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“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 goodbye, and we begin counting.
(via i-knead-peetas-bread)
[video]
#I AM SORRY ABOUT THIS #BUT CAN YOU SEE HE ATTEMPT TO SMILE BUT THEN HE GOES NO
He has the look of a guy that likes a girl and is intimidated by her presence. Like he’s not sure what she thinks of him or what he’s saying. It’s hopeful and self conscious. His expression is perfect.
(Source: drunkmellark)
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