Unconditionally

Chapter 2

One day after the first encounter

The glass of the bakery window is dirty.

I see this for the fifth time this week, peering through to the other side to try to catch a glimpse of Peeta's shaggy mess of golden curls as he dips his head, using a rolling pin to flatten the dough against the counter. He flicks his head to the side, attempting to clear the blonde mess out of his cerulean eyes to continue with the cookies he's making.

When he blows a buff of air upwards through his pursed lips, still frustrated with his hair, the locks in front of his eyes flutter away. He remains looking up, and the absence of the hair there gives the perfect opportunity for him to lock gazes with me. I startle. He's seen me staring. A furious blush burns a path on my cheeks and neck, and I quickly put an end to my rubbernecking. When I look back up, assuming he's lost interest, I find his eyes still pinned to me. He watches, curious. Of course he doesn't remember you, Katniss. You were just one of his many customers yesterday.

But I can't help but feel something that contradicts this thought. Maybe it's the way that he does seem to recognize me, the smile in his eyes identical to the one playing on his lips. Or maybe it's the way he greets me, saying my name, muffled but audible on the other side of the glass. It could be- no, it's definitely- that he invites me inside, putting down his rolling pin and leaning against the counter.

The chiming sound of the door's bell is so much more inviting this time around, and the way he's looking me up and down, assessing me, causes a kaleidoscope of butterflies to erupt in my stomach. I place my hands on the counter and then quickly pull them away. Normally I'm not one to be ashamed of the chapped state of my hands, the cuticles peeling and bleeding in some places. But I am with him. And I don't know why.

"Hey Kat," he chirps, sitting on the counter. The denim of his hand-me-down jeans hangs low on his hips, revealing a sliver of pale skin. The light dusting of hair on his lower back matches his hair- golden, and shiny-looking. I catch myself staring again. Damn it.

"Already come up with nicknames, have we?" I joke with him, doing my best to push down my timid inclinations.

He chuckles. Then his eyes flit down to my hands, clenched at my sides with nerves.

"What, no squirrels this time?" He feigns disbelief with a drop of his chiseled jaw and a raise of his flour-dusted hand to his chest, carved by the gods. I smile at his reaction.

"Yeah, you wish," I reply. I lower my voice in fear of someone hearing of my animal-trapping endeavors. "No, today's not hunting day. Not till Sunday."

He gives a deep nod and scoots off the counter. "You're lucky I'm such a nice person," he calls out, walking back to the kitchen. I'm surprised when a tendril of disappointment registers in my mind.

I'm confused about what his words mean, but I don't inquire. Instead, I make my way back to the bakery door, assuming we're done here.

"Hey! Where are you going?" I hear Peeta shout behind me. A flurry of relief shoots through my core. I turn back to him and see a confused- or is that a hurt?- look on his face. "I just wanted to give you this," he explains, holding out a loaf of bread.

I'm taken aback. "Peeta I- "

He holds up his hand to stop me. "I want to, Katniss." He glances around the bakery. "Just don't tell anyone about it." He winks at me and my heart swells.

I smile shyly at him and take the bread. Our fingers graze one another and my breath hitches in my throat. For a fleeting second I wonder if he meant to do it. I quickly push the thought from my mind. My gaze flicks up to his face, where I find him already looking at me. Taking a deep breath, I give a quiet, shaky thanks.

I barely register the sound of the bell as I float out the door.

Two days after the initial encounter

The glass is dirty, and it doesn't show Peeta on the other side. Before, I could ignore the fingerprints of all the poor Seam children that must have passed through here, pressing their small hands against the glass and begging their impoverished parents for a treat- just one, please. Now they irk me, and I lift the hem of my ratty grey shirt to rub them away. In the back of my mind, I must have been hoping for him to appear.

He doesn't. I try to ignore the heavy tread of disappointment through my insides. It's irrational. It's an extra weight I don't need resting upon my shoulders right now. He's just a boy- just a rich Merchant boy. Whose blue eyes sparkle ridiculously in the sunlight, and whose laugh reminds me of the melodious sound of the bell above his bakery door. He constantly smells of cinnamon, and his hair falls in soft- stop that.

This isn't reasonable. It isn't sensible. It isn't me. This isn't the Katniss that I've known for sixteen years. This isn't the Katniss that kills living things. This isn't the Katniss that tiptoes carefully past any situation that could bring anyone close to her. No. It's supposed to be me, Prim, Gale, and occasionally my mother. This isn't supposed to be happening.

I run a hand through my hair in confusion and frustration. It's then that I realize I've left my hair down today. Good Lord, am I trying to impress Peeta? I stomp away from the smudged window, huffing in defiance.

Seven days after the initial encounter

From afar, I see a young Merchant boy, no older than five or six, dash up to the bakery window. He presses his small hands up to the glass, undoubtedly grinning at the treats on the other side. I want to yell at him: Stop! You'll dirty it!

His mother approaches, smiling warmly, and he turns to her with a pleading look in his eye. She thinks for a few moments before taking his hand and leading him inside, the boy grinning with success.

Peeta's not there. Why would he be? He has school to focus on, and since it's wrestling season, he has more on his plate than normal. I try to reason with myself. I try to tell myself that Katniss, there's nothing going on. You don't feel anything for him, and he sure as hell doesn't feel anything for you. But pushing down my emotions, like I so often do, proves difficult.

I have Prim to feed. She'll be waiting for me by now, tapping her foot nervously as she tries to complete her homework. Becoming unreasonably worried for me, as she always does. Still, I stand in the middle of the street, ignoring the dirty looks that are thrown my way. I give one last longing glance through the dirty bakery window.

My heart shatters.

I try to pick up its pieces, scolding myself for caring at all. Peeta stands in the doorway of the kitchen, having to look down as he speaks to some blonde, who is faced away from me and making him happy, evident with the smile plastered on Peeta's beautiful face. Based on their matching hair, and the girl's body shape, I can guess it's the one from our grade that I always see latched onto Peeta, the two of them practically joined at the hip. What's her name? Delilah?

"Bye, Delly," Peeta calls to her retreating form. Ah. Delly.

Peeta turns back to the door, and I quickly avert my gaze so he doesn't catch me watching him. Again, I remind myself, feeling ridiculous.

A large man shoves past me on the street. "Move, dirty girl," he hisses at me. I shoot him a glare that's as cold as the November air around us.

Lugging my sack of game over my shoulder, I make my way home.

I try to ignore the single, silent tear, refusing to believe it. No. I don't care about him. I can't afford to.