Well, don't expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.
And then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.
Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?” I say. “I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror,” he says. “You should wake me,” I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. “It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you,” he says. “I'm okay once I realize you're here.
Hope, it is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective, a lot of hope is dangerous.
All the writing elements are the same. You need to tell a good story... You've got good characters... People think there's some dramatic difference between writing 'Little Bear' and the 'Hunger Games,' and as a writer, for me, there isn't.
You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real.
You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope.
Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
You here to finish me off, Sweetheart?
You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me.
I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." I'm jolted back in time, to another wound, another set of bandages. "You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games. Real or not real?" "Real," he says. "And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me?" "Real." I shrug. "You were the reason I was alive to do it.
I'm more than just a piece in their Games.
Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there and gaze at me forever.
Ladies and gentlemen....." His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!
You've got to go through it to get to the end of it.
We fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice.
Because...because...she came here with me.
As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.
I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.
Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life.
Let the Seventy-forth Hunger Games begin, Cato, I think. Let them begin for real.
Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of make my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind.
Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.
Flight is essential, but I can't let my fear show.
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