Peeta's POV

"Way to go Peeta," I say to myself. Well what did you expect? I thought. I remember all the other times I tried to talk to her about it. Our honeymoon. That was a good one.

"Hey, Katniss," I started as we laid in bed, our legs intertwined with her hands in mine.

"Yes baby?"

"You know how I want kids?" She dropped her hands.

"We're not doing it Peeta," she had said sternly.

"Please. You don't have to worry. There are no more Games," I had pleaded.

"I know you how badly you want them, but I just can't do it." She turned away from me.

And there was the time a few years ago when it was snowing out.

"Katniss… We're snowed in and we don't have any firewood," I had said suggestively.

"We'll just have to keep warm with each other then," she had said, curling up next to me on the sofa.

"The best way to share body heat is naked."

"Okay, baby. Just a minute."

I had really thought I had it but she came back with a little package. I guess I was wrong.

"But Katniss," I had pleaded.

"Peeta, you know better."

And last summer. We were laying in bed, with the windows open, just the way I like it.

"Katniss," I had whispered, turning towards her.

"Yes?"

"Can we…?"

"Oh, Peeta. I know what you're trying to do," she had confessed.

"Please?"

"I don't want them. I'm sorry."

And then just last month.

"Katniss, could you come here for a minute?" I had said, pulling a loaf of cheese bread out of the oven, hoping her favorite food would help.

"Sure," she had replied, walking into the kitchen.

"Have some. It's hot, though," I had started, gesturing at the fresh cheese bread.

"Mmmm…" she had mumbled. "You're the best."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Not about kids again."

"Oh, well. Actually I was hoping…"

"No."

"Your biological clock is ticking. We won't have much time if you change your mind," I had pointed out.

"Peeta. I can't believe you would comment on my age like that!"

"I didn't mean it like—" but she cut me off.

"Sorry Peeta but it's just not happening," she had muttered as she stormed out of the room.

You should know by now¸I think to myself. It's just not happening. I pull the ingredients for cake out of the cabinets. I bake cakes when I need to think. As I turn the oven on, I change my mind. This calls for painting. I turn the oven back off, hang up my apron and go to the office. I begin mixing colors, thinking about how I could get her to say yes.

The yellows and oranges of the sky fade to a deep purple and Katniss still isn't home. I'm beginning to get worried. I creep downstairs and just as I'm opening the front door to go looking for her, she bursts through the door, knocking me down.

"Oh, Peeta! I'm so sorry!" she drops her bow and arrow to lift the dead turkey off of my chest and puts her hand on my paint-streaked forehead.

"It's okay. Really, I'm fine."

"Come on, let's go to bed. It's getting late," she says as she takes my hand and lifts me up.