I am sitting by the fire peeling chestnuts, letting the smoky warmth soak into my bones, a feeling much appreciated and needed after my long track in the frozen woods this morning, when Peeta comes in. He's covered from head to foot in large clumps of snow and his cheeks are red and chapped from the chilling winds, but he is beaming as he steps through the front door, hangs his coat up, and shakes clods of slush off his boots before removing them carefully. It's impossible not to feel my heart lift, seeing him so happy; he's practically bouncing as he makes his way over to me, a phenomenon as uncommon as snow in April and extremely amusing.

"So, what's up?" I ask him after he has given me a hello kiss on the cheek and collapsed on the sofa, still radiating happiness. "Something happen in town?"

"No, not really," he says, grinning. "Well, actually. I stopped by the Hob, and it's looking nice. Almost as dingy as the original." The true Hob has been gone for more than a year, and it's just now that the slew of people who made their living in there have gotten up the courage to begin building a new black market. Their pretense is an antique shop, which fools no one, but luckily none of the latest officials care much. Besides, most of the stuff being sold there is no longer illegal under the shaky new government system.

"That's nice," I reply. "Did you say hello to Greasy Sae and Priory for me?"

"Yep. I dropped by all of the old crew. They send their holiday best." I smile.

"Okay, so is that all then?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

I stop peeling nuts to give him a look. "You're obviously happy about something. So, tell. What is it?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says, meeting my stern expression with a grin. "It's winter. Don't you think it's beautiful?"

I ponder this for a moment. Beautiful. I've never really thought much of the word; it seems usually to be about people and the artificial things that make them desirable. But snow, warm fires, time with family. The so-called Christmas trees adorned with fancy baubles that go up every year around this time, although no one really knows what Christmas is. Cups of tea in the evening. Curling up together on the sofa, talking or just holding each other. "Yes, I guess it is beautiful." His smile at my words certainly is.

Peeta slides off the couch and down next to me, watching the motions of my knife. And I sense that he, like me, is remembering the first winter we spent together but not really, after we had won the Games and came home to fancy houses we didn't know what to do with and shortly after, a Quarter Quell that neither of us expected to come out of alive. Things were so different then. This house, for one. It felt like a prison rather than a home, a punishment for our deeds. And the two of us. Forced together once again and not really sure how we felt about anything. At least, I didn't. I guess now that Peeta did know, but didn't want to voice all of it for fear of me.

Mutt.

No. I push that wreckage away from me and concentrate on the glowing, comfortable Peeta in front of me. It's winter. It's time to be happy about things like snow and each other and the home we've made out of so many terrible things. And of course, the six-month-old child upstairs asleep, blissfully unaware that the world is ever anything but good and beautiful. Peeta seems to read my mind or be following a similar train of thought, because at this moment he says, "Is she asleep, then?"

"Yes." The corner of my mouth quirks up a bit just thinking about her. Our daughter. "She went to sleep just fine. I think she likes the winter too."

"Well, she certainly likes the snow," says Peeta, bringing the images of her laughing in the Meadow and trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue to the forefront of my mind. "That was a good day."

"It was. We should take her tomorrow, too."

Peeta shakes his head. "No, not tomorrow. We've got dinner with the family tomorrow, remember?" By family, he means my mother and Haymitch and Buttercup, and possibly a few of my mother's friends from town if she can convince them to come. And Effie – to everyone's surprise, she agreed to the long journey out here, which I suppose makes sense since she pretty much invited herself. "Your mother will probably want you over there first thing to help with the cleaning and the cooking."

I sigh. "You're right. Ugh, I hate cooking with her. Can't you just bring a loaf of bread and call it fair?" I say, half-jokingly.

He laughs. "I wish. If only I could always save the day with bread."

"My prince with shining bread pans."

"That's me."

I scoot closer to Peeta, let myself curl up against his chest. He is warm and smells of bread as usual, with a hint of the cold fresh scent of snow mixed with the wool of his jacket. All of these things whisper home, and I don't shy away from the comfort his presence gives me as I would have years before now, on that first winter together.

We sit like this for a few minutes, watching the fire crackle and waver, and I resist the faint urge to get up and tend to it as is habitual for me. Then, quite suddenly, he releases me and straightens up. "Oh. I nearly forgot. Hold on a second."

I sit up as well, confused and curious, watching him as he quickly goes upstairs making hardly any noise on the soft white carpet. He only takes a minute and is soon back with a very large rectangular package wrapped in simple brown paper. It must be for me. Gift-giving is another tradition that has survived through the years without much reason, and one that I allow myself to enjoy. I'm still working on his gift, and hope he doesn't expect it right now.

He bounces back down beside me, having now migrated to the sofa, and hands it to me with a huge smile that would look ridiculous if it weren't on Peeta but because of this looks just right. "For you."

"Oh, you shouldn't have." I can't help smiling back at him. "You want me to open it right now?"

"Yep, right now. I think you'll like it," he says, leaning back to watch me. I carefully peel back the corners of the paper at the top, then proceed to remove the rest of the wrapping with equal caution. When the paper is cast aside, I am staring, puzzled, at a large white rectangle with a brown frame attached. "Um, thanks," I venture. "What is it?"

This only makes his grin grow larger. "Turn it around, Girl on Fire," he answers. I feel the strange leaping sensation in my stomach that I always do when he uses this nickname – shyness, I guess – and do as he says. I gasp involuntarily.

Peeta has made me a painting. This, of course, isn't all that surprising; he rarely does little else, on most days. However, it's the composition that makes my heart leap.

It is me, and our daughter. I am holding her between my knees and my stomach, sitting on a large rock that must be in the Meadow. We are surrounded by the silhouettes of trees and a few wildflowers, and we look to be alone yet completely at peace with the peace of the forest. But the real beauty, the thing that is most incredible, is that Peeta has captured the rarest of my expressions, something that he has only done a couple times before – he always complains about not getting it down accurately, and he tries to get me to recreate it but it is just never real enough. Except this one. This expression is the kindest of mine, the one that means I am completely and totally happy, or as happy as it is possible for me to be. In this moment, there is nothing but me and our daughter and it completely makes sense because this is the true feeling behind our little damaged but working family. Not the fear I felt when I held her in me, or the anger I had so many times at the Capitol for putting me in this situation no matter how much I love Peeta, or the emptiness that comes sometimes when I remember the dead and feel like I'll never be able to feel anything again. This is the love at the heart of everything, the emotion that keeps me going at the end of the day. And this is proof, in paint, that it exists.

I look at Peeta, at a loss for words. I look into his eyes and imagine him painting this. Sitting in his workroom, closing his eyes while gripping a paintbrush, straining to remember the precise moment and the exact look and feeling of everything. Kneeling down, face tight in concentration, dragging the brush against the canvas with slow, purposeful strokes. I see the paint flecks that have not fully faded from his clothes and hands, and I remember the quiet calmness he always has when he emerges from his rooms to eat or sleep or kiss me softly on the cheek. And in this moment, I love him more than I have ever loved him before, or anyone, except possibly my sister.

"Thank you," I get out. He sees what is going through me and he just holds me close, murmuring "You're welcome" in my ear as he runs his fingers through my hair.

"Really," I say, and smile. "It's perfect. I couldn't ask for a better present."

"I can hang it in the hall, if you'd like."

"That would be great."

"Okay."

We sit together for perhaps minutes and hours, not saying anything, just being in the moment. Then I rise and pull him up as well, saying "Come on. Let's get some sleep. Who knows how long she'll let us doze tonight."

He nods. "Maybe she'll feel generous tonight."

I laugh. "Have you met our daughter?"

He squeezes my hand. "Yeah, okay, let's go sleep. You've got to get up early tomorrow."

I groan, and he smiles again. I put out the fire, and then we head upstairs carefully, quietly, not wanting to disturb the winter peace of the large but cozy house.