Before I even begin to settle in to bed for the night, I know there is no chance of sleep. That sadness that forces its way through my skin, regardless of the layers of protection I've gained since the end of the war, is creeping back in. I feel it as I progress through the day: first a memory or a thought that I've tried to put behind me, then growing steadily until, just as I start getting ready for bed, it has enveloped me in its grasp.

Even if I do sleep, it will be a restless and nightmare-filled trip into darkness. I've learned to recognize the signs.

I'm in the process of splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the worst of the pain, but it doesn't work and it never does. I don't expect it to. I hear Peeta's familiar footsteps climbing the stairs and I turn off the water, pat my face dry with an old towel, and step out into the bedroom where I find him halfway through changing out of work clothes. The muscles of his back strain slightly under his smooth skin as he bends over to pluck a loose-fitting shirt from the floor near the dresser.

I fold my hair, still damp from my earlier shower, into a loose braid down my back as I wait for him to pull the shirt over his head. When he turns around, he gets that faint smile across his features that looks like he's the happiest person in the world to see me. I will never admit it but I cherish every single one of those smiles since I know how hard it was for him to recover them. I faintly begin to remember our first reunion after his rescue from the Capitol, and force it down—that image visits me enough in nightmares and I don't want it to ruin my awake hours, too.

He says something about the new pastry specialist he recently hired at the bakery and I try my best to listen, but it is taking every ounce of will-power to push away the images that want to overwhelm me. I focus his form as it moves across the room, closing curtains and turning off overhead lights. The room is cast into shadow by the two lamps, one on each side of the bed. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. I try to hold on to that. To keep from slipping into bad memories before he's asleep. He needs to sleep, and if he sees my resolve slipping, he will insist on staying awake with me.

But already I'm remembering: it starts with the first person I ever killed, Marvel, and the spear that leaves his hand and pierces tiny Rue in the stomach. I remember Rue's vacant expression as I buried her in flowers, and then her features blur until she is Prim, and the flowers turn into blood, and it's pouring from her too fast, and she's dying and I can't stop it and she screams my name but it's too late...

"Katniss," Peeta's voice is firm beside me, and it's not Prim. I focus on him and with difficulty I bring myself back to reality. I clench my shaking hands in my lap, and realize that I've somehow ended up seated on the edge of our bed. Peeta is beside me encouraging deep breaths and telling me it's okay. I'm okay.

How backwards this all seems, when he's the one who has lost his leg and been tortured and had all of his memories altered.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, and my voice shakes more than I wish it would. I wish I had more control over it. I wish I was stronger.

"Don't apologize," he says quietly, "Was it Prim this time? Or Rue?"

"Both."

"I've started recognizing the signs," he smiles weakly. "Are you okay to sleep?"

I nod, lying of course. If I tell him the truth, he won't sleep either. He's very insistent of staying with me through nightmares. He says it's better than knowing I suffered through them alone.

He looks at me for a minute longer, his blue eyes narrowed like he doesn't quite believe me, but eventually he makes a decision and settles down in bed. I lean back and curl up next to him, thankful for the comfort.

For a while, neither of us moves. I listen to the sound of his breathing and wait for it to even out, letting me know he's asleep so I can let go of the final strands of control I have over the sadness. But it doesn't happen; he's not falling asleep any more than I am. I tilt my face towards his and see his eyes trained on the ceiling, a slight frown playing at the corners of his mouth. His gaze drops to me at my movement, but the frown doesn't leave. For a second, my pain becomes secondary and I prepare to help him through an episode. A flashback to the Capitol. Or a confusing memory that wants to portray me as evil. These still happen far too often.

But his body doesn't tense the way it usually does, and after a while his face relaxes into a more concerned look than a pained one.

"I'm not tired," he finally says, shifting so he's facing me. He pauses, seems to change his mind about something, and starts again: "I know you're not going to sleep. I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say you were stupid," my automatic reaction is so defensive that even I see through it. "I just want you to get some rest. You work such long days."

"Katniss, I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?" I feel myself cringe at his choice of words as President Snow's pale face materializes in my mind. I push it away. I can't think about him now. Regardless, his maniacal laughter echoes in my ears and I imagine shooting an arrow through his chest, silencing him. This works for now.

"I don't want to lie to you, Peeta, but I don't want you to lose anything more than you already have because of me." The words come out in a rush, but there's a small relief in having them out in the air. I know he doesn't blame me for anything, but that doesn't lessen the guilt I feel over the loss of his family, his home, and his memories.

He looks at me with that look in his eyes, like he doesn't understand what I'm saying and yet he just doesn't want to argue. Usually I can ignore the pity I see there, but for some reason right now it angers me and I turn myself away from him. I can feel his gaze still on me, and his hand reaching out and stroking my hair. Regardless of my anger, his touch still radiates through my entire body and I ache to turn towards him and ignore the immediate argument, to just be with him in that simple way that I always thought couples were supposed to. But I hold my ground. I don't want him to feel bad for me, because he's lost just as much as I have. I wish he would just accept the fact that I owe him more than I'll ever be able to repay, and by sacrificing his comfort, it just makes me feel worse. Somehow, refusing to acknowledge the feeling he gives me seems like the right way to deal with the tension.

He wants me to turn around; I can sense it, and he keeps stroking my hair and tucking loose strands behind my ear. He wants to talk. But I don't want to talk. The memories from earlier are ebbing away and I'm left feeling frustrated because Peeta cares too much. Frustrated because of how easy it is for him to distract me when I don't have a clue what I would do were our roles reversed.

I realize how childish I'm acting and slowly give in to the warmth his touch leaves behind. It has taken months to get used to the feeling of his hands on me. But it's a good feeling and I don't want him to stop. I roll back over to face him, find his expression has softened and he looks as tired as I feel. He leans forward and before I have the chance to react, his lips are on mine and every other feeling melts away. He lingers there for only a second before settling in on his side, face resting in the crook of his elbow.

"I know you don't want to hear it, but you're all I care about in this world, Katniss." He offers a half-smile, and I just don't know how to respond so I settle for touching his face, his hair, and finally rest my hand on top of his because as much as I hate knowing he'd be willing to give up everything for me, I want him to know that I feel the same way.

Eventually we fall asleep, legs and arms intertwined. And for tonight, at least, there are no nightmares.