The Hunger Games: Continued

Rumours

Katniss' POV

Two weeks later

Peeta says I need to leave the house more often. Maybe he's right. When he and Haymitch shop at the market, I stay home with Buttercup. When he works on rebuilding the bakery, I stay home.

Yes, after three years, Peeta has finally started rebuilding it. I understand why it took so long — the bakery was a family business, and the memories attached aren't all sweet ones. His mother's abuse. His brothers, who watched him reaped without protest. The ashes of firebombs. But he hasn't broken yet. Not once. I haven't even seen what he's built so far — mostly because I still avoid going out.

Today, though, he insists I come with him. Not to the bakery, but to Delly and Thom's house. Usually he goes alone, but he says it isn't healthy for me to stay indoors all the time.

I like Delly well enough, though her endless cheer grates on me sometimes. Her husband, Thom, was Gale's closest friend, and so by extension a familiar face from District Twelve.

"Why are we visiting them anyway?" I grumble as Peeta hauls me off the sofa.

"Because they're our friends," he says, pressing my coat into my arms, "and because I want to meet their son."

"Their... son?"

"Their newborn," he replies like it's obvious.

"I didn't even know she was pregnant."

"Shows how much you pay attention." He laughs, tugging me toward the door.

⸻

Delly's house reeks of scented candles — not the soft kind, but the cloying kind that coat your tongue. She doesn't know roses make my stomach twist, so I just breathe through my mouth. She greets us, bright as always, ushering us in with hugs and hot tea. The place is immaculate: curtains straight, cushions plumped, canvases aligned. One painting catches my eye — two figures holding hands, one made of black, chaotic swirls, the other of rainbow light, colour bleeding into darkness. Maybe it means love changes you. But I don't know much about art.

Thom enters carrying a basket like it's made of glass. Inside is the tiniest human I've ever seen.

"This is Leo," he says, setting the basket on the rug.

I stare. Fragile toes. Small fists. A heartbeat you can almost see through paper skin. I don't move. I've never held a baby. Never changed one. When Prim was little, she cried constantly. My mother never let me near her until she was older.

Peeta, of course, moves straight in. "He's a smiler," Thom says, and right on cue Leo laughs at Peeta's voice. Peeta tickles him, laughing too, and it's the sweetest thing I've seen in years. He's a natural. It doesn't surprise me.

"Come here," Peeta waves me over.

Oh, no.

I crouch beside the basket. The baby's wide blue eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. "Uh... hi," I say. Immediately, I feel stupid.

Peeta chuckles. Thom adds gently, "He won't bite you."

"I know that!" The words snap out harsher than I mean. "I just... I've never really been around babies."

"What about Prim?" Thom asks.

"I was four. I wasn't allowed to hold her."

Leo keeps staring, and my chest tightens. Then Peeta takes my hand, guiding it down onto Leo's stomach.

"Like this."

His hand slips away. I freeze. Then I carefully stroke the baby's shirt. Leo giggles. I almost laugh with him. It's... sweet. Too sweet.

When I glance at Peeta, his eyes are on me. Wide, hopeful, asking without words: How about now? Isn't he perfect? Can't we?

I scowl. He looks away.

Delly returns with tea, cheerful as ever. Conversation drifts to Peeta's bakery and Capitol tabloids. "Star-Crossed Lovers Baby Rumours," Delly chirps, waving the paper. I grit my teeth. Even now, years later, the Capitol still prints nonsense about us. The timing makes me want to laugh — or scream.

"So Katniss," Delly says brightly, "is it true? Should we be expecting a little one soon?"

"Uh, no," I answer flatly.

"Thought as much," Thom mutters. "The Capitol's full of rubbish."

"Yeah," Peeta sighs. But his voice drifts, absent, moody. I want to shake him. Stop moping. Stop hinting. I can't do it. The pregnancy, the pain, the responsibility. I can't.

⸻

That night we curl on the sofa. My hot milk steams. His silence weighs heavier. I wait for him to mention it. To say Leo's name. To press me again. But he doesn't.

The TV screen flashes: STAR-CROSSED LOVERS BABY RUMOURS.

"Oh, great," I mutter.

Peeta shifts. "I'm sorry, Katniss."

"For what?" I ask, though I already know.

"For pushing you. For asking about children."

"You should be."

"Katniss," his voice sharpens, "I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just want a child so badly... but I can accept that you don't. Alright?"

"Alright."

I curl against him, arms folded tight across my chest instead of around him.

"You're angry," he says softly.

"Yeah, Peeta. I am. I saw you today, making hints with your eyes when I touched Leo."

"Hints with my eyes? Are you kidding me?" His frustration cracks. "I don't like arguing with you."

"Me either."

He sighs, pushes up from the sofa, and walks upstairs.

That night, he holds me a little less tightly.