AN: This was written for The Magnificently Angry Beaver for the Spring Fling Fic Exchange on A03. A special thanks to Court81981 for your help and beta work.

The "frustrated romantic" quote is from Fringe.

The title comes from the poem "i carry your heart with me" by e.e. cummings.

Reviews are appreciated. Enjoy!

"Katniss, please just wait to do this when I can come home. I don't want you packing Mom's things by yourself," Prim says sadly. I can hear the tears in her voice through the phone. It's been over a month since we buried our mother, and she's still having a hard time keeping her emotions under control.

"I can handle it. You need to stay in school, Prim. The house has to be empty for the new buyers by the end of the week. All the big things have been moved out or sold. Now it's just her more personal things that need to be boxed and stored."

"Those are the worst things," she pauses, sniffling back more tears and clearing her throat. It's a good thing she's not here. I'm not sure I could handle my little sister's tears today. "At least call someone. What about Peeta? You've said you're getting closer now that you've been working together. Why don't you call him?"

"I can't do that, Prim, it's too much to ask of someone I work with."

"Katniss, he's more than just someone you work with and you know it. You've known him almost your entire life, and it's Peeta, I'm sure he'd be happy to help. You shouldn't be alone right now. Stop being so stubborn."

"Prim, it's fine. There's not a lot left," I say, exasperated. Looking around the near-empty rooms of the house I grew up in leaves me feeling cold and sad. Part of me likes the idea of having someone else here just to get this done faster. But, there's a bigger part of me that just feels like it would be a huge imposition. This is my mother's life. What's left isn't just furniture and dishes. It's clothes and knick knacks. Her favorite books and collectables. Everything that was my mother.

The things that meant something to her.

I don't want Peeta Mellark here for nothing more than there's a very good chance I might cry and I do not want anyone, especially someone I see everyday, to see me cry. On the other hand, like Prim said, it's Peeta. Sweet, kind, gorgeous Peeta. The boy I spent most of my adolescent years covertly staring at in just about every class in school. The man who held my hand and kissed the side of my face after my mother's funeral.

But I can't call him. Prim can call it stubbornness if she wants to; I just call it not wanting to bother him. It's Saturday night, I'm sure he's probably got a date anyway.

Before we get off the phone, Prim makes me promise to call her the minute I feel like it's too much. I do, but I think we both know I won't.

I'm two boxes into packing up what's left of my mother's things when the doorbell echoes over the bare walls of the house.

I almost laugh when I see Peeta's blond mop of hair through the door's peephole. I should have known Prim would call him the minute we got off the phone.

"Peeta, what a surprise," I say, the sarcasm dripping from my tongue as I swing the door open.

"Prim called," he says sheepishly shrugging his shoulders. "She said you might need some help tonight."

I take one of the brown paper grocery bags from his arms and show him in.

"Are you hungry? I brought provisions." He sets the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge to put some beer and soda away. As I watch him move around my mother's kitchen I question not wanting him here. His presence seems to have edged out some of the loneliness I didn't realize I was feeling and, though I hate to admit it, I'm grateful to Prim for not listening to me.

"I could eat," I say as my stomach growls in response. I hadn't really thought about food all day, too consumed with finishing my tasks, than eating. But now that he mentions it, I'm suddenly famished. "You didn't have to do this."

"I know I didn't have to do it," he says, walking to stand in front of me, tilting my chin up and wiping, what I can only assume are tear tracks from my cheeks with his thumb. "I wanted to. You shouldn't do something like this alone." He pauses, his eyes searching my face. "But, I'll go if you want me to."

I swear Peeta Mellark could get me to agree to anything just by focusing those blue eyes on me. He has an uncanny way of looking at you that seems like he's reaching inside and pulling out all your secrets, willing you to do whatever he wants and suddenly the thought of him going leaves me feeling empty. "No, stay. I don't have much left to do. Just her personal things."

"I stopped by the bakery on the way here, got some of your favorites."

"How do you know…," I begin, incredulous that he knows me well enough to know my favorite foods, but trail off as he unwraps several cheese buns and places them on a paper plate in front of me, the smell alone making my mouth water in anticipation. I take one from the plate and immediately stuff half of it in my mouth, moaning as the rich flavor explodes over my taste buds and the gooey cheese middle melts on my tongue. My eyes fall closed as I chew slowly, savoring what is, without a doubt, my favorite food. When I open them, I find Peeta smirking at me.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks with a chuckle, reaching over to me and wiping a string of cheese from my chin with the pad of his thumb.

"How did you know these are my favorite?" I must be beet-red; I can feel the flush on my cheeks.

"I know a lot of things about you, Katniss. I brought them specifically so I could see that face you make when you eat them."

Now I'm extremely embarrassed, and I duck my head wishing my hair wasn't tied in a braid so it would hide my face. I take a giant gulp of beer, hoping it will cool the burning of my face.

"Well, you know what they say, the way to a girl's heart..."

"That's what I'm hoping," he says with a wink. My eyes shoot up to his. Is he flirting with me? I brush that off, though, because it's not an exaggeration to say Peeta Mellark can have any woman he wants in this quiet little town. Not that I've seen him date particularly much, but I do know what the women of this town say about him, and the thought of him wanting me is absurd.

"What is the secret to these?" I say, holding what's left of my cheese bun out in front of me, examining it as if the defining ingredient will reveal itself to me. "There has to be a secret, I've never had anything that tasted like this before. It's like a delicacy."

"Oh, there is a secret, but it's a family secret. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you…or marry you."

I tap my fingers on my chin and scrunch my lips together as if considering it. "Hmm, that's all it'd take, huh? It might be worth it," I say, popping the last little bit into my mouth. I can't keep the smile from creeping onto my lips when his eyes widen and he clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

"Try this, you can't live on cheese buns alone," he says, scooping the oversized steak and cheese sandwich from the plate between us and holding it out to me. It must be an automatic response, because I can't keep my eyes from rolling back in my head out of pure pleasure once my teeth sink into the mountain of a sandwich. "Jesus, Katniss, I think I need to feed you more often."

"Tell me you made this and I'll marry you tomorrow," I quip, only half joking. His mouth opens and closes a few times as if grasping for words and his eyes flash with a look I can't quite discern.

As we polish off the last bits of food from the plates, I'm suddenly aware of how comfortable I am with him, and I wonder when exactly that happened.

It wasn't always this way with us. Prim was right, I have known him for most of my life, but we never were particularly good friends until recently when we started working at the recreation center together. And I'm glad he's here now. The house seems less empty with him here, almost like a heavy weight has been lifted.

He gathers the plates and empty bottles from the counter and takes them to the trash bag in the kitchen while I make my way back over to the wall of books that are waiting to be boxed.

I kneel in front of them, suddenly feeling extremely tired.

"These were her favorite possessions," I confide when I feel him come up behind me. He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, noticing my shift in mood and takes a spot beside me. "She always used to tell me, 'if you ever get lonely, Katniss, there's a whole world of friends waiting for you inside the pages of a book.' " I chuckle at the memory and lean into him when his hand slides from my shoulder to my waist in a soft embrace. "As you can see, she collected books like some people collect coins."

I shake off the melancholy and begin boxing books again, thinking about what I am going to do with them all. I hate to give them away or even donate them to a library. They were just such an intrinsic part of who she was, it almost seems like a betrayal.

Peeta's words shake me out of my reverie. "This one is lighter than the others," he says, holding a copy of Wuthering Heights. His eyebrows pinch together in thought as he runs his hand over the worn, leather binding. It's the shock in his voice, though, that has me unceremoniously dropping the books I'm holding into a box and scooting closer to him. I can't hold in the gasp that leaves me when he opens the cover to reveal a stack of neatly folded letters, bound by a light blue ribbon stacked inside the hollowed pages.

The book was a favorite of hers. These letters must have meant a great deal to her if she willingly cut up a treasured book.

My first thought is that they are letters from my father. Excitement fills me as I take the bunch from its resting place and untie the ribbon, my hands shaking so much in anticipation to hold a piece of my father in my hands after so long that I nearly tear the first letter in the stack. But I know immediately from the elegant handwriting that lines the well-worn paper, that they are not from my father

As I begin to read the words, so expertly crafted on the page, my breath hitches and my eyes begin to water.

Dearest Abigail…I can think of no other but you…my heart bleeds to love you…arms ache to hold you…my head tells me this is wrong, but my heart weeps for you…

"Peeta," I gasp, laying my hand over his and drawing out the syllables of his name. "What is this?"

He takes the letter from me and begins to read. I pull another from the stack. The words tug at my heart. Each letter is signed only with a 'J'. I pick through the stack, only glancing at the signature, hoping to find the author, but each letter is marked with only an elegantly drawn 'J'.

"Who do you think could have written these and when?"

I'm so lost in the mystery of the letters that I don't notice how quiet he's become until I've opened every letter - eight in all - looking for the author of these beautiful words. When I finally do look at him, I realize he's become white as a sheet, his mouth hanging slightly agape, staring at the paper he holds so carefully in his large hands.

His wide, blue eyes slowly meet mine. I watch his Adam's apple bob heavily in his throat as he swallows.

"This is my father's handwriting, Katniss," he says quietly as if he can't quite believe what he's saying, and frankly, neither do I.

"What? How is that possible? They were never together. When?" I sputter.

"I guess you've stumbled onto another Mellark family secret. Now you really are going to have to marry me," he says, trying to make light of the situation, but there is no humor in his voice.

My mind races to make sense of the letters and the implications behind them, but I cannot wrap my head around the idea of our parents having an affair.

"But...but...that's impossible," I scoff. "I would have known if my mother was seeing someone...especially if that someone was your father...and your father was married...oh god...your father?"

I force my mind to cycle through any memory I can bring to mind to try to pinpoint when this affair could have happened. But it's hard to focus when everything inside me is screaming, 'My mom had an affair with a married man!' I comb through the letters, trying to find some kind of clue. But there is nothing, just words of love and passion.

He was going to leave Peeta's mother. He says it over and over. He even mentions me and Prim and Sunday afternoons in the bakery eating cookies.

"Did you know about this? Why didn't you tell me? When did this happen?" I fire at him, but I don't give him enough time to answer me before it hits me.

"Eighth grade," we say in unison. It makes sense. It was about two years after my father died in a car accident that my mother finally started to pull herself out of a depression that left her little more than a functioning zombie. I remember when I began to realize we were finally getting our mother back. She started wearing make-up again, in particular her favorite shade of red lipstick.

I remember thinking how beautiful she looked whenever she would come out of her room with her lips painted that rich shade of red - a color that always looked too bold and gauche on my darker skin.

"Everything makes so much sense now," Peeta says, disbelief still lacing his tone. I turn more fully to him, setting the letters to the side. "Every time I would even mention your name she would go completely psycho."

He mentioned my name? To his mother? That's news to me.

He turns sad eyes to me. I lean in, bumping my shoulder with his.

"We all knew something happened….that he had an affair, but we never knew with whom," he continues, absently, his eyes far away and tucked into the memory. "My mother was never a particularly kind woman, but that year everything just got so much worse. She seemed to actively despise everyone. She became bitter and cold."

My heart clenches for him, remembering the icy woman who always refused to look at Prim and me. I suppose I know why now, but I can't imagine having to live with that kind of scorn. My mother was a lot of things, often very distant and sad, especially after my father's death, but we never lacked in love. We always felt wanted; she made sure of that.

"She always put on a perfect front for everyone else," Peeta continues, "but we knew she hated him and we just got caught in the cross fire." He pauses again to look me in the eye. "I always felt sorry for him."

"We don't know whether they actually had an affair," I point out, "or if it was just contained to these letters. I don't remember him coming around, and he stayed with your mother. He must have loved her at least a little to have stayed."

"Part of me hopes they actually had an affair, because otherwise, what was the point? It destroyed our family anyway. I wish he would have just left my mother. At least he would have found some kind of happiness instead of being locked in a loveless marriage. She made us all miserable everyday."

"I think these letters only show he was in love with my mother. We don't know what happened between them. He took a chance. Maybe he thought it was worth that chance just for her to know."

"That's a pretty romantic notion for such a cynical girl. I never would have taken you for a romantic, Katniss."

"I'm not. Maybe more of a frustrated romantic. I heard once, that beneath every cynic is a frustrated romantic. It seems to fit me."

"I kind of like that you're a cynic - no matter how frustrated you are. It makes me want to prove you wrong." He's flirting with me, trying to make light of the situation again, and I can't help the smile that overtakes my face. It's so typical of Peeta to try to set me at ease when he's the one hurting.

"I know an affair is wrong," I state quietly. "But whatever happened with them changed my mother for the better. I can't help but be grateful for that, no matter how it ended. But I hate that it hurt you."

This time he's the one who leans into me, and we sit there silently for a few moments just staring at the pile of letters before us. He feels so warm and strong against me. I guess those are two things I've always associated with Peeta. He's always seemed so solid to me. It's a testament to his character that he's remained such a solid and kind man despite the secrets his family held.

It would have been easy to let the turmoil of his childhood change him into someone far less appealing. Something this big is bound to change people, regardless if they know it's happening or not. People can't have something that big weighing on them without it shaping them somehow. I know it had a profound effect on me. I probably would have grown up resenting my mother for being a vacant shell of a person, instead Peeta's father helped bring her back to us. I guess he showed her that life could be good again after the loss of my father.

"Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. A kind of penance or something and just tried to make the best of a bad situation," he says suddenly.

"That just seems so wrong."

I don't know what makes me take his hand in mine and bring it to my mouth, placing a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles. I just know that it feels right. I want to comfort him.

His eyes seem glued to our clasped hands, shock lighting his eyes. I begin to regret my boldness and try to untangle my hand from his, but he doesn't let me. Instead, he pulls me closer, his free hand tangling in my braid, eyes boring into mine.

He says my name quietly before bringing his lips to mine. I can taste the wet, bitter tang of his beer when my tongue darts out to meet his. He tugs me to him again, arms circling my waist and suddenly I am in his lap, my legs fitting perfectly around his hips, lips still fused with his. He feels so good.

He says my name between kisses over and over again like it is some kind of oath, his fingers slipping the band from my hair and deftly unwinding each plaited strand, and I can't help but wonder why we have never done this before. He feels hard and soft all at the same time. The hard plains of his muscles contrast with his soft touch and make me hungry for more.

My hands find the hem of his shirt and I tug it clumsily over his head, the light waves of his hair falling messily into his eyes as I toss the shirt to the side. I let my eyes wander his torso for a moment, fingers tracing each line of muscle, before I find myself needing his mouth on mine again.

Everything happens so fast. A rush of emotion fueled by an unmatched urgency propels us forward until we are a tangled mess of naked limbs on the floor. He hovers over me, fitting himself snugly between my legs. I ache for him, a deep-down, raw ache that makes me clutch his hips in my hands and pull him into me.

"Fuck," he groans as he slides into my heat, his head falling into the hollow of my neck, mouth latching onto the sensitive skin. His movements are slow and controlled, drawing out the pleasure as we move together, his hands, lips and teeth reverently traveling the curves of my body.

I pull my leg over his hip, somehow needing him closer. We sigh together as he sinks impossibly deeper, and everything zeros down to that one point, then bursts apart and sending us both over the edge.

He collapses onto his forearms, careful not to crush me under him. He peers at me from under hooded lids when I brush the sweat-darkened strands of his blond hair from his forehead, a boyish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"If I had know all it would take to get you this way was a sandwich and all my family's secrets, I would have made you dinner and confessed my life to you years ago."

I know the look on my face is one of disbelief. I just can't hide it, but it's the soft look in his cornflower blue eyes and the tender touch of his fingers feathering over my face that catches my breath in my throat.

"You have no idea, do you, Katniss?"

I pull his face down to mine again and kiss him slowly, not willing to acknowledge what the look in his eyes might mean.

"Should we finish packing?" he says against my mouth between lazy, lingering kisses. I shake my head no and wrap my legs around him when he moves to pull out of me, unwilling to let him go…needing him as close to me as possible.

"Don't. Stay."

The smile that lights his face is blinding. He threads his fingers through mine and brings them between us, kissing each knuckle.

"I'm not going anywhere."