We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of themselves. We're not alone. A few hundred others return because, whatever has happened, this is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again.

Peeta and I grow back together. It starts slowly; planting the primroses, eating breakfast and dinner together, and spending our evenings working on the book. One evening I sit beside him and watch his hand as he draws, and I remember how much I enjoy watching him work, and still can't believe how lifelike and vivid the image is after just a few strokes of his pencil. I notice that Peeta's hair is uncombed, and falling loosely over his forehead. Without thinking, I run my fingers through it, combing it the way I like it. It reveals the scars on his forehead, but it also allows me to see his blonde eyelashes better.

"He looks up and smiles. "it's getting long, I should get it cut."

"No don't" I answer. I continue running my fingers through his hair. He doesn't seem to mind, and I know I certainly don't. He continues with his work, and so do I.

Then later, Peeta puts his pencil down and looks at the clock.

"It's getting late, let's continue this tomorrow."

We put everything away, and I watch his strong hands delicately place the book in the cabinet next to the television.

"I'll see you at breakfast. Good night" he says as he turns away. I grab his hand.

"Stay." I tell him.

Peeta looks at me, takes my hand in both his hands, and nods in agreement. I lead him upstairs. He lies on the bed and opens his arms to me. I lay down next to him, resting my head on his chest. His arms wraps around me. In can hear his heartbeat. Our breathing becomes slower and heavier and we soon fall asleep. There are no nightmares that night.

So we add an evening routine to our daily routine.

Our nightmares, however, do not end. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. There are nights I wake up screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. There are even days when the memories of pain and loss are overwhelming. But Peeta's arms are there to comfort me.

Time passes. Peeta begins construction of a new bakery, on the same site as his old one. Some days after hunting I stop by and help. Other days being in town floods me with memories that are more than I can bear. But every day it gets a little easier. We walk home holding hands. Peeta rarely goes inside his own house anymore.

And then it happens. After a particularly long day working, we are both so exhausted we skip dinner and go straight to bed. As I lay next to him, listening to his heartbeat, I turn to look at his face. His eyes are closed, but in the moonlight I can just make out his long eyelashes. Despite his suffering, despite his scars, he is beautiful to me.

His eyes open and he turns to look at me.

"What are you smiling at?" he asks.

I lean in and kiss him.

When our lips touch, and I feel that thing again, that hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

When our lips finally separate, he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

I tell him, "Real."

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