peeta had been reaching out more lately. it wasn’t like before, when he’d barely speak or flinch at every sudden sound, but it wasn’t quite normal either. sometimes he’d stop you in the hallway and try to ask how you were, or he’d leave a loaf of bread on your doorstep before sunrise. you never answered. you never really looked at him. because the sweet boy you once knew, the one with the steady hands and gentle laugh, felt like he’d vanished completely.

haymitch had mentioned that peeta barely left his room anymore. you’d seen it too, the faint light always glowing through his window, the quiet smell of paint drifting through the victors’ village when the air was still. he spent his days painting. maybe memories. maybe things he couldn’t say aloud.

and yet, lately, something had shifted in you. a restlessness that wouldn’t fade. you tried to brush it off as curiosity, or guilt, or habit, but the pull only grew stronger. tonight, it finally won.

the house was silent as you made your way down the hall, your steps soft against the floorboards. his door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of lamplight spilling through. you hesitated, then lifted your hand and knocked.

there was a pause, just the sound of movement inside, then a voice, quiet and guarded. “who is it?”

“it’s me,” you said.

the door opened almost immediately. he stood there, framed by the warm light from his room. his hair was longer than before, brushing the edges of his jaw, and there were streaks of paint on his fingers and sleeves. the faint scent of flour clung to him, familiar and strange all at once.

“hey,” he said, his voice careful. “thought you were haymitch.”

you lingered at the doorway, unsure if you should step in, but he moved aside without another word. the room was a mess of canvases and color, fields, faces, shadows. the air smelled of paint and soap and something faintly sweet.

when you turned back toward him, he was close enough that the space between you seemed to hum. his hand lifted, hesitating for a moment before his fingers brushed against your neck. his touch was light, tracing the edge of an old scar. his eyes stayed fixed on your face, searching, trying to read something in your expression.

he stepped closer, the warmth of him wrapping around you like a memory. the scent of sugar and paint hung in the air. for a long moment, neither of you spoke. then his voice came, quiet and uncertain.

“you’ve been avoiding me,”