her away. "Thanks," I murmur, quieter now, the word carrying more weight than I intend.

Another pause stretches, the kind that once would have driven me to hang up in frustration. But today, I let it breathe, holding the line through the awkwardness.

Finally, she clears her throat. "I'm glad you called, Katniss."

The words catch me off guard, and something tight in my chest loosens. I almost say, Me too, but it sticks, too raw. Instead: "I'll let you know if the ginger helps."

"Okay," she replies, her voice gentler, like a door inching open after years of being locked. "Take care of yourself."

I hang up, staring at the phone in my lap. My stomach still rebels, but the knot in my chest feels looser, a thread pulled free from a tangled knot. The call wasn't flawless—halting, awkward, shadowed by all the unsaid things—but it was more than I'd braced for. Better than the void I'd grown accustomed to.

I set the phone on the side table and shift closer to Peeta, pressing against his side without disrupting his sketching hand. My head rests on his shoulder, and he tilts his face to kiss my forehead, his pencil pausing just long enough for the gesture.

"I'm proud of you," he says quietly, his voice warm and sincere. "That couldn't have been easy."

I keep my eyes on the drawing—a soft sketch of me sleeping, my braid loose and unraveling across the pillow. "I almost hung up three times," I admit, a faint smile creeping in.

"Still counts," he replies, his tone light but earnest. "Give yourself credit, Katniss. That was a big step."

I sigh, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. "Do you ever draw anything that's not me?" I tease, needing the lightness.

He snorts, a playful glint sparking in his eyes. "Not if I can help it. You're my favorite subject—always will be."

Even after all these years, his words send a quiet warmth blooming in my cheeks, settling deep and steady.

()()()

16 Weeks

The hospital visits are the hardest part of this pregnancy. I know they're necessary—vital, even. This is only my second appointment since learning I'm pregnant, and I'm grateful District 12 now has a hospital equipped for prenatal care, a far cry from the herbal remedies and folk wisdom many clung to before the rebellion. But gratitude doesn't dull the edge. The sterile halls, with their glaring white walls and humming fluorescent lights, set my nerves jangling. The air stings with bleach and something sharper, medicinal, and every closed door feels like a potential trap, hiding threats I can't anticipate.

Peeta hates it more than I do, though he'd never say so outright. His silence tells me everything—his grip on my hand tightens just a little too much as we check in, his fingers betraying the calm mask he wears. He skips the stiff waiting room chairs, pacing instead, always angling his body between me and the door. His eyes sweep the room, alert and watchful, as if expecting someone to burst in and drag me away. I don't blame him. Hospitals hold ghosts for us both, but for Peeta, they're vivid—echoes of machines, wires, and chemicals that once shredded his mind.

In the exam room, his focus locks on me, unwavering, even as Dr. Carina spreads the cold gel across my belly and presses the ultrasound wand into place. The moment the room fills with that rapid thrum-thrum-thrum—strong, steady, impossibly alive—my chest tightens. It's joy tangled with disbelief and fear, a knot I can't quite untie. Peeta's hand squeezes mine, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over my knuckles, grounding me as my breath hitches. I glance at him, and his eyes clear a fraction, flicking to the grainy screen where a tiny shape emerges.

"See that flickering?" Dr. Carina asks, circling the motion on the monitor just below the curve of our baby's head.

We both nod, transfixed.

"That's your little one's heart beating," she explains, her voice warm with a grin. "That's the thumping you're hearing. They've got a strong rhythm already—you've got a survivor in there."

I turn to Peeta, and the terror that's shadowed his eyes since we arrived has melted away. He stares at the screen like it's a miracle made real, confirmation of something he's barely dared to believe. When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes are rimmed red with unshed tears, but he's holding it together—for me, I know.

"It's okay," I murmur, reaching up to caress his cheek.

That's all it takes. The dam breaks, and he lets the tears fall, pressing our joined hands to his forehead as sobs shake him. "I'm going to be a dad," he whispers through the emotion, over and over, like a mantra. It pulls my own tears free, and even Dr. Carina dabs at her eyes, caught in the rawness of the moment.

As we leave the room, Dr. Carina offers a warm smile, handing me the ultrasound printout—a blurry black-and-white image of that tiny form, already so undeniably ours. "Everything looks perfect," she says, her tone reassuring. "Baby's growing right on track. Keep up with the vitamins, and I'll see you in a few weeks."

"Thanks," I say, tucking the printout into my pocket, my fingers lingering on its edges.

Peeta nods at her, his voice steady but quiet. "We appreciate it, Carina."

We step into the hallway, his hand still clasped in mine, and I feel the lingering weight of his silence. "You okay?" I ask, glancing up at him.

He hesitates, then gives me a small, genuine smile, his eyes still a little puffy. "Yeah. Just... really glad you're both alright. And happy. So damn happy."

I squeeze his hand back, letting the words settle between us. The hospital's sterile hum recedes as we walk, but that heartbeat echoes in my mind—a rhythm that's both a promise and a challenge, pulling us into a future we're only beginning to grasp.

The relentless nausea of the first trimester has finally eased its chokehold. No more mornings spent doubled over the toilet, no more recoiling from the scent of raw meat or the faint bitterness of coffee. I can eat again—more than before, and without the violent aftermath.

Warm bread rolls? I devour ten. Roasted carrots? A whole bowl vanishes. Peeta's cinnamon rolls, still gooey from the oven? Don't even get me started.

I can finally breathe without dread. But with the sickness gone, a new hunger has roared to life inside me, raw and insatiable, one that only Peeta can quench.

At first, I was shy about it, caught off guard by the intensity of this craving. I thought it might pass, just a fleeting hormonal surge. But it hasn't—if anything, it's grown fiercer, ignited by the smallest sparks: the way Peeta wipes flour from his hands on his apron, the flex of his forearms as he kneads dough, the quiet heat in his eyes after dinner, like he's waiting for my cue. He never makes me beg; he senses it, and he's always there, meeting me with that same unyielding desire.

Tonight is no exception. The bakery closed late, and Peeta steps through the door, his curls damp and wild from the oven's heat. His tired smile, soft and unguarded, snaps something primal inside me. He barely has time to kick off his shoes before I'm on him, fingers curling into his shirt collar, dragging him toward the bedroom. He doesn't question it—just cups my face in his callused hands and kisses me, deep and devouring, like he's been starving for this all day.

We stumble backward into the room, my back hitting the wall with a soft thud. My hands fumble with his belt, yanking his pants down as he tugs my sweater over my head. His shirt follows in one fluid motion, our clothes pooling in a tangled heap on the floor. His lips blaze a trail down my neck, across my collarbone, lingering at the swell of my breasts as he unhooks my bra with deliberate, teasing slowness.

"You're driving me insane," I whisper, voice rough with need, my fingers buried in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan.

He looks up, flushed and breathless, letting the bra fall away. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice low and ragged, eyes dark with want.

"Oh, I think I do," I tease, my nails grazing down his chest, pausing at the hard bulge straining against his boxers.

He groans again, catching my wrist and pressing a kiss to my palm—soft, almost reverent—before trailing his lips up my arm, down to my stomach, where the faintest swell has begun to show. He pauses there, resting his cheek against my skin, eyes closed like he's listening to the life we've made. "I love you," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "Both of you."

My chest tightens, a swirl of feelings too tangled to name. I don't speak—just thread my fingers through his hair and tilt his face up, kissing him deep and urgent. His hands slide to my hips, squeezing my ass through my underwear, and I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist, my body grinding against his.

He carries me to the bed, and we tumble into the sheets, limbs entwined, mouths clashing with desperate hunger. His hands explore—gripping my hips, slipping between my thighs, cupping my breasts. His touch is gentle where it needs to be, but his kisses are ravenous, a perfect storm that sets every nerve alight.

While his mouth claims mine, his hand drifts over my breasts, skimming the slight curve of my stomach until his fingertips tease back and forth over the edge of my underwear. I whimper into his kiss, hips bucking up in a silent plea.

Peeta is anything but selfish—he never makes me ask twice. His hand slides right into my underwear, fingers rubbing firm circles over the aching nub that throbs for his attention. My lips tear from his as a mewl escapes me. He latches onto my throat with hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, and my fingers rake through his curls, tugging fistfuls of the soft strands.

His hand suddenly stills, and I have no time to protest because he pulls back, sitting up on his knees. He just looks at me for a moment, eyes drinking me in, before his fingers hook into my underwear, pulling them down my legs and tossing them across the room. I bite my lip, anticipation thrumming through me.

Just as I expect, he pushes my thighs apart and lowers his head between them. "Oh!" I cry out, hands flying to his head, pulling him closer as he sucks and nibbles at that throbbing bud.

I remember the first time he did this—so nervous, a flush of embarrassment heating my skin at the intimacy of his face so close to me there. But the moment his mouth touched me, I was lost, hooked. And so was he. It was before we'd even gone all the way, and I think Peeta might love it even more than I do. After that first time, whenever we stole a moment alone, he'd dive in without expecting anything in return. His protests always died on his lips the second I wrapped my hand around him afterward.

I've lost count of how many times since, but it only gets better. I glance down, and his blue eyes meet mine, watching me intently. It never fails to send butterflies rioting in my stomach.

Soon, my head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure crashes over me. My body spasms, going limp as Peeta laps up every last tremor, ignoring my oversensitive whimpers. Too spent to protest, I let him, riding the aftershocks until the world steadies again.

I barely have time to catch my breath before he slides back up my body, his lips crashing into mine in a kiss that steals the air from my lungs. Our tongues battle for dominance until he yields, letting me explore his mouth with hungry sweeps.

As we kiss, I feel him shift, trying to shove off his boxers, but they snag around the foot of his prosthetic. He growls, tearing his lips from mine. "For fuck's sake," he mutters, yanking them free and hurling them across the room.

I giggle, ready to tease him about being too eager, but the words die as he slides into me—slow, deep, our bodies locking together like puzzle pieces finally aligned. I cry out in surprise at the feel of him, so familiar, so deliciously full. In that instant, the war vanishes, the hospital's sterile halls fade, every fear I've carried dissolves. There's only this—only us.

"Yes, Peeta," I gasp, my legs spreading wider, urging him deeper.

His hand trails up my left arm, fingers interlacing with mine as he kisses me again, his tongue sweeping in, claiming me while his hips drive me into the mattress. My free arm wraps around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, drawing a groan from him that vibrates through my chest.

"You're my everything," he pants against my lips. "Always have been. Always will be."

"You too," I gasp back, my voice cracking with the truth of it. "Always you." His blue eyes lock onto mine, brimming with a love so fierce it nearly breaks me. I know those old insecurities still whisper to him—the fear that he's just my default, the safe choice after everything. But he's wrong. Peeta is safety, yes, but not because he's easy. Losing him would shatter me beyond repair; I learned that after the Quarter Quell, when the depth of my feelings hit me like an arrow to the heart—not alliance, not friendship, but this all-consuming need.

Pleasure coils tight in my core, building with every thrust. I pull his face to mine, our tongues tangling as his rhythm grows harder, more insistent, his hands gripping my hips to hold us steady. Each movement reminds me what he is—home, love, everything. The wave crests, and I arch beneath him, a cry ripping from my throat as I unravel for the second time, clenching around him.

His hips stutter, erratic now, a sure sign he's teetering on the edge. As my walls tighten one last time, he groans low and buries himself deep, his release shuddering through him in hot pulses that leave us both trembling.

My body still hums from the raw intensity of our lovemaking, and I lie on my side with my back pressed to Peeta's chest, his sweat-slicked skin warm against mine. His hand rests low on my belly, where the subtle curve whispers of the life growing within. His thumb traces lazy circles, each one sending a faint shiver rippling through me. Our legs tangle beneath the blanket, his solid warmth grounding me in the dim quiet of our bedroom.

"You okay?" he murmurs, breath hot against my neck.

I nod, a faint smile curving my lips. "More than okay."

He presses a soft kiss to the curve of my neck, lingering as if savoring the taste of my skin. "You weren't exactly subtle tonight," he says, his voice teasing, laced with a quiet awe that makes my pulse quicken.

I smirk, half-burying my face in the pillow to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks. "Didn't hear any complaints from you."

He chuckles, low and warm, the vibration humming against my back. "Complain? Never. I'm just saying... this pregnancy's made you even more insatiable for me. Didn't think that was possible."

I twist my head just enough to catch his eye, a playful spark in mine. "Better get used to it, Mellark."

His hand drifts lower, fingers grazing the sensitive skin between my thighs with deliberate slowness. A fresh spark ignites, heat pooling despite the lingering sensitivity. I catch my breath, hips shifting instinctively. "You say that like it's a challenge," he murmurs, voice dropping to something rough and thick with promise.

"More like a promise," I reply, the words dissolving into a sigh as his fingers begin to stroke—teasing at first, then bolder, stoking the fire that never fully dies with him. I arch into his touch, my body already craving more, the ache building anew.

His lips find my shoulder, trailing open-mouthed kisses along my skin, each one fanning the flames. I reach back, tangling my fingers in his curls, pulling him closer as his strokes grow more insistent, circling and pressing in ways that make my toes curl.

"Peeta," I gasp, voice thick with need, my body trembling under his expert hands.

He groans softly, lips brushing my ear. "You're so damn beautiful like this, Katniss," he whispers, raw and reverent, a smile threading through the words that makes my heart clench.

I turn my head, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss, my tongue sliding against his—hungry, demanding. His fingers press deeper, finding that perfect rhythm, and I moan into him, nails digging into his scalp. His free hand grips my hip, holding me steady as pleasure coils tight, a storm ready to break.

"I'm with you," he breathes against my lips, the words a vow as his touch drives me higher. "Always."

I can't form coherent words, only gasps and whimpers, as the heat surges. The world blurs—war's scars, lingering fears, the uncertainty of what's coming—all incinerated in this blaze. It's just Peeta, his love, his touch, setting me alight until I'm trembling on the edge, teetering toward release.

()()()

The phone feels heavier than it should as I lean against the kitchen counter, Peeta's familiar rhythm of preparing dinner unfolding just a few feet away—the sizzle of meat in the pan, the steady chop of his knife. My mother's voice crackles through the line, cautious but carrying a warmth I haven't heard in years. "How's the sickness been, Katniss?"

I exhale, a knot of tension unwinding in my chest. "It finally let up about two weeks ago. Thank goodness."

"That's good to hear," she says, her tone tentative, like she's dipping a toe into uncertain waters. "I was the same when I was pregnant with you and Prim. Maybe you're having a girl, too?"

Her words catch me off guard, stirring that old instinct to pull back, to end the call and retreat behind my walls. But she's been trying lately—small check-ins, bits of advice without the old pressure. I decide to give her this. "Maybe," I say, glancing at Peeta as he chops vegetables with a grin. "Peeta wouldn't mind a girl."

"Yes, please," Peeta calls out, loud enough for her to hear, his voice light and playful as he leans in to press a kiss to the side of my neck. "I want a mini Katniss running around here."

My mother chuckles, a soft, unexpected sound that feels almost foreign. "He sounds pretty set on it."

"You have no idea," I say, snorting as Peeta's hands slide down my sides, settling on my hips, his lips lingering with teasing warmth. I nudge his stomach with my elbow, and he grunts dramatically, squeezing my hips before stepping back to the stove, his grin unrepentant.

"Are you... showing yet?" she asks, her voice slower now, careful not to overstep.

I bite back a sharper reply, my fingers brushing the faint swell of my belly. "A little," I admit. "It's not obvious in clothes yet, but everything's starting to feel tight. I'm half-convinced I'll be raiding Peeta's wardrobe soon. His fashion sense is questionable at best."

Peeta snorts from across the kitchen, rolling his eyes as he stirs the pot. "Liar," he mouths, sticking out his tongue, and I mirror the gesture, a small laugh bubbling up.

"That can be tricky," my mother says, a hint of amusement creeping in. "Have you thought about maternity clothes?"

I shrug, even though she can't see it. "Not really. I'm still making do with what I've got."

"Hm," she hums, thoughtful. "At this rate, you might end up in Peeta's shirts for good."

I chuckle, surprised by the ease of the moment. "Yeah, maybe." The conversation drifts back to practical things but a fragile warmth lingers, like a bridge tentatively spanning the years of distance between us.

A few days later, Peeta returns from the train station, arms loaded with a box of new paints from the Capitol and another package, this one addressed to me. My stomach twists as I eye it, hesitation holding me in place. Peeta sets it on the table, his gaze soft and encouraging. "Go on," he says gently. "Open it."

I lift the lid, and a gasp catches in my throat. Inside lies a collection of maternity clothes—soft shirts, stretchy pants, a few pairs of jeans, all simple and practical. At the bottom, three dresses are folded neatly, modest and unadorned, just my style. A note rests on top, my mother's handwriting neat and precise: clothes from a shop in District 4, chosen because she knows I prefer pants and jeans over skirts. It's brief, straightforward, but it hits me like an unexpected wave.

Tears sting my eyes, and Peeta pulls me into his arms without a word, his warmth enveloping me. "She's trying," he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. "This is her way of showing it."

I nod, my throat too tight for words at first. "It's... more than I expected," I manage, voice trembling.

He smiles, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back. "You deserve it, Katniss. It's okay to let her in, even just a little."

I cling to him, the clothes a quiet gesture from a mother I've held at arm's length for so long. It's not full forgiveness—not yet—but it's a step, a silent amends for the years she faded away. The thought of her knowing me, even in this small way, stirs something tender and raw, a crack in the walls I've built.

()()()

20 Weeks 

The golden light of the Saturday afternoon spills through the window in soft, slanted beams, casting long shadows across our bedroom floor. The bakery is quiet below, closed for the day, and the hum of District 12 winding down drifts faintly from outside—people hurrying home through the January chill, eager to stoke their fires against the biting snow. My fingers tremble as I lift the hem of my shirt, just enough to reveal the undeniable truth.

There it is: a gentle, unmistakable curve to my belly. Not pronounced yet, but enough to catch the fading sunlight, enough to alter my silhouette into something unfamiliar—something maternal. I turn sideways, studying my reflection in the mirror, half-expecting the image to waver, to prove it's all in my head. But it's real, growing more insistent with each passing day.

My fingers trace the swell tentatively, almost reverently. My body is changing—stretching, adapting, carving out space for someone new without consulting me. It knows what to do, driven by instincts I barely comprehend. It's fascinating, in a detached sort of way, how it presses onward, steady and certain, while I lag behind, wrestling with the enormity of it.

If I were someone else—someone unscarred by the arenas and the rebellion—I might call this beautiful. But I'm not. For me, it's terrifying. This tiny life depends on Peeta and me—for protection, for love, for a safety I've never fully known how to provide. Peeta is built for this, woven from warmth and unshakeable steadiness, his love as natural as breathing. But me? I've only ever mastered survival—fighting, sacrificing, scraping by. How can I be a mother when I couldn't save Prim, the one who needed me most? When I lived, and she didn't?

The question clamps down on my chest, heavy and airless, stealing my breath.

Then, without warning, it happens—a soft flutter, like the brush of butterfly wings deep within. I freeze, breath snagging, the room going still around me. It's not pain, just... strange. Alive. Foreign.

The baby moved.

My knees buckle, and I grip the dresser to steady myself, the sensation echoing through me like a shockwave. All the tests, the ultrasounds, the endless nausea—they were abstract, removed. But this? This is visceral, undeniable—a life stirring inside me. Our child.

Panic surges, cold and sharp, flooding my veins. My heart races, thoughts fracturing into chaos. I back away from the mirror, as if distance could erase the feeling. My back hits the bedpost, and I sink onto the mattress, crawling under the covers on Peeta's side. I pull the quilt over my head, curling tight, seeking solace in the faint scent of him.

Peeta's in town, fetching those peaches I mentioned craving this morning. I'd teased him about the peach lacking fruit bowl, and he'd grinned, promising to be back in ten minutes, no distractions. He's only been gone a short while, but time warps, closing in too fast. My breaths come shallow and quick, tears burning hot behind my eyes.

I bury my face in his pillow, willing the panic to ebb, but it doesn't. The tears spill over, fast and unrelenting, choking sobs I've bottled up for too long. This child, this life—it's a miracle and a burden, a joy I'm terrified to claim. I think of everything I've lost, and wonder if I'm strong enough to love something so fragile without shattering under the weight.

The creak of the apartment door opening barely pierces the haze. Peeta's footsteps echo through the space—steady, familiar—until the bedroom door eases open. The mattress dips as he sits beside me, and the blanket lifts. The chill from outside clings to his clothes, but his hand is warm as it brushes my cheek, thumb gently wiping away a tear. I don't need to look to know his face is lined with worry.

"Katniss," he murmurs, voice soft with concern. "What happened?"

I stay curled tight, knees to my chest, as if I could make myself small enough to vanish. He doesn't push—just tugs the blanket down gently and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering with that quiet patience of his.

"I felt it move," I whisper, the words barely escaping, trembling in the air between us.

His breath catches, eyes widening a fraction, a spark of awe cutting through his worry. Then my walls crumble.

"Peeta," I choke out, finally meeting his gaze, my voice fracturing. "How can I be a mother? After everything? I couldn't save Prim. I let her die. I failed her, failed Finnick, failed so many. I fought to keep you safe, and even that..." My voice cracks, the old wounds tearing open. "This baby, I'm terrified I'll fail them too. That they'll end up on the list of people I couldn't protect."

The sobs rip free, raw and jagged, pulled from depths that ache. Peeta pulls me up, and I collapse against his chest, fists clutching the lapels of his navy coat as his arms wrap around me, strong and unyielding. He holds me like he can keep my shattered pieces from scattering, his warmth a barrier against the storm raging inside.

He doesn't speak at first—just holds me, his grip fierce and steady. His lips brush my hair, my forehead, my temple, each kiss a silent promise, anchoring me as the sobs shake through me. He breathes with me, slow and deliberate, until the tempest begins to quiet, my cries fading into hiccups.

"You missed something," he says finally, voice low but firm, thick with unshed emotion.

I lift my head, blinking through the blur of tears. "What?"

"You forgot the part where you risked everything for the people you love," he says, eyes locking onto mine, unwavering. "You carried them—carried us—through hell, even when it was breaking you. You think you failed, Katniss, but you didn't. You survived what should've destroyed you, and you still love, still hope. You chose me. You chose this life." His hand moves to my belly, resting gently over the small swell. "This baby? They'll see strength every day, because they'll see you."

His words seep in, blunting the sharp edges of my fear. I cover his hand with mine, his warmth bleeding into my skin, steadying me. "I don't feel strong," I whisper, voice raw. "I don't know how to do this."

"You don't have to—not yet," he says, thumb tracing slow circles over my stomach. "We'll learn together, you and me."

I feel it again—a faint flutter, like a whisper responding to his touch. My chest tightens, not with panic this time, but with something softer, more tentative. Hope. It's small, fragile, but it takes root beneath the fear, just enough to let me breathe.

I sink back into him, his breath warm against my skin, his body curving around mine like a promise. The weight of this moment—the baby, the fear, the hope—settles over me, but it's not crushing. Not with him here. Exhaustion tugs at me, and I let it pull me under, drifting off in Peeta's arms, his forehead pressed to mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling me into sleep.

The baby's kicks have woven themselves into the fabric of my days, a constant rhythm that's both startling and strangely comforting. At first, they were delicate flutters—like the brush of moth wings deep inside, catching me off guard in quiet moments. By the third day, they sharpened into jabs, sudden rolls and tumbles that steal my breath and leave me clutching my side, as if struck from within. Now, a week since that initial whisper, the movements are relentless, a steady drumbeat of life asserting itself.

I've learned to adapt, breathing through the sharper prods, forcing a smile amid the strange intimacy of it all. This is part of the process, I remind myself—the inexorable shift into something new, something irreversible. My body knows what to do, even if my mind lags behind. Most days, I manage, not for my own sake, but for Peeta's.

The way his face lights up when he feels a kick—it's everything. His eyes widen with pure awe, his smile soft and reverent, like the first time he glimpsed the lake in the woods, its surface shimmering under a summer sun. For him, this is unfiltered wonder, a fresh light piercing the shadows we thought might linger forever. His joy makes the discomfort bearable, transforms the fear into something I can almost embrace.

Every night, it's become our ritual. Peeta lies beside me, his lips brushing my belly as he murmurs to the baby. His hand rests gently on the curve, warm and steady, his voice a soothing hum that seems to quiet the world.

"Hey, little one," he whispers against my skin as the baby kicks up a storm in response, like they've been waiting for his voice. "You're already a fighter, aren't you? Just like your mommy."

I shift against the pillows, seeking a more comfortable spot, my fingers idly threading through his blond curls. "They're relentless," I say, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Feels like they're training for something big in there."

He chuckles, thumb tracing a slow arc over my skin. "Getting ready to keep us on our toes. A little Mockingjay, maybe?"

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in his tone softens me. "Don't jinx us, Peeta. One rebel in the family's enough."

His laugh rumbles low, eyes glinting with mischief. "Too late for that. They've got your fire already—I can feel it."

I swat his arm lightly, but I can't hide the grin spreading across my face. "And your stubbornness, apparently."

"Guilty," he admits, shifting up to press a kiss to my forehead. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

Even on days when I'm bone-tired, stretched thin by the changes rippling through my body, I let myself sink into these moments. His voice, his touch—they soothe me, and strangely, they seem to calm the restless life inside too. As Peeta's hand rubs slow circles over my belly, the kicks gradually slow, as if the baby is listening, lulled by their father's presence.

The next night, we're curled up in bed, wrapped in the soft glow of lamplight, the blankets cocooning us against the chill. I lean against the headboard, legs stretched out, while Peeta rests his head just below my ribs, his arm draped across my waist. His hand traces slow, absentminded circles over the curve of my belly, his touch gentle and full of quiet reverence.

"Hey, little songbird," he murmurs, voice low and tender, like a secret meant only for them. "It's your daddy. We already love you so much, you know that?"

He pauses, and a soft kick nudges against his palm—firm, deliberate, like a hello. My lips curve into a faint smile as I feel it too, that quiet connection threading through the three of us.

Peeta chuckles, breath warm against my skin. "There you go, kicking again. You like my voice, don't you? Your mommy says you do."

I don't speak, just watch him, my chest swelling with an ache that's equal parts joy and wonder. In these moments, the fears—the guilt, the what-ifs—recede, leaving only this stillness and the man beside me who makes everything feel possible. It's as if the baby knows him, waits for his voice each night, just as I do.

His words ground me, as they always have. I reach down, threading my fingers through his ashy curls, brushing them back from his forehead. He shifts slightly, still murmuring to our child—about his day at the bakery, a new pie recipe he's tinkering with, the idea of painting the nursery a soft yellow or maybe a sky blue. "Or what about a mural?" he muses, voice bright with possibility. "A forest, or the meadow—your mommy's favorite place. What do you think?"

I feel another kick, softer this time, and my smile deepens. "They're opinionated already," I say, voice quiet but warm.

Peeta grins, glancing up at me. "Just like their mom. Already planning a rebellion in there."

I roll my eyes, nudging his shoulder with my knee. "Don't encourage them."

"Oh, come on," he teases, eyes glinting with mischief. "You love a little chaos. Remember the flour fight last week? You started it."

I snort, the memory vivid—us laughing, dusted white like ghosts, the kitchen a glorious mess after I'd "accidentally" flung flour across his shirt. "You retaliated," I counter. "And you're supposed to be the responsible one."

"Only when I have to be," he says, nuzzling my belly again, lips brushing the stretched skin. "You're just along for the ride."

I laugh, but it catches in my throat, a lump forming as tears prick my eyes. I don't hide them anymore—not from him. Peeta notices immediately, his teasing fading into concern. He shifts to sit beside me, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "Hey," he says gently. "What's going on?"

I take a shaky breath, my hand resting over my belly. "I didn't think I'd want this," I confess, voice barely above a whisper. "Not after everything we've been through. But now... I can't imagine not wanting them. It's overwhelming."

He leans in, kissing the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then my temple—each one grounding me. "I know," he murmurs, voice thick with shared emotion. "I feel it too."

I meet his gaze, the steady blue of his eyes anchoring me. He's changed over the years—lines etched deeper from laughter and pain—but his heart remains the same, unwavering. "I'm lucky to have you," I say softly, thumb tracing his knuckles.

He tilts his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Even though I'm the reason you're sleep-deprived, emotional, and demanding back massages three times a day?"

I laugh, the sound lighter than I'd expected. "Especially because of that."

"Good," he says, grin widening. "Because those massages aren't free. You owe me bedtime back scratches tomorrow."

I roll my eyes, leaning in to kiss him—slow, deliberate, savoring the warmth of his lips. He hums into it, hand cradling my face, as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

The baby settles, movements quieting beneath my skin, and the room falls still, filled only with the soft rhythm of our breathing. Peeta's hand covers mine over my belly, and we stay like that, intertwined, present in this fragile, perfect moment.

The weight of this pregnancy—of motherhood—still terrifies me: its permanence, its unknowns. But Peeta's love, his quiet strength, makes it feel possible. This child, our child, is a piece of him, of us—a new beginning forged from the ashes of our past. The fear lingers, but so does the hope, blooming brighter with each kick, each touch, each shared whisper. I hold onto that, letting it steady me in the stillness of our room.

()()()

25 Weeks

I straddle Peeta, hips rocking against him in a steady rhythm, a gasp escaping my lips as pleasure surges through me like wildfire. His blue eyes, dark and hazy with lust, lock onto mine, his hands gripping my hips with that perfect balance of firmness and care. My belly, now rounded like a child's ball, makes finding the right angle a bit trickier, but Peeta never complains. He never does in these moments—his touch is always patient, always ravenous for me, adapting without a word.

He sits up, lips finding my throat, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin as my hips keep their urgent pace. The sensation sends jolts racing through me, urging me faster, soft moans spilling from my mouth as I clutch fistfuls of his curls, holding him close. His breath is hot against me, his kisses trailing sparks.

"Fuck, I love the sounds you make when I'm inside you," he murmurs, voice low and ragged, vibrating against my skin.

My eyes flutter shut as his mouth trails lower, capturing my nipple with a teasing suck. "Peeta," I moan, a sharp squeal slipping out when he nips lightly at the peak. "Do that again," I beg, voice trembling with raw need. He obliges, grazing his teeth gently before soothing it with slow, deliberate swirls of his tongue, each flick stoking the heat coiling tighter in my core.

I pull his face to mine, our lips crashing in a desperate, hungry kiss. My hair falls forward, a dark curtain shrouding us, cocooning this moment. His hands slide to my hips, guiding me as he thrusts upward, matching my rhythm with deep, deliberate strokes. The friction is electric, each roll of my hips met by his, pushing me closer to the brink.

I throw my head back, a cry tearing from my throat as the pleasure builds, intense and unrelenting. Peeta groans, his pace quickening, hands tightening on my hips as he drives into me, chasing the same release. My body trembles, the coil snapping as my orgasm crashes over me—a blinding wave that leaves me gasping, my walls clenching around him. The sensation drags him over the edge, and he buries his face in my neck, a low, guttural grunt escaping as his body shudders, spilling hot inside me.

The intensity of it—his touch, his love, this life we're creating—leaves me breathless, my body still humming with aftershocks. This raw connection is a reminder of everything Peeta means to me: my anchor, my fire, the one who turns the impossible into something tangible. The baby shifts faintly, a soft flutter amid the chaos of my thoughts, and I cling to the feeling of us, this love that outshines my fears. It's terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly ours—a lifeline to the future we're forging, one breathless moment at a time.

I cup his face, drawing him into a slow, passion-filled kiss. "I love you," I mumble against his lips, voice husky and sincere.

"I love you too," he responds, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of my nose.

I shift in bed, settling on my side with my swollen belly cradled by the mattress, Peeta molding himself to my back like he was made to fit there. His arm drapes over me, hand resting protectively over the curve of my stomach. He's said this is his favorite way to hold me now—the only position that lets him feel close, despite the changes my body's undergone. His warmth seeps into me, steadying the quiet hum of our bedroom.

My fingertips trace the veins on his forearm, and he nuzzles into my neck, breath warm against my skin. "We haven't talked much about names," I murmur, breaking the comfortable silence.

He presses a soft kiss to my pulse point, lips curving into a smile I can feel. "Got any ideas brewing?"

I shrug, shoulder brushing his chest. "Not really. You?"

His chuckle rumbles through me. "Pumpernickel Mellark," he says, laughter lacing his words. "Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "We're not naming our baby after bread."

"What's wrong with it?" he teases, feigning offense.

"It's ridiculous," I shoot back, amusement creeping in despite myself.

Peeta snorts, lips brushing my neck again. "Don't act like pita bread isn't a classic."

"Fine," I concede, grinning now. "No absurd breads."

He laughs outright, warm and easy. "Alright, serious one—Bannock. It's a bread, but not ridiculous."

I pause, rolling the name around in my mind. Bannock. Simple, sturdy. "Bannock," I repeat softly. "I like it."

"Your turn," he says, hand rubbing gentle circles over my belly. "Girl names?"

I think of the woods, the meadow—places that have always felt like sanctuary. "Willow or Juniper," I say after a beat. "Strong trees. They just... feel right."

Peeta hums approvingly. "I love them. Juniper Willow Mellark—it's got a ring to it."

As if in agreement, the baby kicks firmly against his palm. He chuckles, rubbing soothingly. "See? They're sold."

I smile, turning my head to kiss him softly. "Thank you," I murmur against his lips, "for making this feel less scary."

He pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine. "Always, Katniss. I'll keep the fear at bay. It's okay to be scared—I'm terrified too."

I frown, twisting in his arms to face him. "You? You seem so excited, so sure."

His smile fades, gaze dropping. "I don't have the cleanest past," he admits quietly. "What I did to you after the Capitol... and I come from my mother. We both know what she was like."

My heart clenches. "Peeta, you're nothing like her," I say firmly. "The hijacking wasn't you—it was them."

He shakes his head, voice tight. "It doesn't erase the memories. I tried to kill you—twice. That hatred they planted... what if it resurfaces? What if our child learns the truth and sees me as the monster I was? A Capitol mutt?"

I reach up, wiping a tear from his cheek, thumb lingering on his skin. "You're not a monster," I say, voice steady despite the ache. "You've only had flashbacks since—no violence, not once you've come back to me. Our child will know the real story: the Capitol tried to break you, but you fought your way free. You're kindness itself, Peeta, with a heart bigger than Panem. You're not her. You're my world, my partner, my everything. If I have to remind you every day, I will—because you're worth it. Every single moment."

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans in, kissing me deeply—fierce, desperate, pouring all his unspoken fears and love into it.

The kiss ignites a fire in me, that familiar hunger surging to life, never far beneath the surface these days. I shift closer, pressing my body against his, and he responds instantly, hand cradling my jaw as his tongue delves into my mouth with slow, claiming strokes. My palm rubs over his bare chest, savoring the heat of him, before sliding up to grab the hairs at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him groan.

Then, he's sliding inside me—slow, deliberate, a thrust that fills me completely and draws a sharp gasp from my lips.

"I love you," I whisper, voice trembling with the depth of it, my hands gripping his shoulders as he begins to move, each motion a testament to his worth, his love, our unbreakable bond. "You're everything to me."

His breath hitches, hands tightening on my hips as he deepens his thrusts, our bodies falling into a rhythm that's both urgent and tender. I cling to him, nails digging into his back, the pleasure coiling tight.

"Katniss," he groans, voice raw and ragged, lips brushing my ear as he drives us both toward the edge. My body arches beneath him, a cry tearing from my throat as ecstasy crashes over me—my walls clenching hard around him, pulling him deeper. He shudders, a low, guttural moan vibrating against my skin as he spills inside me, our bodies trembling in the shared release, hot and overwhelming.

I wake in the dead of night, a chill creeping over me as I realize Peeta's arm is missing from around my waist. The bed feels vast and empty without his warmth. I glance over my shoulder, peering into the shadows for his silhouette, but he's gone. Frowning, I sit up, the sheet pooling around me, and flick on the lamp. Its soft glow pushes back the darkness, but a knot twists in my stomach. I slide out of bed, pulling on Peeta's discarded shirt from earlier—the fabric loose over my swollen belly—and pad into the hallway.

A faint orange light seeps from under the nursery door, accompanied by the soft clink of a paintbrush against glass. My feet carry me there instinctively, drawn by the quiet certainty of what I'll find.

I ease the door open. Peeta sits on the floor, one leg propped up, guiding a brush across a mural of the meadow—delicate lilac flowers blooming amid vibrant greens. His hair is tousled from my fingers earlier, sticking up wildly, and he's in nothing but his boxers.

"Hey," I say softly, voice barely disturbing the stillness. The haunted shadows in his eyes when he looks up nearly break me.

"Hey," he murmurs, gaze dropping back to the canvas, brush resuming its slow strokes.

I shuffle in, cradling my belly as I sink to the floor. Even lost in his spiral, Peeta sets the brush aside, his hands gentle as he helps me settle between his legs, my back to his chest. I take in the mural—the meadow alive with color, the walls a soft orange echoing a sunset sky. "It's beautiful," I say, awe warming my voice.

"Needs more detail," he replies, tone flat, distant. "But it's coming together."

My eyes sweep the room—unopened boxes, the disassembled mahogany crib, empty shelves waiting for life. "It's really happening," I murmur, the reality settling heavy.

He hums, hands resting lightly on my hips. I shift, draping my legs over his thigh to face him. His eyes are downcast, stormy with that familiar darkness—not the hijacking's venom, but the quiet torment of a nightmare, the kind that haunted him after returning to District 12. They've grown rare, but our earlier talk must have stirred the embers.

"Peeta," I whisper, cupping his face. "Look at me."

His gaze lifts, deep blue cutting through me—raw vulnerability, not Capitol poison. "What happened?" I ask, voice gentle but steady.

He swallows hard, eyes flickering away before returning. "A nightmare," he says, voice cracking. "Worse than usual. I was in a Capitol cell... you were there, pregnant. They were torturing you—like they did me—and I couldn't stop it. Then it twisted... I was the one hurting you. And Snow—he hurled our baby to those lizard mutts. But then it wasn't Snow. It was me. All I heard when I woke was the baby's cries—"

Sobs wrench through him, raw and shattering, and I pull his face to my chest, holding tight as he shakes. Tears burn my own eyes, his pain a knife in my gut. What words can touch this? They've all fallen short before.

So I do what always reaches him. I sing, voice trembling at first from my tears, then steadying.

"Deep in the meadow, Under the willow..."

I weave through the verses, fingers carding gently through his curls, soothing as his sobs quiet to sniffles. His arms tighten around me, clinging as I guide his hand to my belly for the final lines.

"Here is the place where I love you."

Silence falls, broken only by the winter wind rattling the window. "You're going to be an incredible father, Peeta," I say softly. "You'll wipe their tears, make them laugh through anger, teach them to bake with messy hands and no fear of mistakes. But you're not alone in this—I'm scared too. You won't lose yourself."

"How do you know?" he whispers, face still buried against me.

I lift his chin, pressing our foreheads together, eyes locked on his reddened ones. "Because even after that hell, you're here—painting for our child. You feel guilt, empathy, love. You're my dandelion in the spring, Peeta—proof that light blooms from ruin. You make everything good again, no matter what we've lost."

A small, fragile smile breaks through, the real Peeta surfacing. "Thank you, Katniss," he murmurs, voice thick. "For loving me through it all."

"Thank you for fighting back to me—every time," I reply, brushing my lips against his. The kiss deepens, slow and fierce, a vow carrying our past's scars and our future's hope.

()()()

The kitchen glows with the soft flicker of lamplight, the scent of fresh peaches and Peeta's birthday cake still hanging in the air like a sweet promise. Haymitch sits across from us at the table, his fork scraping the plate as he shovels in a bite of cake, face twisting in exaggerated disgust. "This," he grumbles, jabbing toward my bowl of peaches swirled with cream cheese, "is a crime against food."

I glance down at the creamy mixture, the juicy slices glistening, and shoot him a glare. "It's delicious," I retort, scooping up a spoonful for emphasis.

"It's an abomination," he fires back, voice rough as gravel.

I turn to Peeta beside me, who's polishing off his slice—the one he baked himself for his birthday. It's March 15th, and despite the ache in my back all day, I insisted on cooking dinner. Peeta tried to talk me out of it, citing my pregnancy and the pain, even saying his birthday wasn't worth the trouble. My scowl shut him down fast—he raised his hands in surrender and let me have my way.

Traditions matter, and every year, I make his birthday dinner. He handles the cake, though—ever since my disastrous attempt for his twenty-first, which came out charred and lopsided. He ate a whole slice anyway, grinning through every bite. That's when I knew his love for me was unbreakable.

Haymitch never skips our birthdays, just as we never skip his, no matter how much he gripes about the fuss. He's here twice a week for dinner anyway—a constant fixture, grumbling but present. I think my father would've wanted me to keep him close, to remind Haymitch he's not forgotten.

"Try it," I challenge, pushing the bowl toward him.

Haymitch eyes it like it's poison. "Get that away from me, sweetheart," he mutters, leaning back.

Peeta grins, leaning forward. "I'll give you an extra-big slice of cake with double cream if you take a bite."

Haymitch's gaze darts between us, narrowing. "Better be a generous slice, boy." He pulls the bowl closer, scooping a tiny bite, juice dripping onto the cream cheese. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing like it's venom, and pops it in. He chews, face scrunching, then cracks one eye to meet my smirk.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles, already going for another spoonful. "I'm not saying it." He shoves the bowl back, but his scowl softens.

"What?" I tease, leaning in. "That I was right?"

Haymitch scoffs, waving a hand. "I'm never wrong."

I roll my eyes, biting back a laugh. "How were you ever friends with my dad?" It's still hard to picture—Haymitch, all edges and grit, best friends with my gentle father.

"Because he was a hell of a lot easier to get along with," Haymitch shoots back, but a grin tugs at his lips, blunting the barb. "Didn't give me half the grief you do."

I snort, digging back into my bowl. When Haymitch mutters to Peeta to fetch him his own serving of peaches and cream cheese instead of more cake, I can't hold back the laugh. Peeta winks at me, rising to grab another bowl, while Haymitch grumbles under his breath. But there's a warmth in the room now, a quiet ease that feels like family.

The moment lingers, and I lean back in my chair, hand resting on my belly. The baby kicks—a gentle nudge, as if joining the banter. My father's absence still aches, but scenes like this remind me of the love he left behind, the ties that endure. The fear of motherhood hums beneath my skin, but so does the hope, steady and growing, rooted in the people who turn this house into a home.

I lean into Peeta when he sits back down, his arm wrapping around me. He presses a kiss to my temple before offering Haymitch some sage advice about not letting one of his geese sleep in his bed. The rain patters against the windowpane, the fire crackles softly, and Haymitch's grumbling weaves through it all, tying together this perfect, fleeting moment I wish could stretch on forever.

After Haymitch shuffles out, grumbling about the late hour, the apartment falls into a comfortable quiet, just Peeta and me. The radio hums a soft folk tune, its melody drifting through the air like a gentle breeze. I stretch my legs across Peeta's lap on the couch, his sketchbook balanced against my thighs, pencil gliding in lazy strokes. I grin, running my fingers through his tousled curls. "So, how's it feel to be thirty-two?"

He glances up, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "No different than thirty-one," he teases, voice warm and easy. "How's it feel being with an older man?"

I roll my eyes, laughing. "You're barely two months older, Peeta. Hardly counts."

"Two months is a lifetime," he counters, grin widening. "Big age gap, Katniss."

"Oh, really?" I lean in, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind his ear, lingering before nipping his earlobe. "In that case," I whisper, voice low and sultry, "I find it really sexy."

His grip tightens on my shin, a low groan rumbling in his throat. I shove his sketchbook aside, the pages fluttering to the floor as I swing my leg over to straddle him, my swollen belly pressing against his chest. I grind slowly against the growing hardness beneath me, savoring how his breath hitches, his hands sliding up my thighs with urgent need.

"Sexy?" he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "Pretty sure that's my line for you." His grin turns wicked, hands gripping my hips as I roll against him again.

I raise an eyebrow, gesturing to my pregnant form, the curve unmistakable. "You think this is sexy?"

He snorts, as if the question is ridiculous. "Fuck yes," he says, eyes darkening with heat. "You're the sexiest woman alive, Katniss. Pregnant or not. Always have been."

The air crackles between us, charged and electric, and things spiral from there. We don't make it to the bedroom—too impatient, too lost in the fire. I slide off his lap, turning to brace my hands and knees on the couch, arching my back as Peeta moves behind me. His hands grip my hips, firm and possessive, yanking my pants and underwear down in one swift motion, leaving me exposed and aching. I feel the heat of him, the hard length of his cock pressing against me, teasing at my entrance.

"Fuck, Katniss," he mutters, voice low and raw, words spilling out that would shock anyone who knows his gentle baker side. "You drive me absolutely wild."

I glance over my shoulder, smirking through the haze of want. "Then show me," I challenge, voice breathy, already trembling with anticipation.

He doesn't hesitate, sliding into me with a slow, deep thrust that fills me completely, drawing a sharp gasp from my lips. His hands tighten on my hips, guiding me as he sets a rhythm—each movement deliberate, stretching me in the best way.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, voice thick with need, thrusts growing harder, faster, as I push back against him, meeting every stroke.

My body trembles, pleasure building like a storm, my swollen belly swaying slightly with each thrust. His hands slide up—one cupping my breast, teasing my nipple through the fabric until it hardens under his fingers; the other gripping my hip to pull me closer. "You're so fucking perfect," he pants, words a delicious contrast to his usual tenderness, igniting me further.

"Peeta," I gasp, voice breaking as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. The world narrows to this—the heat of his skin, the slap of our bodies, the raw connection drowning out every fear.

My release crashes over me, a tidal wave that leaves me shuddering, walls clenching hard around him as I cry out, nails scraping the couch fabric. Peeta follows seconds later, thrusts faltering as he buries himself deep, a guttural groan escaping as he spills inside me, body shaking against mine.

The intensity lingers, my body humming with aftershocks. This raw, unfiltered connection with Peeta is my lifeline—a reminder of the love that steadies us through the unknowns of this pregnancy.

()()()

30 Weeks

I rub my aching lower back as I wrap a loaf of bread for the customer, the familiar rhythm of the bakery offering a small anchor amid the discomfort. Peeta keeps urging me to step back from the counter now that I'm well into my pregnancy, but I pushed back hard. Hunting's been impossible for months—my swollen belly throws off my balance in the woods—and I refuse to be trapped upstairs all day, bored out of my mind. Here, at least, I'm moving, helping, part of the life we've carved out. He relented, but only if I promise to sit during lulls—a compromise I accepted without much argument.

"You're positively glowing, dear," Mrs. Petrakis croaks, her wrinkled smile warm as she takes the bread.

"Thank you," I say, mustering a tight smile—the kind I reserve for compliments that make my skin itch. It's not her fault; she means well. She runs the sweet shop with her granddaughter, whose kids are regulars here, always begging for honey buns. Peeta and I know them well, but praise from anyone but him still feels like navigating a field of snares.

She shuffles out, and I sink into the chair with a sigh, my body heavy from the day's toll. The second trimester was deceptively easy, lulling me into thinking pregnancy might not be so grueling. But now, at thirty weeks, the baby's kicks are stronger, more insistent, and every muscle protests—back, feet, legs. I feel guilty letting Peeta massage me so often, but he never complains. After long days, he guides me to the couch, his hands kneading out the knots with a tenderness that's become my favorite ritual.

The bell chimes, and I stifle a groan, easing myself up on throbbing feet. Delly's bright smile greets me, her four kids clustering around her like eager chicks, their chatter filling the space.

"Hey, Katniss!" she calls, her cheer as infectious as ever.

"Hey, Delly. Hey, little ones," I reply, managing a genuine smile—warmer than the one for Mrs. Petrakis.

She grins, reading me instantly. "Let me guess—too many 'you're glowing' comments today?"

I lean against the counter. "How'd you know?"

"Because I got the same nonstop," she says, ruffling her son's blond hair. "Never a 'how are you holding up?' or anything actually helpful."

I chuckle, tension easing from my shoulders. "Yeah, and 'you're getting so big' is a crowd favorite. Peeta's not thrilled about that one."

She laughs, eyes sparkling. "Doesn't surprise me. How are you holding up, really? It's gotta be a wild ride for you."

My shoulders sag a bit, grateful for the real question. "It's... a lot," I admit, rubbing my belly absentmindedly. "We're still carrying those scars from before, you know? But Peeta's been my rock through it all."

"That's what counts," Delly says, voice soft but sure. "Having a partner who's there makes all the difference. Thom was a saint during mine, though he nearly fainted every delivery."

I snort, picturing Thom's panic. "All four times?"

"Every single one," she says, grinning. "You'd think he'd learn."

Peeta strides in from the back then, a tray of fresh loaves balanced on his shoulder. "Hey, Del!" he calls, smile lighting up the room.

"Hey, Peet," she replies. "We were just saying how annoying you've been."

He gasps, clutching his chest in mock outrage as he loads the display rack. "Lies! Slander! I'm the epitome of charm every day."

"Not when you leave your dirty socks on the floor," I quip, raising an eyebrow.

He feigns betrayal. "Et tu, Katniss? My own wife!"

The kids giggle, and I roll my eyes, a grin tugging at my lips as he steps behind me, arms wrapping around my waist to press a kiss to my neck. His warmth soothes the ache in my back, if only for a moment.

"Just teasing," Delly says, smile fond. "We were actually talking about all the lovely things people say when you're pregnant."

Peeta huffs, breath tickling my skin. "Yeah, telling Katniss she's 'huge' isn't my favorite. A simple 'how's it going?' would be nice."

"Knew you'd say that," Delly replies, eyes warm. "You two balance each other so well. It's beautiful to watch."

"Thanks, Del," Peeta says, kissing my cheek before heading back to the ovens, his hand lingering on my hip.

"The usual?" I ask, already reaching for her order.

"Yup, and four chocolate chip cookies, please," she says, her kids bouncing with excitement.

As I gather the bread and treats, Delly chats about her kids—how her youngest, little Poppy, turns two soon—the bakery, the evolving district. I've always appreciated her: Peeta's best friend, practically a sister to him. Though I'm not as close, her warmth is a comfort, like a brighter, bubblier echo of him—their laughter and kindness cut from the same cloth. It's a quiet joy, having her here, part of this life we've built.

As she leaves with her brood, bags in hand, I lean against the counter, hand on my belly. The baby kicks—a strong, insistent nudge—and I smile faintly.

It's the middle of April, and the days have softened, the bite of winter finally giving way to milder air. I take full advantage, kneeling in the vegetable and herb garden behind the bakery, pulling dead plants and turning the soil for new seedlings. The cool breeze rustles the apple tree in the corner, and I tilt my face up, letting the sun's warm rays soak into my skin. With hunting off-limits this is the next best thing. Peeta never argues about me being out here; he knows it's my lifeline to the wild.

I hear his heavy tread before I see him, squatting beside me with a nervous look on his face. He's still in his apron, flour dusting his cheek like fresh snow. "Hey," I smile, reaching up to wipe it away—only to smudge dirt across his skin instead, which makes me grin wider.

Peeta chuckles, dusting his face clean. "The garden's looking great. And you look beautiful doing something you love."

I raise an eyebrow, sensing the undercurrent. "What's going on?"

He bites his lip, glancing over his shoulder. "Um... someone came into the bakery asking for you."

I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen. Gale. I haven't seen him since that final confrontation—since I silently vowed never to lay eyes on him again after his deadly inventions took Prim. I look back at Peeta, who's watching me closely.

"I can tell him to leave if you don't want to hear him out," Peeta offers, his voice steady but protective.

The temptation pulls at me, but curiosity wins. If Gale's here after all these years, he must have something to say. Not that I have to like it. "No, it's okay."

Peeta stands, offering his arms to pull me to my feet. He starts to leave, but I grab his hand. He looks back, and I squeeze it in reassurance. He smiles faintly, nods, and walks past Gale with a small, polite nod before disappearing inside.

I approach but keep my distance, arms folded. Gale's changed—hair buzzed short, a beard framing his face, his frame broader—but his eyes are the same, sharp and unyielding. It's strange seeing him after so long; we're practically strangers now.

"I uh... tried the Victor's Village first, but there's a school there now," he says.

I nod. "Yeah... no point keeping it up. Twelve's got more residents than ever—bigger schools were needed."

We're silent for a beat, his eyes flicking to my protruding belly before meeting mine again. "Congratulations."

I let out a long breath. "What are you doing here, Gale?"

"Well, initially, I'm here to talk to the high school about special weaponry jobs in Two—recruiting some new soldiers. After that, I wandered around. The Seam's changed, the town's different, but the woods... it's like stepping back in time."

"Yeah, well, the district has to move forward," I reply, keeping my tone even. I know what he's trying—using the woods to crack me open, like old times. But he doesn't get that anymore. We were best friends once, but that was lifetimes ago.

"Listen, Katnip—" He stops at my glare. "Katniss. I couldn't be here and not try to give you some closure."

I fold my arms tighter, a silent cue to continue.

"I... I designed those bombs. I don't regret creating them—they helped win the rebellion. But I regret trusting Coin with them. I'm sorry Prim was the cost."

His words land like a gut punch. The baby kicks sharply, as if echoing my flinch. I press a hand to the spot, trying to soothe us both.

"Maybe that's enough for you, Gale. But it's not for me."

He opens his mouth. "Kat—"

I cut him off with a tired breath. "Look... I appreciate you coming. Really. But I'm done letting the past dictate how I feel every day."

He's watching me too intently, waiting for something—forgiveness, maybe—that I don't have to give.

"I hope this gives you the closure you're after," I say. "But I found mine years ago. I've got a life now. A family. I need to protect that. I couldn't save Prim—I won't fail again."

Gale's jaw tightens, like he expected more. "You won't fail. Your baby's lucky to have you."

"Thanks."

He nods toward the gate. "I should go. Train leaves in an hour."

"Yeah."

He hesitates. "I really am sorry, Katniss."

"I know."

He offers a thin, sad smile, then slips through the creaking side gate into the alley between the bakery and the butcher.

When he's gone, I release a long breath. The air feels cleaner without him in it. He can't just waltz back after all these years, after everything. It might seem cruel, but he's right about what he said long ago: looking at him now, all I see is the bomb that stole my sister. My gentle, innocent, strong little Prim. I'll never get her back because of it. And no matter the apologies, Gale will always be a reminder of that loss.

The late afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the apartment floor, but my attention is fixed inward. My hand rests on my belly, waiting for a kick, a roll—anything to reassure me. But there's nothing. Not since this morning.

My heart quickens, that familiar panic rising like bile. I've lost too much—Prim, my father, so many faces from the arenas and the war—to believe everything's fine just because I want it to be. Peeta's at the market, restocking the pantry and placing another order at the Hall of Justice for bakery supplies, so I don't have his steady words to calm the storm. My fingers tremble as I grab the phone and dial my mother's number, each button press weighted with dread.

The line crackles before her voice comes through, calm but edged with immediate concern. "Katniss? Is everything alright?"

I swallow hard, throat dry as dust. "The baby's not moving," I say, trying to keep my voice even, but it cracks anyway. "Not like yesterday. It's been hours. I don't know if something's wrong." The words make me feel small, vulnerable—like I'm a child again, turning to her for fixes she couldn't always provide.

A brief pause, but her tone stays steady, slipping into that professional rhythm from her healing days. "Okay, Katniss, listen to me. Are you sitting down?"

I nod, even though she can't see, and lower myself into a kitchen chair. "Yeah."

"Good," she says. "Do you have any juice or tea nearby? Something sweet?"

My eyes scan the counter, landing on the jar of honey Peeta left out. "Honey in tea?" I ask, already rising to fill the kettle, needing the task to steady my shaking hands.

"Perfect," she replies, her voice assured, like she's guided countless worried mothers through this. "Make a cup, stir in some honey, and sip it slowly. Babies at thirty weeks can have quieter spells as they grow—less room to move around. They sleep too. After you drink, lie on your left side and count any movements for an hour. Even the tiniest flutters count."

I stir honey into the mug of warm tea, grimacing at the sweetness as I take a sip. "What if it doesn't work?" I ask, voice quieter, the fear slipping through.

"Most times, it does—the sugar wakes them up," she says. "I saw it plenty in District 12, and here in 4 too. But if you don't feel at least six movements in two hours, call Dr. Carina. Have Peeta take you to the hospital if you're still worried."

I move to the couch, lying on my left side as she instructed, hand cradling my belly. "I don't want to bother Peeta," I murmur, staring at the wall, the words more confession than statement.

"You're not bothering him," she says firmly. "You're strong, Katniss, but you don't have to shoulder this alone. You're doing everything right for your baby." Her voice softens, a rare warmth breaking through. "I had slow days with you and Prim too. It scared me every time. But listening to my body—resting, waiting—brought you both into the world safe."

Prim's name stings, a familiar pang, but I don't snap back. Exhaustion blunts the old anger, and today, I'm too raw to fight. "Okay," I say, voice barely a whisper. "I'll count. I'll call if it's still... wrong."

"Good," she replies. "I'll keep the line open tonight. Call me if you need to, Katniss."

I hang up, setting the phone beside me, and focus on my belly, waiting. Ten minutes drag by, then a faint flutter brushes my palm—small but unmistakable. Another follows, softer but real. My breath rushes out in shaky relief, the knot in my chest loosening.

The fear doesn't vanish entirely, but it recedes, softened by those tiny movements—proof of life persisting within me. My mother's voice, steady and practical, echoes in my mind, a tentative bridge across our fractured years. The baby's stillness had terrified me, but these flutters are a reminder of the strength budding inside, of the love Peeta and I are nurturing.

I'm still lying on my side on the couch, hand resting on my belly, when the apartment door creaks open nearly an hour later. Peeta steps inside, arms loaded with four bags overflowing with market finds—fresh produce, herbs, and spices to restock our pantry.

The faint clink of glass jars echoes as he sets them on the kitchen counter. I've counted six faint kicks since my call with my mother, and the panic has loosened its grip, but not completely. Peeta's gaze lands on me immediately, and something in my expression must give away the remnants of my worry. He crosses the room in quick strides, kneeling before me, eyes soft with concern.

"Everything okay?" he asks, voice gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering on my cheek.

I nod, mustering a small smile. "I... had a scare," I admit, keeping my tone low. "The baby wasn't moving since this morning. I got worried and called my mom."

His eyes widen, a flash of alarm crossing his face before he places his hand on my belly. As if sensing him, a strong kick presses against his palm, and he exhales sharply, relief flooding his features. "There you are," he murmurs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against mine. "You had me worried for a second there too."

"Sorry," I say, shifting so my back rests against the back of the couch cushions. Peeta moves to lie beside me, our bodies facing each other, close enough that his warmth chases away the lingering chill. "I should've led with the part where they're okay now."

He shakes his head, a soft smile curving his lips. "It's alright. Can you believe we're having a baby in just two months?"

I let out a shaky breath, my hand covering his on my belly. "Not really. It's... terrifying."

His fingers trace gentle patterns along my side, affectionate and reassuring. "I know," he says, voice steady but warm. "But you're handling this better than you give yourself credit for, Katniss. You're scared, you have doubts, but you're already an incredible mother. Today shows it—your instincts kicked in, and you reached out for help without hesitating. That's strength. This baby is going to adore you, just like I do."

His words seep in, soothing the raw edges of my fear. I lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Thank you," I murmur, voice thick with emotion. "For being here. I couldn't do any of this without you."

He smiles, eyes bright despite the day's fatigue. "Always, Katniss. I'm not going anywhere."

I rest my head against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat a familiar lullaby. His hand glides up and down my side, slow and deliberate, and I feel the baby shift again—a soft nudge, as if joining the quiet reassurance.

We fall into a comfortable silence, his touch and the rhythm of his heart weaving a calm around me. The baby kicks once more, gentler now, and I let the moment hold me. The panic from earlier lingers like a faint shadow, but Peeta's presence and the baby's movements make it feel a little more distant. This life inside me, this future we're building—it feels both daunting and precious. As his warmth envelops me, my eyelids grow heavy, and I drift into sleep, cradled by the steady beat of his heart and the quiet certainty of our shared path ahead.

()()()

35 Weeks

The late afternoon sun slants through the trees, casting long shadows across the meadow's soft grass as Peeta guides me down onto the blanket he's spread out. His hand stays firm on my lower back, the other clasping mine, steadying me through the awkwardness of my swollen belly. The late spring breeze tugs at my loose strands of hair as I settle, smoothing the skirt of my pale blue maternity dress.

Dresses and I have always had a complicated history—echoes of the Victory Tour's elaborate, suffocating gowns still prick at me, beautiful traps that chained me to a role I despised. Now, with my belly so round I can no longer see my toes, even my maternity jeans feel a little uncomfortable, their elastic digging in. Dresses, loose and flowing, have become my reluctant choice, though the smiles and glances from folks in District 12 make my skin itch. I can't wait to slip back into my own clothes, free from the weight of strangers' well-meaning stares.

"It's a perfect day," Peeta says, easing down beside me. He leans back on one arm, pulling a knee up to rest his elbow on it, his gaze sweeping over the wildflowers swaying in the breeze.

I close my eyes, letting the sun's warmth kiss my face, the breeze cooling my cheeks. My hand rests on my belly, feeling the baby shift—a restless presence that's both alien and intimately mine. "It is," I murmur, leaning my head against his shoulder, his steady warmth grounding me. His cheek rests against the top of my head as we stare out at the horizon.

"You feeling any better?" he asks softly, concern threading his voice. This morning's brutal headache had left me miserable, body heavy with exhaustion and pain. Peeta suggested the meadow, knowing how much I've missed the woods—the open air, the quiet freedom. Since we arrived, the throbbing in my temples has faded, the fresh breeze weaving a fragile relief through my weary frame.

"Much better," I say, voice quiet. "The headache's almost gone."

He tilts his head, pressing a gentle kiss to my crown, lips lingering. "Good. I hated seeing you like that."

I manage a small smile, fingers tracing idle circles over my belly. "If you hated that, you're really going to hate labor. Dr. Carina didn't mince words—said it's going to hurt. A lot."

Peeta's hand covers mine, warm and sure. "I'll hate every second of watching you in pain," he admits, voice quiet but resolute. "But I'll be right there, Katniss—holding your hand, reminding you it's not forever. There's joy on the other side: a little life we made together."

His words stir a mix of fear and hope in me, a tangle that's grown familiar these months. I tilt my head to meet his gaze, his blue eyes soft yet unyielding. "You make it sound so simple," I say, doubt creeping in.

"It's not," he acknowledges, thumb brushing my knuckles. "But we've faced worse, haven't we? And we're still here. We'll get through this too."

I nod, leaning into him as the baby shifts again, as if in agreement. "I just... don't want to let them down," I confess, voice barely a whisper. "Or you."

"You won't," he says, tone firm but gentle. "You're already giving them everything, Katniss. Every day, you're carrying them, loving them. That's more than enough."

I let his words sink in, their warmth blunting the sharp edges of my fear. The meadow stretches before us, alive and vibrant—a reminder of the world we're bringing this child into, one we've fought to rebuild. Peeta's hand stays over mine, his presence a quiet vow that we're in this together.

The baby rolls again, a firm nudge that steals my breath, and I close my eyes, letting the breeze and Peeta's warmth enfold me. The fear of what's coming—labor, motherhood, the sheer weight of it—still simmers, sharp and insistent. But here, in this moment, amid the meadow's quiet beauty and Peeta's steadfast love, a spark of hope flickers, fragile yet growing. Maybe I can be enough—for this child, for us. That thought anchors me, steady and real, as I rest against him, my body heavy but my heart a fraction lighter.

We immediately dig into our picnic basket for what Peeta dubs my "birthday lunch." The spread is simple but thoughtful—sandwiches crafted with his careful touch, a colorful array of fruits (heavy on peaches, still my relentless craving), flaky pastries fresh from the oven, and tart lemonade squeezed from the lemons on the tree behind our bakery.

We talk as we eat, his funny stories from the past week pulling laughter from me, while I recount scaring Haymitch half to death when he felt the baby move. Our conversation flows easily, like the breeze rustling the wildflowers around us.

Once we're full on food and lemonade, Peeta insists I relax, positioning me to face the meadow so he can sketch. I relent, not because I love being his muse, but because his persistence is as unyielding as ever, and the view—the distant tree line of my woods, birds wheeling against a clear sky—is worth the indulgence.

I sit for nearly an hour, hand resting on the curve of my belly, feeling the baby shift occasionally amid the meadow's quiet symphony. Peeta's pencil scratches softly, his focus intense yet comforting. When he finally declares he's done, he turns the sketchbook toward me, and I can't help but smile. The drawing, in grayscale, captures the day's serenity—the wind teasing the trees, the gentle arc of my belly, my hand cradling it protectively. It's peaceful, almost ethereal—a frozen slice of time.

"It's beautiful, Peeta," I say, voice soft with genuine awe.

He grins, eyes bright with pride. "Your turn. Draw me."

I snort, shaking my head. "No way. I'll leave the art to the expert."

"Come on, Katniss," he teases, leaning closer, voice playful. "It's your birthday. Indulge me. I promise I won't laugh."

"Forget it," I laugh, nudging his shoulder.

He doesn't back down, grin widening as he chants, "Katniss. Katniss. Katniss—"

"Fine!" I groan, snatching the sketchbook from his hands. "Hand it over."

He laughs, striking a ridiculous pose—chin propped on his fist, brow furrowed in exaggerated thought, looking more constipated than contemplative. "You're ridiculous," I mutter, gripping the pencil as I start sketching.

"What? I've never been drawn before," he says, holding the pose with mock seriousness. "How should I act?"

"Like a normal person," I retort, glancing up, lips twitching.

He shrugs, eyes twinkling. "Where's the fun in that?"

I roll my eyes, already regretting this as my lines wobble across the page. His sketch took an hour of precision; mine takes ten minutes and looks like a child's doodle, barely resembling him. "Done," I announce, shoving the sketchbook back.

Peeta drops his pose, eagerly flipping to the page. His eyes sparkle with amusement, lips twitching. "You said you wouldn't laugh," I scowl, folding my arms.

"I'm not," he coughs, masking a chuckle. "It's... stunning. I'm framing this for the bakery—prime display spot."

"Don't you dare," I warn, narrowing my eyes.

He laughs outright, holding the sketch beside his face for comparison. "It's a masterpiece, Katniss. The resemblance is uncanny."

"It looks like a five-year-old drew it," I point out, unable to stifle my own laugh.

"Exactly," he says, grin unrepentant. "No one will ever suspect it was you."

I swat his arm lightly, and he leans in, kissing my cheek—warm and lingering. "You're lucky it's my birthday," I mutter, but my smile gives me away.

"Happy birthday, Katniss," he murmurs, voice soft, hand resting gently on my belly. The baby kicks, as if joining the celebration, and we both laugh, the sound mingling with the breeze.

()()()

41 Weeks

I grip Peeta's forearm, teeth clenched as another contraction surges through me, sharp and unrelenting. We pause our slow circuit around the bedroom, and I squeeze my eyes shut, counting through the waves of pain. Peeta's hand stays steady on my lower back, his lips brushing the top of my head. "You're doing amazing, Katniss," he murmurs, voice soft but unyielding—a lifeline amid the haze.

Labor has dragged on for twelve hours now, each contraction fiercer than the last. I refuse to let it break me. I survived two Hunger Games, a rebellion, wounds that should've killed me—tracker jacker venom, Johanna's knife carving out my tracker, the inferno that stole Prim in a bomb's blast.

My body didn't fail me then, and it's fighting now, carrying me through this too. But the pain dredges up those memories, each wave an echo of losses I'd rather bury. I can't control the intensity, but I can control how I endure it—most of the time. When my resolve wavers, Peeta's there, pulling me back from the brink.

"I can do this," I gasp as the contraction ebbs, voice strained but determined.

"You can," he says, fierce belief in his tone. "You're doing it all, Katniss."

I nod, exhaling shakily, and we resume our slow loop as Dr. Carina sets up her station, movements calm and efficient. "Tell me something good," I mumble, needing his voice to drown the rising fear.

Peeta's hand squeezes mine gently. "Yesterday, I saw a little boy holding a girl's hand in the market. Blond curly hair and two dark braids—remind you of anyone?"

A small laugh escapes despite the ache. "That's adorable. What else?"

He smiles, thumb rubbing soothing circles over my knuckles. "A few days ago, one of our regulars helped Clerk Carmine down the bakery steps. Held his arm the whole way."

I manage a faint smile, the mention of Clerk Carmine warming me. After the rebellion, he became a quiet fixture in District 12, sharing tales of Lucy Gray Baird—the mysterious first victor from our district, who once captivated a young Coriolanus Snow.

The idea of Snow as charming, as human, had stunned me, but Clerk insisted he'd been convincing, fooling everyone. They found Lucy Gray's body in the woods days after she supposedly ran away with Snow, a bullet wound her silent end. Clerk always suspected Snow's hand in it, though proof never surfaced. He spoke of the Covey, his family, who brought music and light to a grim district, their songs echoing long after they faded.

My thoughts drift to a moment four years after the rebellion, when Peeta and I were packing our Victor's Village house to move above the bakery. Clerk Carmine showed up at our door, eyes heavy with unspoken weight. Wary but curious, we invited him in. Sitting in our living room, he revealed a truth that reshaped me: I'm Covey by blood, linked to Lucy Gray through my father's great-grandmother, Barb Azure—her cousin.

Haymitch's girlfriend during his Games, Lenore Dove, was connected too—her grandmother, Maude Ivory, another of Lucy Gray's cousins. Clerk sang "Deep in the Meadow" word for word to prove it, a song I'd only performed once on camera, for Rue in the arena. No one else could've known it unless it ran in their veins.

I confronted Haymitch later, and after some grumbling, he confirmed it—my father and Lenore called each other "cuz," distant kin bound by shared roots. The revelation felt like uncovering a hidden part of myself: my ear for songs, my defiance of Snow and Coin—it all clicked, as if the Covey's spirit pulsed in my blood.

Clerk wasn't a constant in our lives, keeping to himself, but Peeta did something profoundly kind a few months after that talk. He asked Clerk to describe Lucy Gray in detail, then sketched her, bringing the drawing to life with vibrant colors based on his words. The old man's eyes filled with tears when he saw it, and he asked Peeta to draw the other Covey too. Peeta made two sketches of Lenore Dove, gifting one to Clerk and the other to Haymitch for his birthday. Haymitch carries it with him everywhere, a silent piece of his heart he rarely mentions.

Another contraction builds, and I grip Peeta's arm, breathing through it. "You're so strong," he whispers, kissing my temple. "Keep going."

I nod, clinging to his voice. The pain is brutal, but my body's enduring, as it always has. This child, this life, carries the Covey's resilience, Peeta's heart, and my unyielding will. I close my eyes, riding the wave, anchored by the thought of the future we're bringing into being.

The night drags on, each contraction sharper and more relentless than the last, a tidal wave of pain threatening to drag me under. My body trembles, sweat beading on my brow as I grip the edge of the bed, knuckles white. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting flickering shadows across the walls, but all I can focus on is the fire raging through me. Dr. Carina kneels at the foot of the bed, her calm presence a stark counterpoint to my inner chaos.

"Okay, Katniss," she says, voice steady as she checks my progress. "You're ready to push on the next one."

I nod, breath ragged, trying to brace myself. Peeta is behind me, his hands firm yet gentle as he holds my legs in position as Dr. Carina instructed, his chest a solid anchor at my back. "You've got this, Katniss," he whispers, lips brushing my temple, his voice a beacon through the storm.

I draw a shaky breath, feeling the next contraction build like a vise tightening. I grit my teeth and push, channeling every ounce of strength, my body straining as Dr. Carina counts slowly to ten, her voice clear and even.

"Good, Katniss—now rest," she says, and I slump back against Peeta, gasping, muscles screaming. The cycle repeats—push, rest, push, rest—each effort wrenching guttural cries from my throat. The pain is searing, as if my body is tearing apart, and my fears roar to life, urging me to stop, to give in. But I don't. I've come too far.

"You're so strong," Peeta murmurs, voice thick with emotion, his hands unwavering. "You're doing it, Katniss. You've survived worse—keep going."

"I can do this," I gasp, clinging to his words, to the certainty in them. I trust my body to bring this life into the world, no matter how terrifying. Another contraction builds, and I summon every shred of resolve, pushing with all I have—a scream ripping from my throat as it feels like I'm splitting in two. The pain is blinding, white-hot, consuming—but then, in a sudden rush, it eases, and my body sags against Peeta's.

A piercing newborn cry fills the room, sharp and full of life, slicing through the haze. "It's a girl!" Dr. Carina announces, her smile radiant as she lifts our daughter—slick and perfect—and places her on my bare chest.

Tears stream down my cheeks, not from pain but from an overwhelming rush of love that drowns every doubt. Her tiny body is warm against me, her cries softening as she nestles in. Peeta's hand trembles as he brushes it over her head, her dark hair—my hair—matted and damp. "You did it," he gasps, voice breaking with awe. "I knew you could. She's here, Katniss—she's perfect."

"We did it," I whisper, eyes locked on our daughter. "Our little Juniper Willow Mellark." Her cries quiet to a whimper, her lip pouting as her eyes crack open, peering up with a gaze that's already so blue, so knowing.

"Hi there," I murmur, finger tracing the delicate bridge of her nose, still slick from birth.

"Hey, Juniper," Peeta whispers, voice soft and reverent. She lets out a tiny, contented sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

I tilt my head, seeking Peeta's lips, and he meets me in a tender kiss, his arms tightening around us both—a protective cocoon for our new family.

I rest my head against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat mingling with the soft weight of Juniper on mine. My body feels battered, sore in ways I didn't know possible, but the outcome makes every moment worth it. Holding our daughter's warm, breathing form, I'd go through it all again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe.

Reluctance claws at me as I hesitate to hand Juniper to Dr. Carina, even for a moment. After the grueling final stages of labor, she gently suggests I shower while she changes the bed and cleans our daughter. My chest tightens at the thought of separation, but Peeta's steady hand on my arm and his quiet reassurance ease the panic.

"She'll be right here when we're done," he murmurs, voice low and certain. "I've got you."

He joins me in the shower, his hands careful and soothing as he washes away the sweat and blood, easing the ache between my legs and the lingering tension knotted in my muscles. The warm water cascades over us, and his tender touch feels like a balm, quieting the raw edges of the day.

When we return, the bed is fresh—sheets crisp and clean. Dr. Carina stands by the bedside, cradling a now-clean Juniper, her tiny body bare, a cloth diaper in her free hand. She guides us through the first diaper change with patient instructions, showing us how to secure it with the safety pin.

"Keep her close—skin to skin—as much as you can," she says, smiling warmly. "It's good for her, and for you." She helps me settle Juniper against my breast, and after a few fumbling tries, I feel the gentle tug of her latch—a strange, grounding pull. Dr. Carina nods approvingly. "You've got it. Call me anytime—day or night." With a final encouraging smile, she slips out, leaving the apartment hushed.

An hour later, the room is still, softened by the gentle June breeze drifting through the open window, carrying the scent of blooming wildflowers. I lie on my side, propped on an elbow, watching Juniper sleep soundly on Peeta's bare chest. Her tiny breaths are soft and even, her dark hair even darker against his pale skin. His fingertips trace slow, rhythmic patterns along her back, and she lets out a small, contented whimper in her sleep, lips twitching.

"She already loves you," I say, grinning as I reach over and run my pinky down Juniper's tiny nose. It scrunches adorably.

Peeta's eyes, closed in quiet reverence, flutter open. His smile is soft, radiant. "I love her so much," he whispers, voice thick. "I didn't think it was possible to love anyone the way I love you... but the second I heard her cry, it hit me. This is what everything's been for."

I chuckle, the sound lighter than I feel. "It's kind of ironic, isn't it? You fell for me when you heard me sing, and now you've fallen for her the moment she cried."

He laughs quietly, the vibration humming against my cheek as I nestle closer into the crook of his free arm. "Guess I've got a thing for brunette songbirds," he teases, eyes glinting with warmth.

I roll my eyes, fingers brushing one of Juniper's delicate, dark eyebrows. "She's got your eyes," I say, voice hushed with wonder.

"And your nose," he replies, grinning. "Lucky girl—mine's terrible."

I snort, nudging his side. "You're ridiculous."

We fall into comfortable silence, the weight of Juniper's small body anchoring us. After a moment, Peeta's voice breaks through, quieter, more serious.

"Katniss," he says, gaze meeting mine, "thank you. I know what this cost you—what you fought through to bring her here. I'll spend every day showing you how much it means."

I press a kiss to his chest, lips lingering against his warmth. "I'm not worried," I murmur, looking up at him with a small smile. "We're doing this together. I'd go through it all again—for her, for us. Now we get to love her for the rest of our lives."

His smile widens, and he leans down, kissing me softly—a tender vow sealed in the hush. "Guess the odds were in our favor after all," he whispers, voice light but full of meaning.

I laugh quietly, the sound mingling with his as our lips meet again, slow and gentle. The world narrows to the three of us. I settle my head against his chest, my face inches from Juniper's, my hand resting over his on her back. Her tiny breaths, Peeta's steady heartbeat, the breeze carrying summer's promise—they weave together, wrapping me in a peace I never thought I'd know. The fears of motherhood, the scars of our past, still linger, but they're softer now, overshadowed by the love filling this room. Exhaustion finally pulls me under, and I drift off, cradled by the warmth of my family.