A/N: I just got obsessed with THG recently, and after wading through a ton of great fic, I realised this period of time was the gap in cannon that I wanted to explore, because I think the journey from the final chapter of Mockingjay to the Epilogue would be a really interesting time for the dynamics of their relationship. That being said, it's possible that because I came to the fandom so late, this premise has already been dealt with, and probably written way better than mine! If that's the case, no plagiarism is intended. It's just not possible to read all fic written (as much as sometimes my brain tries to convince me that I should). Also, the first couple of chapters are kind of dark, because let's face it – grief. But I do have a plan, and I am heading somewhere less dark with it.
Disclaimer: these characters are not my own, I make no money off of this, etc etc.

…

I try not to think about Prim. I've only been back in District 12 for a few days, but I made a deal with myself before I arrived that it would be the only way to survive being back here. This district is my home; it's certainly more my home than anywhere else I could consider trying to make a life. But there is so much here to remind me of her, and it's too difficult to ride the wave of grief without being sucked under.

So I try not to think about her blonde braid disappearing around the corners in our house, or her shirt sticking out at the back like a duck tail as she walked to school. How she would have become a doctor. How she would have grown up to be so much stronger than I am – how she already was, in her quiet, determined way. It's too painful to consider that the only reason any of us have the freedom we do now is because I wanted to save her, and yet she is gone. I just wanted to protect her from the games, to keep her from the horrific reality of entering that arena and never coming home to me. I just wanted her to be safe, but because of everything that happened from the moment I volunteered for her, she doesn't get to grow up and become a part of this new Panem that we fought for. When I let my heavy, choking grief mingle with the injustice of this fact I end up sobbing in a closet. So I try not to think about her.

But then Peeta arrives back in the district, literally pulling me from a nightmare with the sound of a spade; Evening Primrose planted in the flowerbeds outside my windows. At first I don't realise exactly what they mean. I underestimate him, as I so often do. In my state of fresh grief I understand them to be a simple representation of Prim in our new lives, a kindness I would expect from Peeta – even the version of him who survived the Capitol. It's not until much later that I truly understand what he has known for so long and what I have been struggling with for years.

At first, we can go barely a couple of days without one of us waking from a paralysing, all-consuming nightmare, sweating through the sheets yet shivering from the icy numbness lingering within our bones. In these moments, Peeta's warm, consistent presence next to me when I wake up is the only way I anchor myself to solid ground, his voice pulling me back from the world that gets conjured behind my heavy eyelids.

I can't let this world enter my mind when Peeta is around during the day. I can't stop the thoughts from washing over me in enormous, choking waves, and if I can help it I don't want to be so fragile around him when he is still so cautious of himself around me. Although sleeping next to each other is the only way we can survive the nightmares, during the day he still largely keeps his distance from me. Unlike the cold, detached distance he kept after our first games, this time it's a precautionary measure. His struggle to overcome the after-effects of the tracker jacker venom is, at times, visible on his face, or in the way his knuckles turn white as he grips the kitchen bench, fighting against the violent urges I know are clawing at him.

Despite this, we see each other every day. Each morning I leave his house early, returning to my palpably empty house to shower, and try to fill my mornings with distractions like hunting for Sae, spending hours in the cool, damp forest and forcing myself to wander so that my mind doesn't. Just before lunch I return to the district, dropping off whatever game I have to Sae's on the way, then head home in time to see Peeta in my kitchen, serving up our lunch of the rolls or filled breads he has made that day. We spend an hour or two together talking – our conversation topics always simple and surface level - and his demeanour is calm and kind. But it is a constructed calm; an effort to keep himself together around me, and one that is exhausting for him. Yet everyday it is an effort he makes for me, to ensure I don't drift off into a purposeless fog of simply existing. He won't let me.

But after lunch he returns home and I am left alone in my house for the rest of the day, until I see all the lights in his house go off except for his bedroom lamp. The flicker of that small yellow bulb allows me to release the tense breath I have been subconsciously holding all afternoon and quietly head across the dewy lawn, through Peeta's door, and into his bedroom to climb under his sheets without a word. The sheets that smell like him. I never ask why he can allow himself to relax around me as we sleep – to let go of the control that is so necessary to maintain his calm throughout the day. Honestly, I'm a little afraid that the answer will make our unspoken arrangement impossible once spoken out loud.

So I don't ask. I just wait for the dim, yellow glow, and finally start breathing more deeply when I feel his arm snake under the sheet and drape across my waist each night.