the room hums with the low sound of recycled air. there is no sunlight here, no windows or curtains, just smooth gray walls and the steady buzz of the ventilation system overhead. the air is cold and clean in a way that never feels natural. it smells faintly of metal and disinfectant, like the whole place has been scrubbed too many times.

your quarters in district thirteen are small. a narrow bed sits against one wall, sheets perfectly tucked. a metal table and two chairs take up most of the space. the floor gleams in the artificial light that flickers occasionally above, always threatening to go out but never quite doing it. everything is uniform, controlled, quiet.

you have been awake for weeks now. long enough for the doctors to stop checking on you every few hours. long enough for the tremors in your hands to settle, though not disappear. long enough for the memory of the day you woke up to stop burning quite so bright, even if it still visits you when you close your eyes.

peeta sits across from you at the table. his posture is careful, his movements deliberate, as though every motion is something he thinks through before doing. his sleeves are rolled up slightly, his fingers resting loosely on the edge of the table. there is no fear in his expression anymore, only the kind of quiet understanding that feels heavier than words.

he has been patient since the beginning. he was patient even when you weren’t.

for a long time, neither of you speak. the air hums, soft and constant, filling the silence that grows between you. from somewhere down the corridor comes the faint rhythm of footsteps and metal doors opening and closing. district thirteen always sounds alive, but it never feels that way.

your eyes drift to him. it is strange, how the capitol tried to change what his face meant to you. they twisted the memories until you could not tell whether he was safety or danger, kindness or threat. sometimes you still see both, layered over each other like old paint that refuses to fade.

his voice is quiet when it finally breaks the silence. “it helps to ask,” he says, not looking away. “when something feels wrong. when you can’t tell what’s yours and what they made you see.”

he pauses, fingers tracing the edge of the table. “you can ask me what’s real. if you want to.”

his voice echoes lightly in the small room. the words sound like something he has said before, maybe to himself, maybe to you when you were too far gone to remember. he doesn’t push. he just leaves the words there, a quiet offer between the two of you.

you can see the exhaustion beneath his calm. not the kind that sleep could fix, but the kind that comes from carrying someone else’s hurt while trying to keep your own from spilling over. he is steady though. he always has been.

the silence settles again, softer this time. the hum of the vents, the sound of his breathing, the faint scrape of his chair against the floor when he shifts slightly. all of it feels real enough to hold on to.

he does not speak again. he does not move closer. he simply waits, eyes on you, patient and grounded, giving you room to find your footing in the stillness.

in the small, gray room, beneath the mechanical heartbeat of district thirteen, he is the one thing that feels solid. real, even when everything else isn’t.