The Hunger Games: Continued

Raindrops and Primroses

Peeta's POV

Today is what I call a bad day. Not for me—for Katniss.

Some days she laughs and smiles and almost forgets her pain. But today she's thinking about Prim. I can see it in her vacant grey eyes. On the worst days she shuts down completely, refusing to acknowledge anyone or anything. Today is one of those days.

We sit side by side, staring out the wide window in her study. Rain patters against the glass, filling the silence. Katniss hasn't spoken all day. I don't push her to. I know it's not personal.

Earlier, I tried to comfort her with words, but they're useless. Nothing I say will bring Prim back. So instead, I try casual conversation, as though nothing's wrong.

"When I was little, I used to think raindrops were racing each other down the window." I let out a small laugh. "I'd pick a favourite drop and cheer for it. I'd even get sad when it lost. Silly, isn't it?"

I glance at her, hoping for even the smallest reaction. But her face is empty. Her eyes are so far away it's like her soul has left her body. I sigh. Bringing her back feels beyond my reach.

"Katniss..." I murmur, not waiting for her response before I continue. "I know it's hard. I'm not gonna tell you it's okay, because it's not. You miss her, and I can't bring her back. I'm sorry for that."

I pause, hoping she's listening.

"But Prim would want you to be happy. She'd hate to see you like this. It's okay to be sad and angry, but you're not betraying her by being happy now and then."

⸻

Katniss' POV

I stare out the window, listening to Peeta's words. He's right. He's always right. Happiness sounds like the most appealing option. But it's the hardest to hold onto. Sadness is easier. Sadness is familiar.

But it's not just me anymore. The boy beside me knows who I am—truly. I'm scarred, broken, drowning in the blood of my loved ones. I'm damaged beyond repair. And still, he loves me.

I know he does, because even now he looks at me the same way he always has—with desire, with curiosity. No longer tangled in desperate trauma, just steady, honest love. He doesn't seem to care whether I return it fully. He just wants to be here.

She crept up on me. That's what Finnick once said about Annie. Back then, the only thing that crept up on me was President Snow. But now I understand. Peeta crept up on me.

There was a time when my feelings for him were nothing more than repayment—for bread thrown to a starving girl. Later, my feelings became part of the rebellion—a spark to ignite hope.

But now? Now my affection is not forced, not owed, not political. It terrifies me.

Sometimes when he stands a certain way, or brushes past me, or makes a joke, I feel something stir inside me. A tingling at the back of my neck that slides down my spine, pooling low in my stomach. Not quite like the hunger I felt on the beach, but close.

I wonder what it would feel like to kiss him now. Would it be the same? Different? I can't imagine being the one to start it. Not yet.

But you are not betraying Prim by being happy now and again, he says.

And I listen.

⸻

Peeta's POV

I know she's listening. I can tell by the way her eyes flick in my direction, trying to see me without turning her head.

On impulse, I slip my hand into hers—the first real touch I've offered her since my return.

And for the first time all day...

She looks at me.

And she smiles.