The nightmares have a habit of jerking me awake each night, causing my arms and legs to thrash into Peeta, his warm body now stirring beside me. Without a beat, Peeta pulls me closer to his shoulder and whispers comforting words.

"You're home. You're safe. I'm here," he says in the dark like a mantra.

Since the victory tour we've been in the habit of sleeping in the same bed. No one in my family has questioned this, despite my mother and Prim both knowing about the romantic pre-tense Peeta and I have taken to survive. Even Haymitch, who thinks Peeta deserves far better than my supposed indifference, has said nothing of the sleeping arrangement, although he surely knows. But I'm not indifferent. It might not make sense to them (or to me), but I need Peeta close to me like a candle lighting the way in darkness.

Peeta's t-shirt smells like the bakery and I run my nose along his collar, sniffing the fabric and his soft skin.

"Something wrong?" he asks, and I think I hear the tiniest bit of amusement in his voice.

"I like the way you smell," I say.

"Well, that's... good to hear?" he says.

I don't know what propels me to touch my nose to his angular jaw and move my lips to the soft place where it meets his neck. With a feather-light touch I peck it, so gentle that I don't think he's noticed. The arm Peeta has around me stiffens its muscles and he says nothing. Even on such a frigid night, Peeta's skin radiates warmth and I nuzzle my face into it.

"Are you cold?" he finally says to break our silence.

"Yes," I barely whisper and continue brushing my lips on his neck and jawline.

I reach for his chin, holding it lightly between my thumb and forefinger, and tilt it toward me so I can find his lips. When I kiss him he accepts it hesitantly, not seeming sure of its intentions.

"Please," I say.

It's as though he's sprung to life, pulling me closer to him so that there is no space between our bodies. I kiss him greedily and he kisses back. What I feel for Peeta toes the lines of lust, friendship, and a complete trust in his goodness. I know this will damage us and the steps we've made since returning from the Games, but that voice of reason is lost to me now. I hunger for his lips. Peeta follows my lead, but then grips one of my thighs and hooks it over his body. He is on his back and I sit on his abdomen, itching to move my body onto his hips and everything below them. We're both fully-dressed in sleep clothes, but the thought of seeing him naked (as I'd been too embarrassed to do in the Games) does not make me blush now. Only I'm not brave enough to shimmy down onto what I think would be the hardness of his lap.

"Katniss," Peeta sighs into my lips, no objection in his voice.

I roll us onto my back with his solid body now lying on me. My voice of reason is getting louder now, warning me that one night together will undo so much between me and him. I want to keep going. Why can't we keep going? Peeta suddenly lifts his face from mine and backs onto his knees. Apparently he has his own nagging conscience.

"I wish I could be okay with this, I want to be okay with this, but you don't actually want this," says Peeta.

Tears prick my eyes. When did I become this sensitive to rejection? Why does he get to decide what I do or don't want?

"I'm going to go home," he says. "I'm sorry, Katniss."

There isn't hurt or anger in his voice, just a kind of sad matter-of-factness. Peeta grabs his things from beside my bed and shuts the door quietly when he goes, leaving me in darkness. When I wake again it's dawn and I am thrashing in my sheets.