The Hunger Games: Continued

How Can I Not?

Katniss' POV

I wake from a sleepless night, Annie's sobs and Fin's cries still echoing in my mind. Annie stayed behind in Twelve after the reunion—Plutarch's orders, not Dr. Aurelius', who I demanded he call. With Annie in Capitol therapy, Peeta and I have been left with her son. He looks painfully like his father, and I wonder how Annie managed three years of this without shattering.

Peeta sleeps soundly, but the child doesn't. I find Fin standing in his cot, golden curls wild, crying. What's wrong? He went to the toilet before bed, Peeta fed him all day—he can't be hungry.

"I miss my mummy!" he wails. Of course. Why wasn't that my first thought?

Then his little arms shoot out. "Hug." Not a question. A command.

I hesitate, then lift him, awkward as ever—one hand under his thigh, the other across his back. Afraid I'll drop him, afraid I'll break him. I carry him into my room and lay him between Peeta and me. He burrows under the duvet, clutching the sheets.

And suddenly, there it is: Peeta's body next to a small child. I see a picture of the future, two versions at once.

A child we create—living, breathing, laughing. A miracle.
A child we destroy—crying, starving, broken. A curse.

How can I? How can I not?

Fin climbs toward Peeta's head, tugging at his curls until Peeta stirs. The boy erupts in laughter, rolling across the blankets. Peeta grins even in sleep.

How can I not?

⸻

I must have dozed. When I wake, Peeta and Fin are gone, replaced by the smell of bread. I find them in the kitchen: Peeta rolling dough, Fin on a stool beside him, pouring flour deliberately onto Peeta's boots.

"Auntie Katniss!" Fin squeals when he sees me. "Uncle Peeta is making bread. That one's mine." He points proudly at the oven.

Peeta kisses my forehead. "Morning. Good sleep?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

He smiles knowingly. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Though I think Fin's loaf might outshine mine."

And he's right.

Later, the three of us curl on the sofa, chewing warm bread. Fin sits wedged between us, his little face thoughtful.

"My mummy misses Daddy, doesn't she?"

I glance at Peeta, panicked. He meets the boy's eyes steadily.

"Yes, Fin. She does. Your Daddy was the bravest man I ever met. No wonder your mummy loved him so much. He was a hero. A real-life superhero. And you should be proud of him."

Fin stares up at Peeta, drinking in every word. A tear slips down his cheek before he hides under Peeta's arm.

Peeta ruffles his hair. "You remind me of him. You'll grow up just as brave. I know it."

I watch them, and I can already imagine Peeta with a child of his own—teaching, comforting, telling stories. His wisdom passed into smaller hands, smaller hearts.

How can I not?