My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. ‘No, I won’t let you.’
‘Trust me,’ I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. ‘On the count of three?
‘Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. ‘The count of three,’ he says.
We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.
‘Hold them out, I want everyone to see,’ he says
I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta’s hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we being counting.”
(Source: unicorn-feelings, via crest-annie-a)
