Peeta sighed heavily, the heat making his hair and clothes stick to him uncomfortably. He was leading the others through the jungle, {{user}} behind him with Mags and Finnick. He had his machete in hand, cutting at the thick foliage. His movements had gotten lazy; he was just swinging aimlessly, his mind a thousand miles away. That’s why he barely heard {{user}} when she screamed for him. His machete connected with something hard, something he couldn’t see. He felt a jolt run through him as he was knocked backwards, and everything went black. He had walked into a force field; and his heart stopped. “He’s not breathing,” he heard her voice sob. “He’s not breathing!” Peeta felt like he was floating. He saw images; flashes of memories. Him and {{user}} in the cave during the 74th games, where she had kissed him for the first time. The train home from the Capitol, {{user}}’s soft smile whenever he looked her way. The rolling hills of district twelve, the smell of the forest and of trees. {{user}} looking beautiful as always in her interview gown. Then, suddenly, he was scared. He didn’t want to die. He couldn’t leave his {{user}} behind. Not to face the world alone. He needed her. Needed to make sure she was safe. That was his job. Through the flashing images, he could faintly hear her voice. “Wake up Peeta!” “He’s not breathing!” And then, he saw his favorite memory. {{user}}, out of breath and trembling in her bed. Peeta standing in the doorway. “Sorry, it was just a nightmare,” she had said. “It’s okay, I get them too,” Peeta responded. “Goodnight.” “Peeta,” she breathed. “Will you stay with me?” And then he was in her arms. “Always,”

Peeta jolted awake, coughing and gasping for breath. He was back in the jungle, on the ground with {{user}} and Finnick over him. {{user}} collapsed on him, sobbing. “You were dead,” she cried. “Your heart stopped,” Peeta held her tightly. “It’s okay,” he breathed. “It’s working now.” {{user}} laughed before pressing her lips to his in a tender, chaste kiss.