A/N: This was literally written in an hour. I don't write Everlark. My interest was piqued by the Day 1 prompt for March PiP and this just popped into my head. Please don't judge me on how bad and short it is. Everlark really isn't my forte.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.

Enjoy!

'Why would anyone think this was even remotely normal?'

It took all the sixteen-year-old's willpower to keep the edge of his lip from quirking up as he tried frantically to focus on the intricate detailing the girl sprawled on the bed opposite him had just described moments prior. Of course, the fact that she had dropped the pen she'd been using to write said description into her family's book, preferring instead to openly gape at him (as if this wasn't completely bizarre), was making that task increasingly difficult.

Not that it wasn't incredibly flattering to be gawked at by a beautiful girl, but the fact that this one in particular didn't seem to realize why she found him so fascinating was curiously a simultaneous source of immense frustration and hilarity to him.

How could anyone be this obtuse?

He shifted slightly into a more comfortable position and could see her flinch from his periphery. His left hand – the one that wasn't presently occupied with shading a petal – instantly shot up to the bridge of his nose in a very good pretend-scratch. In reality, he was hiding the smile that inevitably split his features.

This was bloody tragically, hysterical.

This outwardly perfectly normal, sixteen-year-old hormonal girl had been staring at his lips for the last five minutes as if he was blind or incapable of noticing. But, at the slightest indication that she might be caught doing it, she freaked like she believed she was engaging in some sort of voyeurism?

She was a study in contradiction… innocent to the point of naïveté, yet enough of a woman that her inherent and evolving biochemistry, inexorably made her feel more than she knew how to interpret.

He could already see her brows furrow as she looked down at her discarded pen a moment, the trance apparently broken. She started writing again as if the past five minutes had never occurred and – if he really analyzed it – to her they really probably hadn't. These things didn't register to her on the level they did to him, did they?

Her heart likely didn't flutter every time she decided to stare at his eyes or hands or arms or whatever part of his anatomy she fancied for time unending, whenever they worked on this book. She didn't understand why she stared, at all.

She was 'confused', after all. She had her feelings for Gale- whatever the heck those were.

Becoming irate suddenly, the baker's son shifted completely in his seat so that he could no longer see the steel-eyed girl out of the corner of his azure eyes. He needed to finish this sketch so that she could approve of it before the final draft could go into the page in the book they'd been working on for the past hour. It'd be nice to finish in some semblance of peace.

Katniss looked up from the paragraph she was just finishing as she caught Peeta's motion in the chair by her bedside. There was a sharp, uncomfortable wrench to her gut as she realized the mise en scène she'd previously been subconsciously so enjoying was no longer available to her. Not sure why, she suddenly felt abandoned, lonely, deserted.

This was absolutely absurd, of course. He was right there. She could reach out with her left hand and touch him. Why did she have this overwhelming urge to reach out her hand and touch him?

Deciding she was probably just losing it to cabin fever from being locked up in that room for the prior week, the raven-haired teen let out a slow breath, once again trying to focus on the description she was writing.

Then, after staring at the last sentence for two minutes, she figured a little inspiration couldn't hurt. Paintings and drawings were always inspirational…

"Hey, Peeta, let's see what you've got so far." She told herself as she reached out to touch his arm it was to get his attention only, not because she really, really wanted to touch him the moment he turned away from her.

"It's not done yet. The final draft should have more detail, of course…"

He told himself as he got off the chair and sat on the edge of the bed it was so she could see the sketch better.

She didn't need him close.

He didn't need her close.

Nope. They did not need to be leaning into each other on that bed as they shared notes on that flower in that plant book.

…but neither was the first to move away, either…

Fin.

A/N: I just wanted to apologize again for how short and random this is. I just wanted to take advantage of the brief burst of inspiration. On the odd chance you actually liked it...

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