But I don’t want him to go. In fact, I want him to climb in with me, to be there when the nightmares hit tonight. For some reason that I can’t quite form, I know I’m not allowed to ask that.
“Don’t go yet. Not until I fall asleep,” I say.
Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. “Almost thought you’d changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner.”
I’m foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I’d made a run for it, maybe with Gale.
“No, I’d have told you,” I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. […] “Stay with me.
this entire fucking scene (◕‿◕✿)
TOUCHING, SMELLING HIS SCENT, ALWAYS. (via frostingpeetaswounds)
In America you get more dirty looks for wearing a hijab than wearing a “Cool story babe now make me a sandwich” shirt let that sink in.