Well, the response to my last post was rather unexpectedly lovely (': So I thought I'd continue on in a vein of happy writing.

Now, I don't know about anyone else, but I was genuinely shocked after Peeta's rescue when he went to strangle Katniss. Huge amount of sadface, because I knew that their adorable relationship would never be the same ): Soo, as an homage to the loveliness of their pre-QQ/hijacking romance I decided to write this. It will take longer to get there, but I am going to let open the doors of gushy mushy romancity within me in order to channel Peeta, and Katniss will get there at some point. Silly thing. (As pressing and important as it is, not much of the rebellion will be mentioned here.)

Alive and well – maybe not well but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.

Haymitch's grinning at me. "Come on, then," he says.

I'm lightheaded with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment.

Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense I can't quite place.

My eyes drink him in; the boy with the bread seems so far away from this skinny, starved, bruised and battered boy in front of me. Pale, gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes and half-healed wounds marring his once smooth skin. I feel sickened to see burns and tracker jacker sting lumps on him. I'm afraid to move closer, in case this is a terrible nightmare and we won't have rescued him and I'll wake up filled with the emptiness I associate with his absence. I'm afraid to touch him, afraid to hurt him. His eyes grow wide, fixed on my face and, despite the doctors half-heartedly trying to stop him, he gets to his feet – which takes so much more effort and seems so difficult for him that I catch my breath – and shuffles, lopsided, towards me. Wordless, I extend my arms to him and he extends his to me and gently, oh, so gently, we press into the contact I so desperately missed. He seems weak, his body a shadow of its former stature and his embrace fragile. My stomach drops as I feel how malnourished and abused he has become. I am broken for his breaking.

Peeta's eyes are glistening with tears, his mouth slightly open in speechlessness as he seems to memorise my face. His hands wind into my hair, feathering lightly into the looser strands above the braid, and my skin flushes with goosebumps. I have ached for this. My hands slide up his arms and find the limp curls atop his head, my fingers coiling into the waves. Distressingly, my fingers brush lightly over what feels like scars and scabs, new and old. Vaguely, I feel warm tears spill onto my cheeks. We are alone in the room, despite the doctors and Haymitch. No one else is here, to us. His mouth opens a degree more and he speaks in a heartbreakingly ruined voice. Croaky, grisly, cracking. Barely more than a whisper.

"Katniss," he says simply. I feel my insides churning with so many emotions that I know I could never try to understand, so I just respond with concern and comfort.

"Shh," I hush him softly, shaking my head, not wanting him to hurt his voice further. My hand moves to cup his gaunt cheek, my thumb brushing over the hollow under his eyes. His skin is cold. I feel his hands flutter across my cheekbones, barely touching me, but I can feel his fingers trace my eyebrow falteringly.

Slowly, we move together and I lay my head lightly against his chest and I hear the sound that makes me know he'll be alright, his heartbeat, as my arms tighten around his waist. He seems so much smaller in my arms that he once was. I feel his cheek settle against my head tenderly, feel his nose brush the top of my ear, hear the gentle intake of breath as he breathes me in. I wonder if I still smell like his Katniss.

I can smell nothing of Peeta. I can't smell the bread, the flour. I can't smell the sunshine in his hair. I smell disinfectant, cleaning and antibacterial products. Medical things. Better than the sweat and blood and goodness knows what else that might have been before. Being strong for other people is something I can do; my mother taught me that. But I'm not sure I could have survived seeing Peeta come back without him being cleaned up.

As his arms take their place around me, I know that I have found what I need. I am complete with this boy, this man. And I know I will nurse him back to health. I will stay by his side until he orders me away – not the doctors, not Coin, not Haymitch. Okay, maybe Haymitch, but that's because he knows Peeta would never send me away. But I never want to leave him. Nothing will ever hurt him again.

The relief and joy that flood through me at the return of his contact is broken all too soon for me when faceless hands pry us apart from each other. Peeta, broken and weak, tries to hang on, but I know that he needs to lie down. His colour has faded, even from the pale shade he was. The darkness under his eyes is even starker in contrast, and the red blisters and open wounds are virulent and frightening. I look into his eyes, the blue eyes I have longed to see for so long and reassure him with a tentative smile, walking back to the bed with him. There is no chair, so I stand, holding his hand. The doctors are trying to ask him questions, to continue their examinations, but although he answers them (usually with a nod or a shake of his head) his eyes don't leave my face. I clasp his hand in mine, stroking comforting circles on his skin. He watches me like a blind man seeing for the first time, his gaze taking in every contour of my skin, those startling blue eyes so fixed as if I was his whole grip on reality. His life-raft.

Eventually, the medical officials stop their interrogation, their prodding, and leave us be. Haymitch left long ago, bored I assume. But now it's just Peeta and me. And we say nothing; is there anything to say? Words wouldn't be able to express anything well enough. How could I explain that my nights were filled with restlessness and I missed his arms to wake me from my nightmares? How could I convey the ache inside of me whenever I thought of him? Maybe I didn't need to.

Inside that room, there was no sense of time. No sense of progression. We could have been alone for hours, or minutes, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Still, I knew that Peeta had to sleep. There was a small vial of sleep syrup that the doctors had pointed out, left on the side. They allowed us to choose when he would sleep. More generous than I expected. Breaking my eyes away from his face, the combination of ruined and perfect, was hard but I turned to the vial and picked it up. With one hand, I prise it open.

"Peeta," I said softly, afraid to shatter our moment. His eyebrows twitched as I spoke, as if in response to hearing my voice again. Slowly, fearfully, I moved closer to him, putting the vial to his lips. His hand stilled mine as the glass met his skin.

"Don't go," he whispered imploringly.

"I won't," I said, but he still held me back.

"Promise you'll stay," he said, his voice cracking with the effort. The sound created both the urge to run away and the resolve to never leave. My eyes stung with fresh tears.

"I promise," I murmur, my voice barely audible. I lift my free hand and rest it against his cheek, holding him softly. Tenderly.

"That's what you said last time," he said, and it took me a moment to realise he was talking about the first games we were in. I couldn't help but break into a smile, feeling my eyes spill over. Was he trying to make a joke? In this state?

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised, my words hush and clogged with tears. He reached up his hand and held mine to his cheek lovingly before relenting and swallowing the syrup. Within a minute, he was asleep. The main lights turned off shortly afterward, a table lamp illuminating the near side of his face. We must be under observation.

I kept my word. I didn't leave once. I didn't even sleep. Instead I continued my examination. His hand that still held mine was bruised and scarred. A few of his nails were split, and some had fresh blood caked into the cuticles. One nail was black. I started looking closer, both disgusted by what I saw and intent on seeing it all. The tracker sting that had swollen on his jawline had multiple puncture holes in the top. Repeated stingings in the same spot. The remaining open wounds had been bandaged or covered by the doctors before they left. Some of them had already begun seeping through the fabric. There were sores around his lips that looked like acidic burns. Poison? Who knows.

As I did this, I came to realise that I underestimated how much I loved Peeta. From this point onwards, I would need him for my survival. I recognised that. His absence would cause me to retreat back into my mind. I would become my mother.

I knew I loved Peeta.

When did I fall in love with him?