I couldn’t contain the elation I felt upon seeing him again. Seeing his beautiful blue eyes, his brilliant blonde hair. I flung myself into his arms, not even questioning he might not be able to hold me due to his lower leg being amputated thanks to those abominable Hunger Games.
As soon as I was in his arms, his legs buckled, but I could hear his laughter in my ears.
“Oh Peeta,” I whispered, tears stinging in my eyes before rolling down my face freely. He doesn’t answer in words, instead he grabs my waist firmly with one arm and strokes my hair with the other. I feel so safe and happy I almost forget that we’re not the only people in the room.
From behind us Haymitch clears his throat pointedly and my mother’s own throat clearing follows. The two of us scramble up off the floor quickly and stand facing our small audience. Although Haymitch and my mother seem displeased with us at first, it’s not long before they descend on Peeta, almost as glad to see him as I am.
Then just like that, almost in an instant it seems, Haymitch and my mother excuse themselves and give us some time to catch up or roam the ship. Whatever we please to do, really. I have a lot to tell Peeta and he obviously has a few things to tell me too. However, when I meet his eyes I can tell that whatever we have to say can wait.
He gathers me into his arms again, hugging me, kissing me. He’s holding me so tight I can barely breathe, not that I even care. I don’t ever want him to let me go, I’m so scared he’ll disappear again. Like he’s not permanent. Like he’s a dream.
“There’s no cameras you know,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my ear and I flare my nostrils, growling a little in anger at his comment. His kisses against my throat diffuse any anger he may have conjured however, as I feel myself relax against him again.
“I missed you,” I said, voice sort of strangled because he’s holding me so tightly, “God, Peeta, I missed you.” I kiss him again, tangling my fingers in his hair, holding his face, touching his chest. I just want to feel every part of him, I want to make sure without a doubt that he’s real. That this isn’t another one of those nightmares that plagues me. The ones where he disappears and I’m left wanting.
“Don’t let me go,” I beg when it feels like he’s moving away from me. I sound desperate and I can feel more tears spring to my eyes at the simple idea of his arms leaving their place around my waist, against my back…in my hair.
To finish? Probably not.