Hello, wonderful readers! So, I'm not sure if this will be a two-shot or what, but please feel free to review or whatever to let me know what you think.

Katniss Everdeen is in trouble. She cannot process why, but she knows she is in trouble.

In fact, Katniss Everdeen cannot process a single thought, as her mind instead gives reins to her body, allowing it to speed walk – okay, run – away, whilst sweating, blushing, amongst other things.

Those other things not even she will admit to.

The fact that her mind is at a complete impasse is thanks to the past childhood development in which many times acting on instinct was preferable to processing reality and to the more present image of a very dear Peeta Mellark doing… things.

Things not even she will think of.

So, instead of thinking, she speed walks – runs – until she is safely in her car, driving to her house – not home, her house – and pacing the dusty floors of her bedroom until there is nothing left to do but think. And thinking means a shower.

The teenager crosses the small house to the measly bathroom she shares with her mother and sister to turn the shower on with hot water, strips her faded clothes off and into the hamper, and steps under the thankfully strong water pressure. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash. Shave? Fine.

A deep breath of the steam and relaxing aroma of orange blossom body wash lure her thoughts to replaying the events of the afternoon, from which her conundrum manifested in the first place.

As ordinary as any other Thursday night, Katniss closed the Bass Pro Shop she had been working at most of the year – thank you, 15 percent off archery equipment – and walked past the narrow tree line to the adjacent neighborhood Johanna Mason resided in to pay her friend a visit before being forced to face the stuffy, empty, lonely, not-a-home house. But then the visit was over, and Katniss was walking back through the modest houses, hands stuck in her pockets, considering when she should start that English paper, and why does Ms. Bauman have to freak out over – and she looks up at her name, and all thought eludes Katniss.

Sweat-matted curls. Curious frown closing the deep blue eyes. And strong hand gripping and dragging smooth, thick skin up, slowly, accompanied by the ragged breath, uttered profanity, deep voice moaning her name. And unawares of the young man, her blush, her lip bitten down, her uncontrollable and urgent gray gaze. The first experience of warm wetness between clenching thighs as her heart seemed to match the pace of a freaking helicopter. Suddenly, she had an urge to swallow the excess saliva and an even bigger urge to get the hell out before he saw her. And then the step back turned into a stumble back as her foot caught on her damnation, thus causing the fall, the yelp, the exposure, and ultimately, her perdition.

Katniss can recall with vivid imagery the look of horror on the blond's face as he, basked in the golden light of his previously-thought private bedroom, locked his now open and now very aware sky blues on her crumpled form outside his bedroom window, highlighted against the night's background by his own bedroom's bright light. To make matters worse – if that could be possible – the open bedroom window provided no barrier against the unbearably awkward silence the experience produced or the pronounced sound of a fly being handled and tennis shoes scuffling the battered alleyway. Or the echoes of her name in her ears.

Now, mind and body reconnect as Katniss comes to terms with the undeniable warm tautness in her lower belly and the more urgent crave to lower her hand to scratch her itch, so to speak.

Shoot, she is in big trouble.

Peeta Mellark is in trouble. Fuck, he is in a shitload of trouble.

A whirlwind of thoughts attack him as his eyes remain fixed on the alleyway between his and his neighbor's homes, specifically the part of the alleyway wherein the love of his freaking life just saw him jerking off, moaning her freaking name. Although his eyes and entire body cannot move, let alone process a single thing other than the fading sound of her sprinting away, horrified probably, his mind is on overdrive with thoughts of his imminent doom – fuck, imminent? Immediate doom!

What should he do? What could he say? His mind begs him to yell after her, to find her now and explain, but his stubborn mouth refuses to utter a sound, let alone stop gaping. His legs will not move, his hand is even still on his jean button – thank God he had the motor skills to at least cover himself up in front of her – you know, after about five full seconds after his discovery of her and who-knows-how-long after she first started watching him.

How did she start watching him anyway? Yeah, maybe he likes to keep the window open and the curtains are always carelessly thrown open, but for fuck's sake his neighbor isn't exactly someone he needs to be cautious of and it's not like people always show up at his bedroom window for a conversation. Did she show up there on purpose? Well, it doesn't matter now, considering the hellhole he just dug for himself. Now instead of catching his eye in the hallways at school, she will probably be glaring at him during every given opportunity, whilst telling everyone about the perverted Peeta Mellark jacking off for the entire neighborhood to hear.

Slowly, Peeta's body comes back to him, and the realization of the tears streaming down his pale face cements the fact that he had seriously just ruined any chance of Katniss Everdeen ever talking to him, let alone liking him or fulfilling the fantasy he had conjured about a half hour ago. Now, all thought is centered on what sadistic future is ready for him in the face of a disgusted Katniss, on a future of disgust from his only love. He lowers his head into his hands as his body is racked with sobs.

He just fucked himself over into a shitload of trouble.