I'm not as well-trained as she is, but I can hear the key fumbling in the lock from across our house. My house, I remind myself. I drag myself out of bed and over to the window even though I know who's here. Sure enough, I see her little red Jeta, the one I bought for her birthday last year, sitting in its rightful place in the driveway, like it hadn't been for the past two weeks. Behind it is an old, black, Ford pickup. When Johanna hops out of the front seat of the truck, she instantly looks up at my window, at me. Her mouth twitches and she averts her gaze.

I sigh and pull on the same pair of jeans I've been wearing since she left. I know why she's here and that thought alone makes me want to curl back up in bed and pretend like I wasn't home. She won't come up here anyway; I moved all her boxes to the living room when she called to say she'd be coming by to get her stuff later this week. I intended to be at the bakery when she came. But when I showed up yesterday, the assistant manager took one look at me and told me to go home. 'You need time to grieve, Peeta. You two were together for too long to pretend like this isn't affecting you. Go home.'

When she told me she was moving out, my world fell apart. I begged her not to, said I'd do whatever it took to make us work. 'Do you not love me anymore?'

'Sometimes love isn't enough, Peeta.' She quietly packed her travel suitcase and left me in the silent wake of our destroyed life together.

I stand at the top of the stairs and watch her move every box labeled 'KE' from the living room out the front door. Her hair is falling out of its braid into her face but she never pauses. She clearly wanted out of the house as quickly as she possibly could.

"Is that everything?" Johanna asks,

"I think so. I doubt he wants any of my stuff cluttering up his house." Her voice is cold and completely indifferent to the situation.

"You really think that's why he packed everything up like this? Come on, you know Peeta better than I do and even I know he did it to make it easier for you."

She snorts. "Or quicker." She takes the keys off her keyring and sets them in the glass bowl in the entryway. The final, heavy plink of the promise ring I bought her breaks my heart and the sob that had been stuck in my chest all morning is released.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," Johanna calls into the now empty living room.

"You're her friend, Jo. I wouldn't expect anything less," I answer.

"You going to be okay?"

I nod. Because Johanna Mason can cut through my lies about her better than anyone else I know. And if I tell her I'll be fine without the love of my life, it would be a lie. Her eyes narrow but she doesn't lecture. "Call Finnick. Don't be alone."

"Peeta, you have to let me in because my hands are full of pizza and beer!" Finnick yells through the door, making a constant thud which I can only assume is him kicking.

I laugh and wipe my hands on my jeans before opening the door. Sure enough, he's got two pizza boxes in his hands and has somehow managed to balance four six-packs on his fingers. "How many people do you think are going to be here tonight, Finn?" I ask, quickly grabbing the pizza from him. "It's just you and me."

"Oh are you drinking today? I should have picked up more booze. Maybe some whiskey," he adds with a wink.

I groan. The last time Finnick and I drank whiskey, I let my tongue get the best of me and told some poor girl my entire life story. Finn saw it as a success; the girl felt so bad for my pathetic life that she invited me back to her place and pounced on me the moment we got there. She was the first girl since her and it took every ounce of sobriety in me not to call out her name.

"You're right, we'll save that for when we go out," he added with a wink, cracking two bottles open and handing one to me. "So what's on the agenda tonight?"

I lift my bottle up face-level. "Drinking to forget, my friend."

He clinks his bottle against mine and we both take long gulps. Finnick smiles at me when he sets his down. "The first year is the hardest, Brother."

"Thank God. Because I don't think I could handle another one like this," I answer, taking another drink.

By 11:00, Finn has asked if I'm planning on hanging myself from my shower curtain rod for the third time. And for the third time, I've told him that my only goal for today was to sleep until tomorrow, which is what I'd be doing if he hadn't shown up. Because tomorrow means it's been over a year without her. It seems to have worked this time because he pulls me in for one of his overly affectionate man-hugs and claps my back.

"Year one is down. Year two is about moving on. You deserve happiness again, Peet."

I make my way back up to my room. Nine months ago I donated all our bedroom furniture to the Salvation Army because I brought some random girl home and had a panic attack when I looked at her lying in our bed. On our sheets. She didn't belong there. Finnick helped me switch out everything the next day. I even bought a new shower curtain because she picked out the original one. Even now, knowing this was entirely my room, I feel so foreign in it. I open the closet and pull out a large cardboard box off the top shelf.

I must have a sadistic side, going through my box of mementos on this anniversary. But here I am, with the few remnants of our life. Ticket stubs from a our first real date, a recipe card for her favorite cheese buns, an empty CD case of a band I couldn't stand but she seemed to love, the last pieces of mail that came for her, and a handful of photographs of the two of us. I flip through them and run my finger over her face to push that strand of hair that consistently flew in her face behind her ear. I miss that obstinate piece of hair because it was just like her. It's not the first time that I realize how much I miss her and feel the desire to call her. But with just enough alcohol in my system and these memories in my hand, that I give in.

I don't remember what I said to convince her to come over. But here she is, sitting on my couch drinking wine. Despite how awkward this could be, I can't help but feel totally relaxed being with her again. She's got her back against one of the arms and her feet are stretched out, resting on my lap. She's telling me about how her sister recently acquired a baby goat when it slipped through a hole in the fence and followed her to her car. I'm hypnotized by the way the flame of the candles dance in her eyes and how her nose crinkles as she laughs.

"I was surprised you called," she tells me, taking a sip of her wine. "How did you know I was looking for the case for 'The Amazing Jeckel Brothers?'"

I laugh, reveling in this playful side of her. "I know how much you love 'Bitches'"

She nearly spits out the wine from her mouth and covers her mouth. She leans up so her mouth is next to my ear. Her breath sends a warm rush through my body. "'Play with Me' was always my favorite." Suddenly it's not her breath on my ear, but her lips, lightly nipping at my earlobe.

A groan rumbles from deep inside me. I turn and capture her lips with mine, holding her face steady. My fingers curl into her hair and I urge her mouth open with my tongue. She relents and I brush my tongue against hers, tasting the sweet Moscato she had been drinking. She lets out a soft mmm sound when I suck gently on her bottom lip, the one she bites on when she's nervous that always used to drive me crazy. We pull apart, both breathless and I lean my forehead against hers, keeping my eyes closed.

"Peeta," she says in a breathy voice that I know all too well, even after a year.

I snap my eyes open and she's setting her wine down on the table.

"I've missed you." She kisses my top lip. "I've thought of calling you every day." She kisses my bottom lip. "I'm sorry I left."

I don't believe her, but when she kisses me, I pull her down on top of me on the couch. Her hands run through my curls and mine are digging into her hips. At this moment she could tell me anything she wanted and I'd give in. I'd always give in to her. I flip her over, kissing her neck, savoring every inch of her exposed skin. She yanks my t-shirt off over my head and runs her fingers down my chest to my jeans. When she finally gets them unbuttoned, she uses her feet to kick them down to my ankles.

As I move my hand to pull them off, she hooks her leg around mine and flips me onto my back. I cock an eyebrow at her and she smiles impishly. "What? You think I don't remember any of your wrestling moves?"

I growl and pull her head down toward me, kissing her fiercely. She sits up and throws her own shirt over her head. I instantly reach out to unhook her bra, licking one nipple before blowing on it, eliciting the throaty moan I love. She arched her back, pressing her breasts closer to my mouth. I swirl my tongue around one nipple, then the other, while I unbutton her pants and push them off as quickly as she did mine.

We know each others' bodies. A year apart is nothing compared to six years of this. It doesn't take either of us long before she's sinking onto me, gripping onto my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. But I don't care. In fact, it encourages me to suck on the skin between her breasts hard enough to leave my own. She'll complain about it later but for now, she's mine.

"Hold on," I whisper gruffly in her ear as I slowly lift myself into a standing position. She lets out a squeal and tightens her legs around my waist. I move with careful urgency toward to the stairs. At one point I lose my balance and slam into the wall. It seems to play in our favor as I inadvertently thrust deeper into her. Somehow we make it to the bedroom and we fall onto my bed. She runs her hands over the sheets. "You kept these?"

They were the only sheets of ours I kept. They were her favorite; a rich hunter green that she said reminded her of nature. I considered giving them to her but kept them initially out of spite. Now, watching her sprawled out on them, I wonder if my subconscious had a different reason. No, just your stupid romanticism. I shake that voice out of my head. I know she won't stay with me after tonight so I have to make the most of what I've got. And right now, that's the visual of her with a halo of green.

Every time I push in her, a content sigh escapes her lips. I burn every detail of this night into my memory. The flutter of her eyes, the fullness of her lips, how her olive-toned skin contrasts my pale, the way we fit together and move in a well-rehearsed dance. She bites into my shoulder when my thumb rubs circles at where we're connected. It won't take either of us long, judging by the rising heat in my body and the increased airiness of her breathing.

Despite knowing each others' bodies better than anyone else, we've only managed to finish together a handful of times.

I push her dark hair off her neck as we lay wrapped up in one another. Neither of us speak. She traces her fingers over my chest, murmuring softly and contently as she does. I place my head on top of hers and inhale deeply, taking in her floral shampoo. It's the same stuff she's always used and I vow to never wash the pillow case her head is resting on.

"Will you stay?" I hear myself asking as sleep threatens to overtake me.

"Of course," she answers, snuggling into my body.

She's lying. We both know she is. The only comfort I'll take from this is that she won't wake me when she slips out of bed and out of my life again.

"Hey, brainless, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?" I'm shaken from my thoughts by Johanna snapping her fingers in my face.

"I asked how things were going with Darius."

I scowl. Darius was a random Johanna found for me one night a few months ago. He was attractive, with thick copper hair and a boyish quality that reminded me of him. But he wasn't like him. Not really. Darius didn't know me like he did; he couldn't make my body react with the same passion. I took it for granted how well he knew me. For the past year, I've been finding myself more and more dissatisfied with every man I met.

I hated myself for leaving him that night. But I couldn't stay – the memories of that house suffocated me. My own selfishness echoed off every wall. He didn't really want me to stay anyway. That was apparent when Johanna first told me that he gave away our furniture to get his own. Everything was different there. It was as though I never existed in that life.

Except, there were those sheets. What kind of man holds onto something so silly like a set of sheets that he didn't even like in the first place. 'They're so dark,' he said, holding up a set of pale orange ones. I wrinkled my nose at them and shook my head.

'I'm not sleeping on a traffic cone.'

We ended up buying both sets and as soon as we got home I sprinted up the stairs to put the green ones on. He figured out what I was doing and tried to catch me but I was too quick. My punishment was a hard fuck on the sheets until I was hoarse from calling out his name. I told him I won and he rolled his eyes and kissed my nose. 'Fine. But no cheese buns.'

I missed him even though he didn't miss me. When I went over there that night, I could see the circles under his eyes, indicating that he hadn't slept for a few days and could taste beer on his tongue. I tried not to be hurt when he used the lame excuse about the Insane Clown Posse CD that I didn't want in the first place but loved teasing him with because I knew how much he hated it. But I walked out on him, I gave up on us, so I pushed my pain aside for him. For one night I was the selfless girl he deserved. We both knew it wouldn't last, that I wasn't who he deserved. And when I silently slipped out, I was sure my recently recovered heart was shattering again.

Johanna didn't question when I crawled into her bed that night, still smelling like sex. And him. She pushed her ass into my crotch and mumbled something about if I was going to sleep with her I better be the big spoon. I ran my hands through her hair and tried to image they were his curls under my fingers.

Johanna sighs. "Look, if you're that hung up on him then just call him." She's been saying the same thing for the past two years. As if it was that simple. I've never told her why I moved out in the first place. Or why I didn't stay that night. But no matter how many times I told her I didn't want him, she's called me out on it. She has the most refined BS-meter of anyone I've ever met. She rests her hands on mine. "Finnick says he's not seeing anyone."

I pull mine away. I want him to be seeing someone. Maybe it'd be easier for me to move on if he did it first. He deserves to, he was the good one in our relationship. He put up with my moodiness without ever complaining.

It's our second 'anniversary' today. I wonder if he knew it was our first when he called last year. I was the twisted girl who marked it on her damn calendar, like it was a holiday or something. Johanna just shook her head when she saw it today. "How are we celebrating, brainless?"

But she tells me she can't handle my mood any longer. If I need her, I can call, but she's going to go out and don't wait up. She gets caught up in my collateral damage like everyone else in my life. Like he did. Being alone in her apartment isn't so bad because at least now my environment matches how I feel. Alone. Empty.

I blame Animal Planet's marathon of 'Planet Earth' on why I call him. We were together when it first aired and we DVR'd every episode so we could spend all day in bed rewatching it. He saw beauty in the cinematography, I saw beauty in nature. For two years I avoided the documentary because I couldn't watch the time lapsed flowers without remembering how he smiled at it the first time. I must be a sadist because I'm wrapped up in a comforter unable to turn the channel and unable to think of anything except him.

It's nearly 2:30 when he knocks on the door with a wide smile and glassy eyes. I run barefoot across the lawn and shove $40 into the cabby's hand with a grateful smile. I almost feel bad for the driver, I know how he can get when he's been drinking. When I get back, he's sitting on the arm of the couch with his eyes closed.

"Tired?" I say quietly, sitting on his lap to face him and brushing his unruly curls out of his face. His hair is longer now and his normally smooth chin is covered in a short, rough stubble.

"Drunk." His eyes fly open and he smiles again. "Finnick's getting married. Can you believe that?"

I shake my head because Finnick settling down is almost as crazy as me agreeing to get married, for very different reasons. Finnick was a certified playboy, claiming that tying himself to one woman was a curse he was looking to avoid. I've never met his fiance, but Johanna says Annie snuck her way into his life and one day it was like he finally opened his eyes. His bachelor party was a harsh reminder of what we could never have had. I refused to get married, not because I was afraid to tie myself down to anyone, but because I couldn't give him the unconditional love he deserved. I was too selfish to really put anyone else first for a lifetime. We fought about it when we first started dating. He gave in, saying he just wanted to make me happy, but the 'marriage' cloud hung over our relationship until the end. I felt guilty that he was so willing to sacrifice for me when I wasn't willing to do the same for him. The longer we were together, the more it ate at me and the more I pulled away.

He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his forehead against mine. I can make out a faint scent of peppermint and whiskey on his breath. "I've missed you," he says softly, sloppily kissing my lips. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." He kisses the skin under my ear lobe. I put my hands up to stop him but he grabs hold of them and kisses the inside of my wrists. "How amazing you are." It's the alcohol talking. Impossibly, he's far more affectionate and cheesy when he's been drinking but tonight I don't care. Tonight I want him to keep talking and touching and kissing me. Tonight I want to pretend that he really does want me like I want him. "Katniss," he exhales against my neck. I can't stop the shudder that runs through my body when I feel his lips ghost over my sensitive skin.

"Shh," I tell him, bringing him back to me to taste the liquor on his tongue.

He keeps his mouth busy, pushing me onto my back on the couch and kissing down my chest, unbuttoning the blouse I never changed out of from work. He sits up when he sees the soft orange bra underneath. A present from me to him from a high point in our relationship. He loved the way it played off my skin then and it seems to have the same effect now. He licks his lips in a predatorial way that makes my skin prickle in anticipation. He runs his finger along the scalloped edge, right above my taut, aching nipple. He extends his hand out and rests it between my breasts, surely feeling my heart racing. "You…"

"For you," I tell him, pulling my lower lip between my teeth. "Only for you."

This sparks something in him. His lips replace his hand on my chest, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down my exposed stomach. He purposely avoids that spot right above my belly button that he knows will make me laugh and kill the mood. He kisses back up, pulling my bra down, latching onto one nipple, making me moan his name like he loves. I don't notice him unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down my hips. I don't notice him switching to the other nipple. Or that his hand is tracing up and down my side, gripping my hips in desire. All I notice is him, his lips, his teeth, his sounds, his presence. I notice that I miss him. And not just because he can play my body like an expert musician but because he knows me.

"You would wear the matching set," he whispers huskily in my ear.

I grin, knowing he's seen the matching orange boy-shorts I purposely wore this morning. It's true, I'm the girl who likes her undies to match, something he always seemed to enjoy pointing out. We used to play games in the mornings, he'd pick a bra from my drawer and leave it out for me and I'd wear the most appropriate panties I had for him to judge at the end of the day. I kick myself for leaving this man whenever I think about those things. But it was me or him .

"I almost hate to take these off you," he tells me. "I should have painted you in this set when I had the chance."

I turn my head. He's not saying these things to hurt me. Or to remind me how I hurt him. It's just something he says because it's true. Regardless, it makes guilt wash over me in waves because it's my fault he can't do that now.

"No," he says quietly, "no tears." He uses his thumb to brush away a tear, kissing the spot on my cheek where it had been. "I love you, Katniss. I always have."

"I love you too," I tell him.

"I want to make you feel good, again."

I nod my head, unable to deny this beautiful man anything anymore. I'd do whatever he asked me to do at this point. He's always had me wrapped around his talented fingers, even if I never told him so. He could sell ice to a penguin but one look in my direction and I'd sell it for him.

I watch as he ever…so…slowly slips the orange fabric down my legs, leaving me exposed to him. I watch as his tongue darts out, knowing what's coming next and eagerly wanting it. Despite having slept with a handful of randoms in the past two years, never once have I allowed them to do that. Sex could be invisible, it could be emotionless. But Peeta taught me trust and adoration and love. And he taught it to me with his mouth and tongue. No one else could ever do that.

Peeta slides his hands up my thighs, turning them inward as he gets closer to where we both want him to be. He dips a finger into me, drawing a shuddered moan from my lips. He keep his eyes on me as he adds a second thick finger, the sensation of them pumping in and out of me so familiar and so good. My eyes close when I see his head lowering just enough and I feel his tongue on my clit. He alternates swipes and licks with nips and suction, making my mind swirl and my throat burn. My hips buck on their own, needing more of him.

I feel a strong hand rest on my stomach, keeping my back against the couch and I shiver. Peeta is so gentle that I often forget about his strength. That he can pick me up with one arm, that he can carry me when I need it, that he can still me with one hand. Heat is coursing through my limbs and my toes begin to curl against his back. I swear I can feel his grin because he knows what's coming. And come it does. I feel as though a spring, wound up too tightly and finally allowed to break free. My back arches off the couch and I dig my feet into him. He lessens his ministrations and looks up at me with that cocky smile that makes me want to fuck him thoroughly.

And fuck him, I do. Because he made me feel good but he deserves to feel good too. We're a sweaty mess when he comes deep inside me and collapses against my back. "I'll never be able to sit on this couch again," I mutter.

He laughs and pushes my hair off my neck, planting sweet kisses. "Like you've never screwed around on here before."

I turn as much as I can to face him. He may have laughed as he said the words, but his eyes give him away. He may be able to lie his way out of any situation, but I know him better than that. And I see the flicker in his drunken eyes, the one that legitimately questions what we've just done. I kiss him, pecking his nose at the end for good measure. "No one else, Peeta. Only you." He smiles, it doesn't quite reach his eyes because he doesn't fully believe me, but it's what he wants to hear tonight.

He pulls away and starts to put his jeans back on when I reach out to him. "Stay with me?"

I can see something different in his face at this question. At our question. "Always."

Always only lasts until morning.

I'm at work when I get the call about Haymitch. I'm thankful Johanna is close by that day to drive me because there is no way I'd have made it the fifteen minutes from work to the hospital in my current condition. My stomach is in knots and all I can do is say 'not real, not real, not real' over and over under my breath. Haymitch was my crotchety neighbor from when I lived with Peeta. He was rarely pleasant, but was more family to both of us than our actual family. He didn't have any children of his own and as hard as he fought it, he ultimately took us in as his surrogates. Apparently he still feels the same, since I'm his "in case of emergency" contact person.

I don't even wait for Johanna to park before I unbuckle my seat-belt and bolt into the hospital. I give my name to the nurse at the desk who directs me to ICU to find Haymitch. By the time I reach his room, I'm completely breathless. I brace myself in the door frame, trying to get my breathing and emotions under control. If I'm going to be there for Haymitch, I can't be a mess, which I'm sure will come eventually.

Under the harsh hospital lights, you could hardly tell Haymitch favors my darker complexion. He's completely ashen and thinner than I ever remembered. I can't help but reach out for his hand and find it cold. I whip my head around, needing confirmation that I'm not too late and that his heart is still beating. I can't hear the monitor over the rushing of blood through my ears, but I visibly relax when I see a strong pulse on the monitor by his bedside. "You asshole," I hiss, wiping my eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Swearing at him won't help."

My hand tightens around the old man's when I hear him come up behind me. Of course Peeta would be here as well. It made sense that we're both his point of contact, just in case one of us couldn't be reached. "It can't hurt."

He chuckles, a sound I've missed over the years. "Knowing him, it may be just the thing to wake him up. Nothing else seems to be working."

I nod. I don't know how to respond. After my sister died, my only family was Peeta and Haymitch. One I apparently can only see late at night for sex and the other is laying unconscious in a hospital room. The only reason anyone found him was…"How did they find him?"

Peeta sits in a chair at the foot of Haymitch's chair and sips from a paper coffee cup. "I found him. He didn't answer when I brought him some bread so I let myself in. He was…" He's struggling to find the words. He never struggles to find the words. Words are what he's good at. When I look over, I see him fighting to keep the tears from spilling. Words and emotions. That's my Peeta. "He was in the kitchen, leaned over the table, like usual. But he didn't respond when I tried to wake him."

"Did you try-"

"Water? Yeah. It didn't work."

I frown, looking back down at Haymitch. Water is a last resort we learned a few years into our relationship, but it always worked. "He's going to be okay, though. Right?" I turn to face him. "He has to be. It's Haymitch."

Peeta doesn't answer because he can't. And in that moment, I lose any semblance of self-control I had. I stand there, holding onto Haymitch's hand, and cry. I've already lost my dad. And my sister. I can't lose him, too. I can't. I won't. I hear Peeta stand up from the chair and walk over to us. His hand covers mine so we're both holding onto our neighbor. Our friend. Our dad. His other arm wraps around my shoulders and I turn into him, burying my face in his shoulder.

He whispers things into my hair. I don't need to know what he's saying. I don't care what he's saying. I just need him there. We only release his hand when a nurse comes in for his stats and to update us on his condition. "He's stable," she tells us, "but not out of the woods. It'll be a long night."

Throughout the evening nurses shuffle in and out. Johanna and Finnick both come in to check on us, but ultimately it ends up being just Peeta and I. We sit in chairs next to each other for strength, taking turns letting our emotions wash over us. We're all cried out, mentally exhausted from worrying about Haymitch before the night shift begins. The night nurse comes in to introduce herself and check on Haymitch. She updates the board near the door and it's the first time either of us realize what day it is. Three years.

"Should one of us be drunk?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I feel Peeta stiffen next to me and I immediately wish I could take it back. "For…for Haymitch," I cover, hoping he doesn't notice.

"He's probably still drunk enough for both of us," Peeta answers. I laugh. Because it's ridiculous and inappropriate and exactly what Haymitch would want us to do. It's infectious and soon we're both laughing so loudly that a nurse has to come in and check in on us. It feels good, laughing with Peeta like this. I've missed it.

I tell him so and his mood sobers instantly.

"Katniss…I-"

"I screwed up," I admit, curling my legs up to my chest, resting my feet on the edge of the chair. "I know that."

"It wasn't just you," he says, reaching over for my hand. "I've-"

"Excuse me?" The night nurse popped her head in. "Visiting hours are over. Unless you both are planning on staying all night, you'll have to go."

He starts to rise when I reach out for his arm, needing him to make it through the night. He looks down at me with those eyes that are beautiful and truthful. And mine. The word swims around my brain with such ferocity. They are mine. He is mine. I am his. "Stay?"

His forehead furrows, which makes my stomach drop. I know that look. I hate that look. But he surprises me when he settles back down in the chair. "Always." He kisses my forehead and I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. It's an uncomfortable sleep, propped up in plastic chairs, but with his arm around me and my hand clutching his, we make it through the night.

I wake first, when the sun starts to peep through the curtain. I stretch, my back crying in pain at the position it was stuck in all night. A few pops make it all better. The hoarse laughter nearly causes it to spasm back out of place.

"Morning, Sweetheart."

I turn from Haymitch to look at Peeta, who has just started to wake and I smile. "Yeah. It is."