Sparks Fly

Chapter 6

Peeta gapes at me for a moment, mouth open in disbelief. "What?"

My heart sinks as I say, "I . . . I understand if you don't want to. I know I've hurt you and I don't deserve a second chance, but -"

And I'm in his arms. His body is warm and solid against mine, his arms wrapped tightly around me, pressing my face to his muscled chest. I breathe him in, letting myself relax for what feels like the first time since Prim's name got picked from that big glass bowl. I know that I've probably just condemned him and everyone he's ever known to a fate worse than death, but right here, in this moment, I simply don't care. Somewhere along the way, Peeta went from my enemy to my friend. From my friend to my fake lover. From my fake lover to . . . something more. I still don't really know what he is to me, but I know that "friend" doesn't begin to cover it. Thanks to Gale, I'd involuntarily found out what it's like to kiss a friend, an experience that comes nowhere close to the feeling that stirs within me when I feel Peeta's lips on mine. Where Gale is adamant and insistent, Peeta is gentle and nurturing. After all of the horrors we witnessed in the arena, he's still just as kind, just as sincere as he once was. He is also probably the only other person in the world who understands what I've been through. Why I can't really ever sleep through the night. Why I might never.

Snow may be trying to force a particular future on Peeta and me, but I wouldn't allow that future be manipulated and morphed by the president as it seems just about everything else in my life has been. I'm not going to be a piece in his games. Peeta's heart belongs to me. Not Snow. Not the Capitol. Me. And I'm willing to take a chance at mine belonging to him, too.

After holding each other for what feels like forever, Peeta pulls his head back to rest his brow on mine, a massive grin splayed across his face.

"Oh, Katniss," he says, "You know I'd give you a million chances if that's what it took. My love has only ever belonged to you anyways."

I close the gap between us, softly pressing my lips to his. No cameras. No audience. Just me and this beautiful, strong, courageous, caring boy in front of me. His hand slides up to my neck, ensnaring in my hair. I feel that warmth building within me and go to kiss him harder—

But Peeta pulls away. I lean in again — greedy, I am so greedy, I think — but Peeta won't budge. I make a noise of protest, to which he just gives a soft laugh. Then he asks a question that takes me completely by surprise.

"Katniss, will you go on a date with me?" Peeta asks. "I want to kiss you, of course. I want to experience everything with you. But I want to do it right. Slowly. The way it would've been if we hadn't been picked for the Games, if I'd ever gotten the courage to confess my feelings to you. I want to court you. Make you dinner. Pick flowers for you. Tell you how incredibly gorgeous you look in the moonlight." I blush, but he continues on. "I want all of you, Katniss. The good, the bad, and the terrifying."

I blink at him. "Well that's certainly a big shift, from asking for my favorite color to asking for everything."

"No bigger a shift than you asking for us to go from friends to something more," Peeta says with a low, rough laugh. His face morphs into something more gentle, almost sad, as he takes my hand in his. "Just do me a favor? Try not to break my heart. I barely got over it the last time, and you really have no idea the effect that you have on me."

I trace the veins on the back of his hand, taking in his latest plea. I know that there's no way I can guarantee that everything will work out for us, but . . . I would try. For him. For us.

"Okay," I manage to say.

He seems satisfied with that response and lifts his arm again, a silent invitation. I stretch out on the sofa, resting my head in his lap while he strokes my hair. I stare up at him, his pale skin luminous in the soft glow of moonlight, shadows playing across the panes of his face. His cheeks have a slight flush and although his face looks fuller than it did in the arena, it's somehow more defined than it used to be. So different from the dying boy I came to know in the Games. I close my eyes and just allow myself to feel his fingers run through my hair. Although there's nothing suggestive in his touch, I can't help but feel as if this moment is incredibly intimate.