The Hunger Games: Continued

Little Things

Katniss' POV

2 weeks later

The strong curve of his jawline. The bright blue of his eyes, shadowed by long lashes. The muscles across his back. The crease between his brows when he concentrates. His smile.

He is beautiful.
He is mine. I am his.

Each day, I notice little things about Peeta I hadn't before. I stare at him longer than I should. I shiver when his skin brushes mine. Is this what love feels like?

I am no longer just Katniss Everdeen. I am part of Peeta Mellark, and he is part of me. Two puzzle pieces that only fit whole together.

I wake by his side. No nightmares, I remind myself. His blond hair is messy, falling across his forehead. His mouth slightly parted, his chest rising steady. I smile before I can stop myself. It's so perfect, so simple, that I feel giddy. Stupid, maybe — but I want to feel this forever.

⸻

I slip out of bed while he sleeps and creep downstairs. Today, I'm going to find it. The painting he's been hiding for months. The one he disappears into the study for, the one he won't let me see.

I search quietly. A painting of Buttercup. One of the meadow. Not it. My sunset painting, the one he insists he loves even though it looks childish beside his masterpieces. I spot the stack in the corner: the Games, the hijacking. He says painting them drains the poison from his mind.

And then I see it.

Half-hidden behind a tall closet, in a golden frame.

I drop to my knees. My hand flies to my mouth. Tears flood before I can stop them.

It's Prim.

Her blonde pigtails. The frills on her socks. Lady by her side, a ribbon around her neck. Prim's smile — wide, radiant, alive.

I reach out, tracing the canvas with trembling fingers. And then I cry. I cry until the sound that leaves me isn't even human.

"Katniss?"

His voice cuts through, gentle, uncertain.

I spin around. He's standing there. I shouldn't have looked. He'll be angry. I try to explain but the words tangle. "Peeta... I didn't mean to, I was just—"

He walks forward, sits beside me on the floor.

"It's alright," he says softly. "It was supposed to make you happy. You're... not happy."

But I am.

"I am happy," I say quickly. "Because it's beautiful. Because it's Prim, and now I can see her every day. Because you painted it. And you're my favourite person in the world."

The words hang in the air. My favourite person in the world. It's true — but the words I should have said, the words I wanted to say, never make it past my lips.

He takes my hand, thumb brushing across my palm. Every nerve in my body lights up at his touch. My tears slow. I look at him. He looks at me. Neither of us looks away.

And then, suddenly, he looks away. Peeta. The one who always holds my gaze.

Something snaps in me.

Deluded, desperate, maybe insane — I dive forward and kiss him. Full on the lips.