Three in the Morning

Coffee Run

Peeta

I already knew that. But there's a fine line between secret admirer and stalker, and I'm doing my best not to come off as the latter. We went to the same elementary school. Middle and high school, too, and I remember it clearly. Apparently she doesn't. Which is understandable because if I remember correctly, our only actual conversation took place freshman year when I'd offered to let her copy off of my biology homework one day as she'd left hers at home. She politely denied. One of the things that had always mystified me about her was her reluctance to accept charity.

"Everdeen," I repeat. "We should go to Gloria's."

"Now?"

"Now. Why not? They're probably not going to let us back in for a while. If they ever let me back in again, that is."

"Because it's nearly four. And in case you've forgotten, you're wearing polka dotted boxer shorts and I'm not in much more myself."

"You're saying you've never seen anyone weirder than us in this city?" I say, thinking back to just early yesterday where I was harassed for a buck by a man clothed in a hotdog costume. Although it very well could have been a woman. I don't even know.

"I don't have my wallet," she counters. "There's a chance it didn't even survive the consequences of your midnight baking session."

"Let's go," I say, grabbing her hand and yanking her in the direction of Thirty Seventh Street.

She stands surprisingly strong for someone so small, so I'm left no choice but to pick her up and swing her on to my back. She doesn't fight it. I guess she doesn't want to cause much more of a scene than we already are; a young man giving a young woman a piggyback ride to, she covered head to toe in a blanket, he in nothing more than the equivalent of a teenage girl's short shorts.

"This is so weird. I can walk, you know," she whispers into my ear. It really is. But if I don't get a coffee soon I'm going to fall asleep right here in mid run. I set Katniss down onto the sidewalk, but keep her hand enclosed in mine.

"So how come I haven't never seen you in here before?" she asks as I hold the door open for her.

There are only five or so others in here, and I'm willing to bet two of them are homeless people who've just wandered in for some time in the air conditioning.

"I'm shy."

"That's a joke, right?"

"Actually, no. Tonight I almost killed five hundred people, so I figured nothing could be as detrimental to my image as that. No matter how much I embarrass myself while I'm with you." I explain.

It's true. When I saw her in here that first morning, almost a year ago I think, I actually wasn't sure if it was the same girl who I used to watch pick dandelions in the soccer fields after school with her little blonde sister. She still wears her signature dark braid and has those steely grey eyes that I remember turning away from whenever they'd catch me staring at her, but now she seems less free spirited and more careful and calculated with her actions.

Her demeanor has been rigid these days, in high contrast to her bubbly child self.

We sit across from one another at one of those little café tables that are scattered around in this place, that's surprisingly spacious once you detract the morning rush of coffee-getters.

"I'll go order, what would you like?" I ask.

Not that I don't pay attention to the drink she gets every day. I do. It's just that what she orders every day is different from the last for some reason.

"Um . . . get me a hot chocolate. Small."

That settles it. A large hot chocolate. I treat myself to the same.