Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 9 - Memories

Careful not to disturb the peaceful stillness of the night, I silently slip out of bed and make my way toward the bathroom The soft glow of the nightlight greets me as I begin to brush my teeth. I spit the paste into the sink and lift my gaze to the mirror, a silent witness to the subtle transformations that have occurred throughout the day. My eyes take in every detail, reflecting on the traces of challenges and emotions etched onto my face. A few touch-ups to my makeup add a touch of radiance, subtly enhancing my features. I run my fingers through my hair. I consider leaving it as is, but the insistent tangles urge me to reach for a brush. I brush and pin my hair back into its familiar arrangement and notice the flower— today's exertions have taken a toll, leaving the once-vibrant blossom slightly wilted. Looking at its faded state, I choose not to return it to its spot in my hair.

I take a step back, my eyes fully engulfed in the reflection before me. The subtle but immense adjustments that had been made to my appearance were like brushstrokes on a canvas, each one enhancing my features and revealing a newfound layer of resilience. It was like looking at a new version of myself. I contemplate this transformed image and feel a slight shift in my motivations. While part of me saw this self-care as a response to the intense demands of the day, a silent act of rebellion against the Capitol's expectations, there was also a whisper of consideration for Peeta in the back of my mind. The possibility that my actions were influenced by the desire to present the best version of myself to him can't be dismissed.

I shake my head and grab a pair of boots, mindful not to put them on until I'm out of the room. The loud clunking sound they make could possibly alarm anybody on the floor, and the last thing I need is curious housemates inquiring about my late-night whereabouts. I clutch the boots in my hand, tiptoeing through the hallway with hushed anticipation. As I reach the main door, I carefully twist the handle and gently pull it shut. The door clicks with only the faintest whisper of sound. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I know that I've successfully eluded the prying eyes of the District 4 floor. But now I have to sneak into the twelfth floor undetected.

I approach the elevator with a newfound confidence, my adrenaline high as I ascend to the top floor. When I approach his door, I feel sure that this time my entry will be seamless without the need to pick a lock. He was my ticket inside, ensuring a smooth reunion when the coast was clear. Following his instructions, I softly tap my knuckles on the door three times. But when the door opens, it's not Peeta's familiar smile that greets me. Instead, a pudgy, middle-aged man stands before me, reeking strongly of whiskey.

Reacting instinctively, I duck to the side of the door frame, a futile attempt to evade his gaze. As if this sudden maneuver would render me invisible. If these were my survival skills, I was doomed. The man's intense stare locks onto mine, his slightly agape mouth revealing a mixture of confusion and intrigue. "Sweetheart, I may be drunk, but I'm not dumb," he declares, grasping my arm with an unexpected firmness.

Before I have time to understand what's going on, he ushers me into the penthouse. This unexpected turn of events has left me momentarily disoriented, the confidence I had carried moments ago dismantled and replaced by a sense of vulnerability. The man abruptly shoves me onto the couch, taking a seat in an adjacent chair. He eyes me with a disapproving look, his features hardening with suspicion. "Are you here to spy on my tributes?" he demands, his voice is distrustful and hostile. Does he really think I'm capable of espionage? Someone who can barely fend for herself? Stammering, I attempt to refute his assumption.

"What? No—" I begin to protest weakly, but my feeble words are cut off by the resounding slam of a glass hitting the table with enough force to echo through the room. His voice surges with anger as he repeats the question. "I said are you here to spy on my tributes?"

My body shrinks into the cushions of the couch, trying to seek shelter from the confrontation. This unforeseen situation is unfolding like a nightmare; never could I have imagined something like this happening. If only I had hesitated a bit longer. If only I had exercised more caution, perhaps all of this could have been avoided.