My hand hovers hesitantly over Peeta's door, my fingers formed into a tight fist. I rub my thumb across my finger, giving myself one last chance to dart back down the steps and face this another day. I shake my head and take a deep gulp of air. I rap my knuckles against the door, forcing the softest expression I can manage. I bite my lip and duck my head a little, the way a dog might back away when you offer it your hand. It's all quiet for a moment, just the sound of some birds chirping along about spring and love and whatever else must trouble birds, or so I would assume. But then I hear a slow set of footsteps across the floor, coming nearer and nearer, and I back up.

The door creaks open, and Peeta appears. His blonde hair is darker than usual, damp and hanging over his forehead. He's only got pants on, his chest bare, a shirt tucked in his hand. He must be surprised, because he's quiet for a second; a puzzled a expression coats his face. I can't help but glance toward his bare chest and arms, which are lightly covered in marks I automatically recognize as burns. My fingers instinctively move to one of my own burns, right above my wrist. He watches this motion, but still remains silent.

"Aren't you a little cold without a shirt?" I suggest with a mustered smile, and motion toward his stomach. He looks down, and must finally register the fact that he is indeed without a shirt. He lets out an embarrassed laugh and quickly slides his shirt over his shoulders.

"Sorry, I, uh-I just got out of the shower." He says. "I thought you were Haymitch" He adds sheepishly.

"That's how you answer the door to Haymitch?" I ask in mock horror, and he laughs and shakes his head. I laugh too, almost genuinely. This is good, I think. Laughing is good.

It's quiet for a second, but then he blinks and shakes his head. "Oh uh, here, come in." He says, holding the door open and extending his arm into the house. I can tell he's surprised, especially after the way our encounter last week ended.

It was about four weeks after he got back, only the third time we'd truly spent any time together. He got angry, after I mentioned the cracked window in my bedroom that needed repaired. He started mumbling something about his brothers and windows and I couldn't calm him down. I left, and when Dr. Aurelius called the next day, he could tell that something had happened. He coaxed it out of me before I even realized what I was saying. He was better at that stuff than I realized. Or maybe I've just become easier to coax from.

I step past Peeta into his house. I'm not sure what I expect. Piles of baked bread? The messy confines of an artist? I find neither. His house is, not surprisingly, very similar to my own, with a a few minor differences. The placement of the couch, a painting hanging on a wall found blank in my own home. And even though he's been back a considerably less amount of time than I have, his house seems more noticeably welcoming. The fire is warm and crackling in the fireplace, and a vase of flowers decorates the small center table. It makes the dust coating the mirror in my front hall since it was moved in look absolutely poverty-stricken.

Peeta steps behind me, gently clearing his throat. I look toward him. His hands are pushed in his pockets and his shoulders are stuck in an almost-shrug.

"I would give you the tour," He says, and then holds his hands in the air, "but this is about it."

"It's fine," I say, and nod to make this statement concrete. He smiles and nods back.

How strange to share nods like this. I have known him through pain and tragedy and grief, yet the way we speak now suggests that the only thing we share is the large plot of grass our houses sit on. Simply neighbors, no more. How long until I can know him again? How many games of 'real or not real' must we play before he feels confident enough to just know?

"You're here because of Dr. Aurelius." Peeta states. The words suggest a question, but he has no doubt in his mind about my reasons. I debate making an excuse, but his eyes are watching me and I'm not good at lying to him anyway, so I just sigh.

"Well, it's for you." I say. But I don't want this. I don't want him to feel like he is my patient and I am his house nurse. I just want Peeta again. After everything has been torn away, my friends, my family, my life, I just want one absolute. Is that too much to ask?

Maybe in this world.

"And me," I add as an after thought. I want to tell him what I'm thinking, about wanting him and missing everyone, but I'm afraid I will just set something off that I can't stop. So I don't say anything else.

"Okay," he says, and eases into the couch. When he doesn't say anything else, I realize that's my cue.

"Oh, um-" I bite my lip and form my words more carefully. "I want to make a book." I declare, but it comes out in the wrong way and sounds more like I'm asking not stating.

"A book?" he asks. "You?"

"Yes, well, both of us. You can draw, and I can write, and Dr. Aurelius thinks its a good idea."

"Okay." He says, and smiles.

"I haven't even told you what it's about." I say, shaking my head.

" I know. But I decided to just start trusting you a while ago. So if you want to make a book, then I will."

I smile, and let out a little laugh.

"Do you remember when I asked you to run away with me?" I ask him, and he laughs.

"Yes," He smiles. "It was cold, right before the blizzard, and you didn't understand why I agreed to easily."

He thinks about this a while, and so do I. But then I'm thinking about him thinking. About how easily he pulled the memory from the last, without shouting or panting or strangling me.

"You're okay?" I ask, and he sees what I'm really asking.

"I'm okay." He says, and smiles so sweetly and genuinely, I can't doubt it.

"Some of my best memories are with you, you know." He says, and turns his head a little. I don't know what to say, because Peeta's the one with the quick tongue, not me, and because I'm afraid that I might say something that could make him change his mind. So I just smile and so does he and maybe that will be enough for now. And his smiles tells me it is.

"So this book," he says, realizing that I am not going to be the one to break the silence. "Action? Mystery?" he leans across the center table so his lips are closer to mine than they've been in months. "Romance?" I just stare into his eyes for a moment, wondering how it's even possible for them to be so blue, until he blinks. I clear my throat and shake my head.

"A memoir." I say, and this throws him off his game, if even just for a second.

"Oh," he says, and then regains his composure. "And whose?" He asks coolly.

"Everyone who will never have a chance to write their own." I say soberly. And then it's quiet, Peeta thinking and me watching him. Until he opens his mouth again, letting his lips hang there, like he's not sure if he has words to say or not.

"Dead people." He concludes, and I'm not sure if it's the hijacking talking or if he's just become socially obtuse to certain aspects of life. So I don't respond.

"Well, I owe that to enough people." He says, and I nod in agreement. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that I will never stop owing people.

"I'll see you tomorrow then?" I ask once I realize that Peeta is probably thinking more than listening.

"Tomorrow." He agrees, and leads me out the door.


...

"Dr. Aurelius?" I ask before I end the call later that evening.

"Hm?" He asks through the humming line.

"Would you mind sending me some paper?"