Chapter Text
There are three things I know to be true about running.
One, it's therapeutic. Though God knows I should probably be in actual therapy, too, after losing my dad at such a young age and all the chaos that followed. There's something about the feeling of my feet pounding the earth in a steady tattoo, the sound of my deep breathing– in and out, in and out–that grounds me.
Two, it was once my track scholarship-shaped ticket out of this town and into the middle class.
And three, it does things to my body. Devious things.
I'm only about 5 miles into my planned 18, when I feel the first telltale rumble of gastrointestinal distress. I groan in annoyance. I knew I shouldn't have risked eating that expired yogurt last night, but having just moved back home, the pickings in my fridge were limited and my current training regimen has me voraciously hungry all the time.
I run through the options in my head. Any runner worth her salt knows every public toilet within a 20 mile radius of her home. It's 5 am, so the nice-ish flush toilets in the town square and the less nice ones outside the Hob market won't be open yet. There's the construction site over on Cherry Ave though…that's a possibility. I turn my trail runners down the alley to cut over and then jiggle the lock on a grotesque yellow port-o-potty. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Damn! It's locked. And that's when I notice it. A cheerful light on at the familiar shop at the corner of Cherry and Main.
Mellark's bakery .
It's both the worst option and the only option unless I want to stagger home like a toddler with a soiled diaper. Reluctantly, I limp toward the light, unable to run anymore as the cramping in my gut intensifies.
I try not to think about the first and only time I actually entered the bakery. It was a few months after my dad's death and I was only eleven. Things weren't good at home. My mom could barely get out of bed and we were hungry, like really hungry. We were never well-off before either I guess, but with my dad's union job at the mine and the warmth of our tightly-knit family to shield me, I never really felt it. But now we went to bed hungry every night and poor little Prim’s cheeks were hollowing out. After school I earned some money at the Hob selling mushrooms I had foraged and a skinny squirrel shot through the eye, just like my daddy taught me. I felt hopeful with the coins jingling in my pocket, determined to get some carbs in my little sister. In the warmth of the bakery I had picked out a rustic loaf filled with nuts and dried fruits– it looked hearty and was cheaper than the others. The youngest Mellark boy, Peeta, was at the counter. He had a round face and kind eyes that almost always had a stubborn blond curl falling into them. Peeta always smiled at me at school, but I never talked to him. Kids from my side of town didn't really mix with the well-to-do crowd, no matter how kind their eyes were.
“That'll be $1.89,” said Peeta, blushing a little when he spoke to me. He had that kind of fair complexion that painted every emotion in shades of red.
My stomach sank as I counted out my coins. I forgot the tax.
“O-oh,” I stuttered. “Sorry, I…only have $1.75.” Embarrassed, I shoved the loaf toward Peeta and turned to leave before the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes could spill over. Then I felt a soft, warm hand catch my shoulder.
“No, wait, Katniss,” he said, surprising me by knowing my name. He looked over his shoulder nervously, then smiled at me reassuringly. “It's ok. Take it.”
Desperate enough to accept his kindness, I had just reached out to grab the loaf when an unearthly screech rang out. It was Mrs. Mellark, looking angrier than I had ever seen her.
“PEETA! You worthless thing,” she screamed, eyes bloodshot, flecks of spit flying from her lips. “We don't give handouts to lazy Seam rats.” Then she had boxed him viciously about the ears, and though I'm still ashamed to admit it, I ran. I dropped the bread and ran all the way home. I didn't even look back to see if he was ok.
But then somehow, against all the odds, I turned things around at home. Realizing the difference a few cents could make, I swallowed my pride and figured out how to sign us up for food stamps. And then we found the food pantry downtown. The manager, Greasy Sae, used to save little packets of chocolate pudding for Prim when she found out it was my sister's favorite. Slowly my grief-stricken mom came back to life. Using her nursing degree, she got a job taking care of a wealthy invalid, and eventually, she took care of us again, too.
That's why, to this day, I can't help but associate Peeta Mellark with hope. And it's also why it feels like a cruel trick of fate that my destiny is once again in his hands…
Taking a deep breath, I waddle up the steps to the bakery and knock on the door. Please let it be Mr. Mellark , I think wildly. Or at least one of Peeta's brothers. I hear footsteps inside and then a lock turning. The door inches open hesitantly and a pair of surprised blue eyes meet mine. The door quickly swings open wider.
“Katniss Everdeen?” His voice is deeper than I remember it. More resonant. But still with that same kind undertone.
“H-hi, Peeta,” I say shyly. He looks different, too. Taller and almost impossibly broad. I try not to gape at his chest, the way his shirt stretches attractively across it under his navy blue Mellark's apron.
His mouth is parted in surprise and he is looking at me like he's seen a ghost. It makes me wonder if he perceives me as a friendly spirit or an unwelcome ghoul. Probably the latter, I think, wincing. But instead he says, “Wow, I can't believe it. It–it's so good to see you.”
I feel a little relieved by his tone, but then my gut decides to twist again and I have to hop awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Um, Peeta,” I say, grimacing. “I really hate to ask this, but could I, um, use your restroom. It's kind of an emergency.”
Peeta is still gaping at me as if the question hasn't quite registered, but then suddenly, he leaps aside. “Oh! Yes, of course!” He waves me in. “Just straight and to the right.”
“Thanks,” I groan, hobbling toward the toilet as fast as I can go without blowing my load.
— — —
A few moments later, I am feeling both blissfully relieved and mortified beyond belief. I contemplate staying in the toilet forever like I'm Moaning Myrtle, but it really doesn't seem practical, so instead I smooth out my braid, tied high on my head to keep it off my neck in the summer heat, and walk out with as much pride as I can muster.
“Sorry about that,” I say, smiling apologetically and letting out a shaky laugh. “Running. It um, messes with your intestines.”
Peeta grins back at me, the warmth in his eyes performing some kind of witchcraft that sets me back at ease. “It's ok. I remember. I used to run a bit, too. Not anything like you, but…”
I nod. “For wrestling, right? Good warm-up."
“Yeah…” he says, curiously. “Surprised you even remember that.”
I'm stunned. “‘Course I do,” I say emphatically, giving him a funny look. Coach Boggs gave me a job in high school checking out equipment and cleaning up in the gym so that I could help out my family and still have time to practice for track. This meant I was around for basically every practice session and sports match there was. For reasons I refused to admit at the time, I always found myself perched at the very back of the bleachers when wrestling was on, pretending to concentrate on my AP biology homework while sneaking surreptitious glances at the stocky blonde pinning opponent after opponent to the floor below. I'm pretty sure imagining that move in a different context was my sexual awakening. I cough and go red at the memory. “Wrestling was the only sport West Panem High was really good at,” I remind him.
“And track,” he counters. His eyes flicker across my face. Surely he has caught me blushing, but maybe he thinks I've been embarrassed enough for one day, because he doesn't point it out.
I shrug. “I guess.”
“You still the fastest girl around?”
I deflect the compliment with another shrug. “More of a distance runner now.”
Ah,” Peeta nods, then squints outside into the darkness. “Is it… safe out there? I mean it's pitch black.”
I see his eyes flit over my skimpy spandex shorts. My hackles raise. I hate the implication that I can't handle myself out there, but decide to go easy on him seeing as he just saved me from shitting my pants.
“I'm glow in the dark,” I tell him smugly, flashing the light of my headlamp on and off directly in his eyes and gesturing to my reflective tank top. “And the only people I've seen so far are a couple of yoga moms and one nosy baker.”
Peeta blushes and somehow it only makes him more handsome, which also makes it harder for me to be annoyed. So I settle for teasing him. “Besides, you should probably be more worried about yourself. I could've robbed you blind.” I tilt my head toward the open cash register behind the counter. He was probably getting set up for the day when I barged in on him.
Peeta cocks his head at me playfully. “The evening news would be sure to give you a great moniker.” He thinks for a second, then grins. “The pooping pilferer…”
“... it's West Panem’s Number 2 thief…” I parry.
“More on the Crappy Caper at ten. Back to you, Tom,” Peeta deadpans, adopting the tone of a local news anchor.
We both crack up. I can't believe I'm joking about almost shitting myself with Peeta Mellark.
“So are you just back in town for a visit or…” he trails off in a way that sounds almost hopeful.
“Moved back actually,” I tell him, surprising myself at how long I'm allowing this conversation to unfold. “Just about a week ago.”
“Wow, really?” he exclaims. “That's….wow.”
I'm losing track of the number of times famously articulate Peeta–captain of the debate team, president of the student council–has said “wow.” This is definitely my signal to skedaddle before I do anything dangerous, like start to think about why Peeta Mellark might be adopting such an exuberant tone with me.
“Well, I should probably get going. I uh…it was nice to see you, Peeta. And…thank you,” I say, sidling toward the door.
“I hope you'll think of me next time you get the shits,” he calls after me, then winces as if he's not sure if the joke will land. When he hears me laugh, his face relaxes and he gives me a little wave goodbye.
I have to take a moment after I close the door behind me. I'm breathing heavily, and it's not from running for once. How is it that I can run 50 miles in a single stretch but this is what finally takes my breath away.
— — —
It's been a week and I can't stop thinking about the bakery and, well, the baker. I tell myself that I’m running past his cheerful shop on Main Street every morning because it's the best route from my little rental house in the Seam to my favorite trail head on the edge of the park, but who am I kidding? I'm 28-years-old. I can admit it when I have a crush by now, right? Enough is enough.
So that is how I find myself stalling outside the bakery after my long run, vacillating between the safe option of running home like a coward and the dangerous but thrilling one in front of me. If I were indeed the pooping pilferer, I would be looking mighty suspicious right about now. It's finally a hunger pang and the realization that I have nothing to eat at home besides a sleeve of stale Saltines that drives me inside. That, and the thought of Peeta's dimples…but I'm not ready to fully examine that yet.
The bell tinkles as I push open the door and I nearly high tail it back out of there when I see Peeta surrounded by a gaggle of pretty blondes at the pastry corner. He looks up at the noise and his eyes widen then crinkle at the corners in a smile. He raises his eyebrows at me and tilts his head toward the restroom.
I bite my lip where it is quirking up in spite of my nervousness and shake my head. Peeta’s smile widens and he holds up a finger as if to say “just a sec.”
He waves to the pimply teenager behind him. “Hey Jeb, come help these lovely ladies out.” The kid looks like Peeta has just grown three heads and he shoots a look of terror at the busty women dressed head to toe in expensive Lululemon athleisure wear. I look down at my sweaty blue tank top and shorts paired with a fluorescent green hydration vest self-consciously. The only prominent thing about my chest are the twin hydration pouches filled with Tailwind, my electrolyte of choice.
The prettiest woman at the counter pouts her cherry lips and puts a manicured hand on Peeta's broad forearm. “I was hoping you could help me out.” I don't know how she is making selecting a croissant from a pastry case sound so sultry. It annoys me for a reason I can't quite put my finger on. I wonder if I can still sidle out of here without Peeta noticing.
“Believe me, you'll be in better hands with Jeb here,” Peeta is saying, extracting his arm tactfully from the woman's grasp. “He just restocked the pastries so he knows which ones are freshest.”
I'm not sure who looks more dismayed about this turn of events, the woman or poor stammering Jeb. Peeta, however, waves me over to the other end of the counter and leans across it, folding his muscled baker's arms in front of him and looking so genuinely happy that my heart starts pounding like I'm running up a switchback. I guess I can see why the woman couldn't help but reach out and touch him, but I can't imagine having that kind of confidence.
“Hey,” Peeta says brightly. “I'm so glad to see you.”
A weak “Hey” is all I can get out in return. I'm having trouble concentrating with his electric blue eyes so close.
“So, what can I do for you?” He looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, um. I-I'm hungry,” I stammer, suddenly turning into the female version of Jeb in Peeta's intoxicating presence. My stomach growls as if to say this is an understatement. “Starving actually.”
Peeta claps his hands together excitedly. “Well, I can do something about that. Given this is a code red, might I suggest the Slaughterhouse Five?”
I look up at the menu. All the sandwiches are literary-themed. There's one called “Second Breakfast,” a clever nod to the Lord of the Rings. And another called “East of Eatin’”--I'm tempted by that one–it’s one of my favorite novels. But when I hear Peeta recite the ingredients for the Slaughterhouse Five (five types of meat and cheese and an over-easy egg), I decide it's Kurt Vonaggut for the win.
“I'll make you a mixed berry smoothie to go with it,” says Peeta. “We just got a fresh shipment from Thresh’s berry patch.”
“I don't think that's on the menu…” I hedge, though my mouth is watering at the thought.
Peeta ignores me. “Annnnd I'll add some protein powder. The good stuff,” he assures. “None of that chalky business.”
My eyes run over the planes of his shoulders, the pull of his white tee where it strains over the bulge of his biceps. Yeah, it looks like Peeta might know a thing or two about protein powder. I wonder what he does to stay fit post wrestling. Maybe lifting? Or–
“Katniss?” I snap back to reality like a rabbit triggering a snare. Peeta is peering at me, concerned. “You looked far away for a second.”
“Oh! Sorry.” I shake my head vigorously, my cheeks coloring. “That sounds amazing actually. If it's not too much trouble….”
Peeta's face splits into a dazzling grin. I don't know why he looks so delighted that I've just made more work for him when he is clearly in the middle of a very busy morning.
“How many miles did you do this morning?” he asks, filling up a glass of water and handing it to me.
I hesitate. “Uh, thirty?” It's impossible to talk about ultra running without sounding like you're bragging, and of course, Peeta reacts predictably.
“ Thirty?! ” he cries, causing the gaggle of girls at the counter to look over at us and scowl. “As in: Three. Zero? Unbelievable. So you just casually wake up on a Saturday and run farther than 99 percent of the population will ever go in their life?”
“Well, not casually,” I protest. “There was a lot of grumbling and cursing my life choices.”
Peeta laughs, still looking amazed. “Ok, then you’ll need an appetizer, too. Sweet or savory?” he asks.
“Um, savory?” I respond suspiciously, not sure where he's going with this.
“A woman after my own heart. You gotta try these cheese buns. I just took them out of the oven.” He reaches for the metal tray behind him as if he hasn't just said the most devastatingly charming thing to me while also proffering a baked good filled with cheddar. I don't think I've been more attracted to someone in my life.
Peeta scoops up the biggest, gooiest one and hands it to me on a plate. “Have a seat over there. I'll just be ten minutes, ok?”
He looks at me with boyish earnestness as if he's afraid I might get cold feet and leave before I have consumed the half hog on a bun I was just promised. The thought is preposterous.
I take a seat at the cozy table in the corner under a canopy of live vines and take in the surroundings I was too distracted to notice when I came in the other day. The place is lush with greenery, no doubt loving the greenhouse effect offered by the floor to ceiling windows. The bakery looks so different from when I was a kid. Every inch of the wall not covered in plants is painted with beautiful murals that go along with the theme of the menu. On the far wall I see a woman in regency era attire that must be Elizabeth Bennett tromping across the meadow to Netherfield, and to her right, surely it is Sherlock Holmes on the moors, clad in a deerstalker cap and pipe ala Hound of the Baskervilles. Then there's a children's corner with a colorful rug, some miniature furniture, and Peter Rabbit plush toys. On the wall is Mr. Tumnus by a lamppost, the wise Lorax and his truffula trees, and Peter Pan and Wendy flying across the sky above them. Nearest me, I see a beautiful depiction of a Cherokee creation story, a nod to the rich oral tradition of the indigenous people of the Blue Ridge mountains.
I'm so taken in by the scene that I start when Peeta materializes over my shoulder carrying a tray of food that smells like heaven. He sets it down with a flourish and surprises me by sliding into the empty chair across from me.
“So what are you training for?” he says, nudging the tray toward me and picking up a mug of black coffee for himself.
I grab the sandwich greedily, actually licking my lips. “An ultra marathon,” I say, taking my first bite and choking down an embarrassing moan as the flavor explodes over my tongue. “It’s a hundred miles,” I say through a full mouth in a distinctly unladylike way. Maybe Peeta is disgusted by my manners because he won't stop staring at my lips.
He whistles. “That seems impossible.”
I snort. “I know, right? I've never done more than 50, so it very well could be.”
“Nah, you'll do it,” he says confidently. He's still staring at my mouth. I wonder wildly if I have some runny egg yolk there or something.
“Peeta, this sandwich is seriously delicious,” I say, trying to change the subject. “And this place!” I wave an arm toward the rest of the cafe. “It's totally transformed.”
Peeta runs a hand through his curls, looking bashful. “Oh, um, I'm glad you like it. Bannock–my oldest brother–and I took over for our old man a few years ago. We decided to spruce things up. Capitalize on the Instagram hikers who come down from the city.”
“Like Lululemon over there,” I quip, smirking at the busty blonde. She's picking at a salad that must be the “Farmer McGregor's Garden.”
“Exactly,” he says, his eyes dancing conspiratorially.
“Well you did a great job,” I say fervently, unable to stop myself from licking the bacon grease off my fingers, manners be damned. “Who did you get to do the murals?”
Peeta's eyes have become weirdly unfocused, but he gives his head a little shake. “Well…me. Cheapest option,” he says modestly, taking a sip of coffee to hide the way his cheeks have gone scarlet.
“Peeta!” I gasp. “I had no idea you were so talented.” Well, at least not at art. I already knew he was talented at just about everything else.
Peeta looks so adorable when he's pleased that I want to keep complimenting him all day.
“Thanks, Katniss,” he says softly. “My mom didn't approve of art. Or literature…” He suddenly barks out a laugh. “Or really anything I liked, so…I guess this is my homage to her.”
It makes my heart clench thinking about anyone disapproving of kind, selfless Peeta Mellark, especially his own mother. I'm also surprised he can talk about it so openly, without even a hint of self-pity in his voice. My hand twitches involuntarily like it wants to squeeze his forearm. Who am I ? A thirsty Insta hiker?
“Anyway,” he goes on, giving me a lopsided smile. “What about you? You moved home, huh?”
I take a long sip of my smoothie hoping the sharp tang of the berries will give me some courage. “Yeah, I got a job at Paylor National Park. I'm a ranger.”
Peeta's eyes light up. “That's so perfect! You were always the best in science. And nobody knows these woods like you do.”
I cough as the cool liquid goes down the wrong tube. What would Peeta know about me and science? Or me and the woods, for that matter. I feel my face heating up. “It's just a junior post,” I deflect. Never in a million years will I admit how competitive the process was. How much I wanted it. How long I dreamed of this day. That kind of longing for one's own success is selfish.
“Katniss,” he wheedles. “Will you please just let me be impressed by you for a second?”
The look on Peeta's face is so sweet and earnest that it completely disarms me and I find myself smiling against my will. Then when he asks about Prim, I surprise myself by talking for a full fifteen minutes, bragging about how she has just finished med school and is doing her residency at the best hospital in the Capitol. Peeta leans his cheek on his hand, a little smile playing across his lips. I like the way he tilts his body toward mine as we talk as if he's leaning in to not miss a single word. I try, and fail, to remember the last time a guy showed this much interest in what I have to say.
“Look, I really hate to do this,” he says finally. “But if I don't get back to work, I might have to put Jeb on a ventilator.” We look over to see a flustered looking Jeb trying to open a new roll of quarters at the register. He drops it in his anxiety and sends a dozen coins skittering across the floor. Peeta locks eyes with me. “Will I see you again?”
My straw gurgles as I sip up the last of the smoothie. “You probably won't be able to avoid it. You're on my running route.”
Peeta grins.
— — —
The next morning when I run by the bakery, I see a light on outside and there is Peeta, clad in running attire and double knotting a pair of Hokas.
“Want some company?” he asks, his handsome face eager in the soft glow of the dawn. “I traded Bannock the opening shift for babysitting.”
Peeta and I fall into the same easy conversation as we did the day before. In fact, it’s even easier now that I have something else to focus my nervous energy on and the familiar cadence of my feet against the pavement to steady me. Peeta keeps up pretty well, too, though his tread is so heavy it's like running alongside a really attractive buffalo.
And then eventually mornings together become a habit– no, the time spent together feels more meaningful than that–more like a ritual.
We run easy 3 to 6 mile loops together around the reservoir or along the gravelly canal path. I tell him about the forest. About how to distinguish between delicious elderberries and poisonous pokeberries, where to find the deer trails to the best swimming holes, and about my dad, how he taught me to hunt and what it feels like to know we’ll never walk those woods together again. I can’t believe we waited all these years to talk when the words flow so easily, like water spilling down the creek into the hollow.
Peeta tells me more about growing up in the bakery–the good days when it was just him and his dad, his two brothers and their hijinks. And the bad ones, too. The days before CPS gave Peeta’s dad an ultimatum–he could either remove his wife or they could remove his youngest son. I hate it that it took an order from some overworked public servant for that kind but weak-willed man to choose Peeta. Especially because I’m starting to realize that I would choose Peeta again and again. I would choose him every time, without any prompting.
— — —
After about two weeks of near daily conversations that challenge me, and surprise me, and make me feel ways I didn't know I could feel, I start itching for more. But Peeta keeps everything carefully PG. He respects my boundaries maybe too much. Because those boundaries are like electric fences–they keep the good out the same as the bad.
Prim tells me I’m the worst flirt ever. First of all, according to Prim, I never notice where someone is flirting with me, and second of all, when I try to flirt back, I get all up in my head about it and it comes off as aloof and indifferent. Does Peeta think I’m aloof and indifferent, I wonder? Not that he would care…would he care? Gah, it's all so confusing. Maybe this was Prim’s point.
I debate how to go about this as I run ahead of Peeta on a stretch of single track trail. Objectively, my ass has to look pretty good right now, right? All those repeats up and down the ridge trail can’t have done nothing. Maybe it even looks good enough to make up for my overall plainness. I decide to give it a go.
“Hey Peeta,” I call behind me. “There’s a guy following me. Must be one of those creeps in the darkness you were worried about.”
“Oh really?” he responds, arching an eyebrow at me playfully. He’s breathing a little heavier than usual, I’m pushing the pace harder today, maybe out of nerves “What does he look like?”
“Oh you know, broad chest, blonde hair,” I say casually. “Looks like he works out or something. Kinda cute, actually.”
“Hmm,” he muses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Doesn’t sound like too much of a threat. But he did check out your ass though. Should I tell him to back off?”
My breath catches as I slow my tread to fall back in sync with Peeta. I give him a shy sideways smile. “Nah, that’s ok. I think I can handle him.”
We fall back into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sound of our footfalls–his, heavy and uneven, mine, light and measured. We're running along the creek now and Peeta's loud tread keeps startling the blue herons feeding along the shore. A particularly big one takes flight as we round the bend, soaring across the water and landing haughtily in a stand of reeds on the far bank.
“What's your favorite color?” Peeta asks me suddenly, as if this isn’t a total non-sequitur.
“What?” I laugh.
“Your favorite color,” he repeats. “I always planned to ask you that if I ever worked up the nerve to talk you.”
“Green, I guess,” I say, looking up at the canopy above us. Dappled light filters through the branches, illuminating the angles of Peeta's face. “Forest green.”
“That makes sense.” He leaps gracelessly over an errant root in the path. “Mine’s orange. Muted, like the sunset.”
“Sunsets are nice,” I agree.
“But you want to know what I was going to tell you at age 13?” Peeta says, raising his eyebrows at me.
I shake my head, intrigued.
“Silver. Like your eyes,” he says in a mock swooning tone.
“Oh my God, you dork.” Chortling, I knock his shoulder with mine, nearly running him off the trail.
Peeta grabs my arm just above the elbow to steady himself, holding it a little longer than necessary. “I know. I was so dramatic.” He lowers his voice then, and catches my gaze pointedly. “I still like the color of your eyes, though.”
“Um, thanks?”
He smiles at the prominent blush blooming on my cheeks. “And that color, too,” he adds softly.
My heart thuds against my ribs. “ Still dramatic I see,” I try to tease, but my mouth has gone dry and my legs feel like jelly even though we've only gone three miles.
“Old habits die hard,” he says.
We stop for a water break at the creek crossing. It's hot and humid for late September and the sun is already so potent I feel certain that Peeta is going to end up with a sunburn. Without thinking, I pull off my tank top and thread it through the straps on the back of my sports bra for easy carry. A warm breeze dances across my bare midriff.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Peeta swallow hard. He's keeping his eyes raised respectfully aloft, trying valiantly not to look.
“Peeta, it's a sports bra,” I scoff. It’s not like there’s much to see here anyway. “Girls wear far skimpier bikinis.”
He scuffs his shoe against a mossy rock. “Yeah, ‘course. I know.”
“I don't care if you look at me in my sports bra,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. But I do care, obviously. I want him to look.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, finally meeting my eyes. “God, I'm just so out of practice with pretty girls.”
“Didn't seem like it the other day at the bakery…” There, I've said it. Voiced the insecurity that continues to rankle me even though I know deep down I'm probably being petty.
“I mean with ones I like ,” he tells me firmly, as if he can read my mind.
My breath catches, and now I'm the one blushing.
“You must be pretty hot, too,” I say, then immediately regret my choice of words when his lips curl up in a smirk.
“Thanks for the compliment,” he preens.
“Ha. Ha.”
“Well, I don't mind if you look at me either,” he says smugly, stripping off his sweaty t-shirt and tucking it into the back waistband of his shorts.
I gulp at the sight of his bare chest. It’s the kind of chest that’s both firm and soft at the same time, that you want to burrow into on a cold night, and that could hold you when you’re in tears or rumble with resonant laughter when you’re cracking each other up.
It’s not that it’s perfect. It’s just perfect for me.