A/N: Hmm well I was hoping I would get more reviews but 20 follows in 24 hours isn't bad either. Much thanks to dadadidi, Tori Bradley, clemintine26, and Pattybuns for the awesome inspiring reviews. Follow their lead people, please!

…

A week passes before I feel that I'm ready to face the outside world. I now shower every day, slowly getting used to the routine again, just like Dr. Aurelius said. When I emerge from the bathroom to find clothes in my now normal-scented room, I begin the process of mentally preparing myself for how much the rest of the citizens of Twelve have moved on without me, without her.

I pull open a drawer and stare at the contents. Normal people wear actual fitted pants rather than the slouchy sweats that I've taken a liking to as of late and that practically swallow me whole. Normal people will also at least be wearing at least short-sleeve shirts to accommodate the late Spring warmth. I just can't bring myself to let the world see all of my scars yet, though, so I slip a burgundy long-sleeved t-shirt over my head. There's nothing I can do about the few that dot my face and hands, but no one needs to discover the huge flakes of skin that peel away from my flesh, though they are much better now that I've been using my wash and ointment regularly.

I fix my hair, which has grown just past my shoulders (albeit unevenly), into a simple low side braid, slide on a pair of soft socks and over those my comfy, worn-in hunting boots. I pass Sae on my way out the door and tell her I'm going for a walk before she can question me at all.

When I step outside my front door for the first time in what feels like forever I suddenly realize I have no idea where to go. Practically everything was destroyed by the bombs, including the roads and pathways, but getting lost is not my problem. I'm torn between the woods and the town center; I even fleetingly think of my house at the Seam but I dismiss the idea as quickly as it came to my brain. I'm not even close to ready to face that.

I choose town. The woods can wait for another day, and honestly I'm genuinely curious about how far the reconstruction has come. I take a deep breath and step off my front porch with a bit of hesitance, another thought gnawing at the back of my mind. I know that more than likely Peeta will be there helping, and I feel like today is the day I want to see him. More accurately, not only do I really want to see Peeta, I'm pretty sure I can handle seeing him without completely breaking down for the multitude of reasons that haunt me every moment of the day. Maybe interacting with him will help.

My feet carry me towards the town almost like they have a mind of their own, stopping without my complete realization when something small and yellow catches my eye: a dandelion. I stoop to pick it and twirl the stem in between my fingers, watching it spin in a golden blur. No matter what happens to me in my life I doubt I will ever forget the symbolism of dandelions to me, and how synonymous they are with my and Peeta's relationship. They have two separate identities, pretty and simple and happy first, until something goes wrong and they become fragile gray things that are knocked over by the slightest rush of air.

I close my eyes and sigh, placing the flower to my lips and imagine that the softness of it matches Peeta's lips. I miss his touch, I realize not for the first time in the past few days. Opening my eyes, I keep walking. For now, I will be happy if I just get to see him. I seem to forget that I have time now, and ample amounts of it. We don't have to and truthfully cannot rush things with us. I know he doesn't completely hate me anymore, or I doubt the doctors or Plutarch would have let him come back to Twelve at all, much less on his own. But there has to be some level of dislike or he would have made more of an effort to see me. Maybe not, I think, remembering the stink in my room and scrunch my nose as I recall the sour, dirty smell.

I suddenly realize that I've finally reached the old square, and I recognize nothing. Everything that used to be here is gone, and tall wooden frames of new structures scatter across the area. All the merchants who survived seem to be building near the spots where their old businesses used to be, and I look around for the one I'm most interested in; I see the butcher, the clothier, the grocery market owner, and, finally, the baker.

Like the others, the bakery's structure is being built almost exactly where Peeta's old home used to be. I can't picture what it will look like when it's completed, whether it will be identical, similar, or completely different from the bakery he grew up in. I don't see Peeta either, though. Our population is minimal at best, so there aren't too many workers, but as I look around I see a group of shirtless young men chopping wood in the city square. I envy them. It's getting more than a bit stifling in my long sleeves, but I refuse the alternative.

Their backs face me so I check for a pair of broad shoulders and a head of golden curls. Surprisingly a few of them appear fairly strong and chiseled, judging by their wide shoulders, tapered waists, and the ripples of the muscles in their backs as they raise and lower the axe. I assume they are from other, more fortunate districts.

Even more surprising is to discover that one of those muscled boys – men – is actually Peeta. I spot his cropped head of blonde curls and take the opportunity to examine him for the first time in months. He has obviously been more diligent about his healing skin care regimen than I have, because even his most prominent scars, though still visible, are now fading into his newly tanned skin.

When he turns, a large pile of chopped wood in his strong arms, my breath catches in my throat. Either in my depressed haze I had significantly downplayed Peeta's looks, or he has somehow become even more handsome than I remember. It's as if his body suddenly decided to become a man's, and that a boyish face just didn't mix with the ridges and valleys of his chiseled torso. His jaw is more defined, and a visible layer of blonde hair that he always used to make a point to shave off before he left his bedroom in the morning now dusts the lower half of his face, and even his chest. Sweat drips off the fringe of his curls and into his eyebrows, which practically just forces me to admire his sky-blue eyes.

He is beautiful, and I am not.

I'm not sure if it's my current haphazard emotional state or simply my inner femininity that I had thought disappeared long ago that makes me suddenly really want to be beautiful; I would even settle for pretty or cute, so I could come even just a tiny bit close to being good enough for him in some way. But I'm neither, so that thought quickly passes through one part of my brain and out the other. Instead it concentrates on the way his biceps curl as he hauls another armful of wood to his wheelbarrow and how his worn-in jeans hang low on his hips. I purse my lips together to hold in the sigh I'm suddenly fighting not to release, and if the stirring I feel in my belly is any indication, that inner femininity isn't really gone after all.

When Peeta returns to his pile for the few pieces he has left, he spots a boy that I can only assume is about fifteen or so and more than likely not from Twelve originally. He looks healthy enough, but between the heat and repeatedly swinging the heavy axe, he is apparently exhausted, sitting on the dry ground and watching the stronger men swiftly cutting the stocky logs. Peeta asks if he needs help with anything, and from what I can barely hear of their conversation, he says his father sent him to gather more wood for the construction of their new house. Taking note of his wiry and sweat-drenched body, Peeta hands him the rest of his wood. The kid refuses at first, but Peeta shoves them into his scrawny arms anyways and tells him that it's really okay.

My knees go weak in a way that no amount of muscles or chiseled jaw bones could make them. The gesture was so Peeta, and it's what I was desperately hoping to see on my little venture out here today, though I didn't really know it was what I needed until this moment.

This is the moment I truly realize I love him.

He walks back to his wheelbarrow and pushes it through the small crowd to where the basic wooden framework of his new bakery is now standing. His is one of the few that have really progressed to this stage yet, however, so he must have been working on this with Thom, who Sae told me was the appointed leader in the reconstruction, for a while now. I take a deep breath for courage and follow him, trying to stay on the outskirts of the crowd so as not to cause a scene with my presence. A few eyes spot me but their owners don't say anything, just stare for a minute, and then they're back to work. Though I am very grateful for this, I suddenly wish I had a hat to hide even more.

Peeta wheels the wood next to a table saw before heading to the door frame to take some measurements, and then does the same with the windows. Not knowing how he will react, I don't know how to approach him. I should definitely wait until he turns around so he's not so surprised. So when he does turn, pushing the retractable tape back into itself, my feet seem to take that as their cue to start moving towards him.

I can see the shock on his face when he looks up from his wood pile after he senses someone approaching. He immediately drops the wood and stands up straight, wiping his hands on his jeans. We stand about three feet apart from one another, neither of us saying anything for a moment.

"Hi, Peeta," I say quietly, almost in a whisper. I'm still getting used to the whole "speaking" concept. My eyes find it hard to meet his, so they stare at the ground and kick some dirt and dust around.

"Katniss." His voice is deep, like it always has been, but is now breathless, kind of like mine just was. Maybe he doesn't talk much either. "You're… out."

I finally bring my eyes up to stare at his. They're still the same blue as always, the warmth and kindness is back in them, but I sense that he's become guarded as well. I can't blame him for that at all.

I nod. "I'm out."

Now that our eyes have met it's like we can't take them off one another's. I've missed him, and I'm beginning to get the feeling that he has, for whatever reason, missed me too. I want to keep our conversation going, so I tell him, "I never got to truly thank you for planting the flowers for me. You have no idea how… much they mean to me."

My voice starts to break and my eyes water. I cross my arms over my chest and look down again. I can't bear for him to see me cry within the first three minutes of contact we've had in what feels like forever.

Just a moment later, however, I feel a calloused finger under my chin, pulling it up so my eyes can find his gaze once again. I'm shocked to see unshed tears swimming in his own eyes, and he clears his throat before saying, "Um, let… let me go find a shirt, and maybe we can take a walk?"

I nod hurriedly before I can do or say anything dumb to mess this up, and take a deep shuddering breath. Peeta walks inside the "door" and through the slots of the frame of the wall I can see him reach into a backpack and pull out a white t-shirt and a large water bottle filled with ice-cold water. He pulls the shirt over his head and sets the backpack back on the concrete foundation before coming back to me.

We say nothing on our walk, which doesn't turn out to be much of a walk at all as we only make it to his house, each taking turns sipping the refreshing water from the plastic bottle. The act feels more intimate than it really is, but I relish it nonetheless. Next thing I know we are sitting on his back porch side by side and watching a few stray geese meander into the yard, which honk obnoxiously and destroy the otherwise peaceful quiet of the Victor's Village.

Maybe in another situation that would have taken place long ago, Haymitch's untended geese might have been amusing, but I don't find them funny in the least. My brain works to find the right thing to say to start this conversation; I feel this it's my responsibility to do so since I was the one who sought him out. "What do we say to one another, Peeta?" I finally ask, not completely sure if it isn't rhetorical. I silently curse my ubiquitous ineloquence and I hug my knees to my chest and rock slightly, waiting for him to reply. Hopefully his amazing ability with words has not been lost.

Peeta sighs and leans back on his elbows, taking a long drink of water. "We can say whatever we want now, I guess." He looks at me, and I can't help but look back at him. "What do you want to say, Katniss?"

I want to tell him everything, except that everything is much too much for today. Today has to be simple, and is all about baby steps. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

Peeta nods. "I promise."

"Do you think we can be friends?"

He sighs again and reaches for my hand. I let him take it, even lace my thin fingers between his large ones. "Of course we can."

I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders. "Good. Thank you, Peeta." He looks into my eyes again, as if he senses there's more I need to say. "I was so afraid that either I or the Capitol had manipulated you enough that you wouldn't be able to stand being near me, much less my friend."

Peeta sits up and looks at me like I'm the crazy person that I really am. "Katniss, I don't think you or any other being could completely, one-hundred percent change how I feel about you. Childhood love aside, we've been through too much together for me to want to cut you out of my life." He moves his gaze down to our joined hands that rest on the ground between us, and his voice is hoarse again when he resumes speaking. "And once I started to regain my sanity, I hated myself more than they ever made me hate you, for even attempting to lay a finger on you even with my hijacked mind. So truthfully, I had the same worries, except about me."

I shake my head and a few tears fall down my cheeks. "Oh, Peeta. I never want you to hate yourself, especially over me."

"You're all I have left, Katniss," he whispers, squeezing my hand tightly. "I'll never forgive myself if I do something to get you taken away from me again."

I don't know what to say. "Can I hug you, Peeta?" I choke through my now free-flowing tears.

I'm not sure what made me say it, but I don't regret it one bit when he starts to cry with me, his eyes almost unnaturally blue from the tears, and nods, releasing my hand and opening his arms to me. I launch myself into them and that comfort that I've been missing for the better part of a year is immediately returned. I climb into his lap and we cry into each other's necks, my hands grasping handfuls of the back of his shirt; one of his cradles the back of my head and the other is wrapped around my waist.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," I whisper tenderly, vulnerably. His scruff prickles the skin of my nose and forehead where it is tucked under his jaw, but I'm not bothered by it.

"Don't be sorry," he mutters similarly. Part of me expects to hear 'I love you,' after those words, but I find myself mostly relieved when I don't. Whether or not we both know it to be true, neither of us is ready for that. This reconciliation is both so hard yet simultaneously much easier than I had anticipated, and I'm grateful. I'm not sure I could keep living if Peeta had rejected me; he truly is my reason for existing, and is even more so now that I can admit to myself that I do love him.

After a while we begin to calm down, sniffling quietly and wiping each other's eyes. I trail my hands from his cheekbones, down his neck and across his shoulders, over his chest. I can't help but let out a watery chuckle. "When did you get so... muscley? I mean, I've always known you were strong but this is… different."

Peeta laughed too. "In one of my many therapy sessions with Dr. Aurelius, he asked me if I could remember anything physical that made me feel lighter, something that I knew was benefitting multiple parts of me. I told him I remembered forcing you and Haymitch to exercise before the Quell, and that I had enjoyed it. It made me feel powerful afterwards, but in a good way. It cleared my mind and was helping me become stronger. So he suggested that I start a daily fitness routine, since I enjoyed it and that it was a positive outlet for my energy, and it shows progress of some sort." He brushes a few stray hairs out of my eyes and with a smirk finishes, "Which apparently is not lost on you."

I give him a watery smile and stroke his cheek, unable to stop touching him. "Guilty as charged," I murmur.

Peeta's smile fades into a more serious expression. He gently takes my hand off his face and kisses the inside of my bony wrist softly. "Friends?"

I nod, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him to me, glad to have him back in my frail arms, safe and sound. "Friends."