Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 9 - Memories

Silently slipping out of bed, I tiptoed towards the bathroom, careful not to disturb the stillness of the night. The soft glow of the bathroom lights greeted me as I quietly began brushing my teeth.

As I finished, I lifted my gaze to the mirror, a silent witness to the subtle transformations that transpired within its reflective surface. My scrutinizing eyes surveyed every detail, pondering the echoes of the day's challenges etched on my face. A few touch-ups to my makeup worked wonders, subtly enhancing my appearance. Running my fingers through my hair, I contemplated leaving it as is, but the insistent tangles urged me to reach for a brush.

As I pinned my hair back into its familiar arrangement, I noticed the flower— today's exertions had taken a toll, leaving the once-vibrant blossom slightly wilted. Contemplating its diminished state, I chose not to return it to my hair.

I took a step back and looked at myself fully, noting the subtle but immense adjustments that had transformed my appearance. It felt as if each stroke of the brush and each meticulous tweak to my makeup had not only enhanced my physical features but also revealed a newfound layer of resilience.

As I contemplated the transformed image, a slight but significant shift in my motivations surfaced. Perhaps, at its core, the self-care was a response to the intense demands of the day, an act of silent rebellion against the Capitol's expectations. However, intertwined with these motives was a whisper of consideration for Peeta. The possibility that my actions were influenced by the desire to present the best version of myself to him couldn't be dismissed.

I grabbed a pair of boots, mindful not to put them on until I had left the room— their inherent noisiness posed a potential risk, and the last thing I needed was curious housemates inquiring about my late-night whereabouts. Clutching the boots in my hand, I moved quickly but quietly, hushed anticipation shrouding my every step.

Reaching the main door, I gingerly opened and closed it with a practiced finesse that left only the faintest crack for my body to slip through. I had successfully eluded the prying eyes of the District 4 floor, and now I had to sneak into the twelfth floor undetected.

I approached the elevator, my adrenaline high, a new sense of excitement with this act of defiance, and ascended to the twelfth floor. I was confident this time that it would be a seamless entry, especially without the need to pick the lock. Peeta was my ticket inside, promising an effortless reunion once the coast was clear. I approached the door as instructed, my knuckles softly tapping on the door three times.

To my surprise, the door swung open not to Peeta's welcoming smile but to the sight of a pudgy, middle-aged man enveloped in the unmistakable scent of whiskey.

Reacting quickly, I instinctively ducked to the side of the door frame, a futile attempt to evade his gaze, as if the sudden maneuver would render me invisible. If these were my survival skills, I was screwed. The man's gaze locked onto me, his slightly agape mouth revealing a mixture of confusion and intrigue. "Sweetheart, I may be drunk, but I'm not dumb," he declared, grasping my arm with an unexpected firmness.

Before I could react, he ushered me into the penthouse. The unexpected turn of events left me momentarily disoriented, the confidence I had carried moments ago dismantled and replaced by a sense of vulnerability.

The man abruptly tossed me onto the couch, taking a seat in an adjacent chair. He eyed me with a disapproving gaze, and a barrage of accusations immediately followed. "Are you here to spy on my tributes?" he demanded, his words shrouded in suspicion. Did he truly believe I was capable of espionage, someone who could barely fend for herself? Stammering, I attempted to refute his assumption.

"What? No—" I began, but my feeble protest was unexpectedly interrupted by the resounding slam of a glass against the surface of the table, punctuating the escalation of his frustration. His voice surged with anger as he repeated the question.