The Hunger Games: Continued

Deserving Him

Katniss' POV

One month later

"I'm not going!" I snap, storming up the stairs two at a time. Peeta is right behind me, envelope still clutched in his hand. I slam the bathroom door and lock it before he can follow.

His knock comes immediately, the handle rattling. "Katniss, why not? Why don't you want to go?"

I press my lips against the wood. "Because what do you think people will talk about at a reunion, Peeta? Small talk? How's Buttercup? No. It'll all be progress. Coping. Therapy. Wounds. Happiness. I don't want to discuss it. I do enough of that with Dr. Aurelius, and so do you."

"Katniss, I understand. Just... let me in."

"No."

A frustrated grunt, then silence. "Maybe take some time to think about it. Maybe you'll change your mind."

I wait, then mutter, "Okay. Thought about it. Still not going."

"Katniss..." His voice softens. "Let me in."

I sigh, slide back the lock. The door creaks open, and he pulls me straight into his arms.

"I'm still not going," I insist against his chest. He kisses me.

"Still not going." His lips brush my neck.

"Peeta! There's nothing you can do to make me—" I pull away before his warmth dissolves my stubbornness.

But even as I do, guilt gnaws.

⸻

Why would I want to go? A reunion in the Justice Building with everyone — Cressida, Plutarch, Johanna, Beetee, Annie, Gale. The talk will circle around progress, recovery, therapy, grief. Finnick's death. Annie's son. My sister. It will feel like Command in District 13 all over again. Too many ghosts.

I bolt out of the house before Peeta can say anything more. He follows — he always does.

Up the hill. Through the fence. Into the woods. I don't stop until I'm sprinting the two miles to the lake. My lungs burn, but his voice still chases me.

"Katniss!" Peeta shouts. "Why do we argue like this?"

"Because we care too much — you care too much!"

Then his arms catch me from behind, pulling me into a bear hug that stops me dead. I thrash, kicking, writhing, ridiculous — like my body belongs to the grief instead of me. All I can see is Prim's face. All I can feel is loss. How can I stand in a room tomorrow and let them remind me of it?

The fight drains. Tears spill. Not hysteria — just numb. I turn into him, bury my face in his shoulder.

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

"It's alright." He strokes my hair, shushes me like I'm a child. Then, without hesitation, he lifts me and carries me all the way home. Too good. Too perfect. He makes me furious and grateful all at once.

⸻

At home, he presses a steaming cup of milk and spices into my hands. We curl together on the sofa. His words come quiet, steady.

"You know you have to go tomorrow. Whether you want to or not."

I don't argue. I nod against his shoulder.

"Everyone will be asked hard things. I'll be asked about my hijacking. Annie about life without Finnick. Pollux about Castor. Haymitch about drinking. And they'll want to know how you're doing, Katniss — only because they care. But we can steer it. We can talk about Effie's clothing line, or Cressida's new show, or Annie's boy. Even Johanna — I hear rehab's gone well."

He takes my hand, kisses my fingertips. Somehow he makes me believe him. Somehow he always does.

Later, in bed, he does it again — lifting my hand, pressing my knuckles to his lips. The same gesture he used in the cave years ago.

"I like it when you do that," I murmur.

"I didn't learn it. I just do it," he says, threading his fingers through mine. "You'll be okay tomorrow. I promise."

Butterflies rise in my stomach. I love you isn't a phrase we toss around lightly. It means something every time.

"I love you too," I whisper, kissing him.

His hand finds my hair, then my neck, then lower. My skin trembles beneath his. His warmth envelopes me, burns away the shadows. That night I lose myself in him as if it's the first time.

And I know I'll face the morning giddy, not terrified. Because when the ghosts come creeping from the shadows, Peeta will be there beside me.