The Hunger Games: Continued

Innocence

Katniss' POV

The meadow. A spring afternoon. I walk beneath the sun until I see him ahead of me.

"Peeta!" I call. No answer.

I run, trying to catch up, but my legs won't move. The harder I push, the farther he drifts. At last I manage to run — but the closer I get, the more he begins to fade.

"No! Peeta!"

And then he's gone.

I wake screaming. "Peeta!"

He bolts upright, immediately brushing tears from my cheeks. "Katniss, it's okay. It's okay." His voice, low and steady, hypnotises me back into calm. My eyes flutter open to find his blue ones so close above me.

"I'm sorry I woke you," I whisper.

"Not like I'm not used to it." He smiles softly.

"I know. But... it's our wedding night. It should be content."

"Everything's alright now. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. I don't think I can sleep again."

"Then I'll stay up with you."

"You should sleep."

"I'm not tired." He moves close again, wrapping his arms around me.

His lips graze my neck, careless, feather-light. Heat floods through me, goosebumps prickling across my skin. I shiver. He's always had this effect — alive, electric. I've never let myself think what it might mean. But now the thought presses in: intimacy. Full intimacy.

I wonder if he's known this with someone else, and jealousy tugs sharp in my chest. I push it away.

When he rolls back, I sigh. "Peeta?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

He laughs, propping himself on an elbow to look at me. "What is it?"

"I was comfortable and you moved."

"Sorry," he says, still laughing.

Even in the dark, his eyes shine like the ocean. Simple. That's what this is. With Peeta, love isn't complicated or conditional — it just is.

I kiss him. He kisses back, cautious, like always. My hunger rises, the one I've never tamed. I deepen the kiss. He understands instantly. Passion, breath, hands in hair. His lips trace my neck. My heart races.

"Peeta?" I breathe. He pulls back, eyes on mine.

"What are we doing?"

"Kissing...?" he teases.

"No. After that." My eyes beg him to understand. At first he doesn't. Then he does.

Shirts are gone. My nightgown. I feel bare, exposed, terrified. He sees it.

"You're so beautiful, Katniss," he whispers, gently lowering the arm I've folded across my chest. "I could never think otherwise. You want this?"

"Yes... but I'm scared."

"I'm scared too. But like everything else, we face it together."

His kisses wander to new places. My collarbone. My ear. Heat radiates off him. I touch his chest, his scars. To me, they're art, proof of endurance. I wish I could see mine that way.

When his hand grazes my breast, I gasp.

"You've done this before?" I blurt.

"No," he says simply.

"You seem to know what you're doing."

"So do you." He smiles faintly.

Bit by bit, there's nothing left between us. My shame flickers, but he stops me.

"Katniss, stop hiding. Your scars are beautiful."

"They're not—"

"They are. Like mine. Beautiful." He kisses each one, slow and reverent.

My fear burns into desire.

"Are you ready?" he whispers.

"Yes. Just... careful."

"Promise me you'll tell me if I hurt you."

"I promise."

Two broken pieces become whole. Pain first — sharp, startling. Then, suddenly, waves of pleasure. The hunger I've carried for years crests at last. Breathless, overwhelming, impossibly right.

We move together. Fear and love, fire and rain, until the world blurs. At the end, only us.

Murmured words. "I love you." Again. Again.

Simplicity. Complicity.

Alive.

⸻

After, I curl into his chest, heart still racing. My cheeks ache from smiling. His do too.

I brush my hand across his jaw and pause. "You have stubble."

"What?" He rubs his face.

"The Gamemakers used a formula on tributes — it was supposed to stop hair growth forever."

"Guess it wore off," he says.

I smirk. "Must only last a few years."

"I'm going to grow a massive beard," he teases.

"Don't you dare."