Peeta's side of the bed is empty when she wakes up. On some level, she realizes that this means that he's probably wanting for her to get up. That isn't enough to convince her, though. She rolls over and stretches out into the now-empty space. It still contains just a whisper of Peeta's body heat, but it's almost nice. She buries her face in her pillow and pulls the quilt up over her head to block out the little bit of light streaming in through the closed blinds.

She's asleep again within moments.

It's not that Peeta was hard to share a bed with. He was asleep before long and spent the rest of the night that way. He didn't say anything when her feet brushed up against his legs in the middle of the night, but she felt bad enough about it to curl up into a ball on her side and stay there all night long.

When she wakes up again, it's because she hears the bathroom door shutting. She sits up and sees Peeta making his way out. He freezes when he sees her, as if he's been caught doing something that he shouldn't have been.
He's already dressed – albeit much more casually than he was when he picked her up. He's wearing jeans and a light blue button-down shirt. His hair isn't styled the way that it was yesterday, either. Now she can see the way that it curls almost haphazardly. It's sort of cute, she realizes.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice just barely over a whisper. "I just wanted to put my contacts in."

Contacts? She shakes her head, trying to decide that it doesn't matter that she doesn't know what he's talking about. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," he says. "But don't get up on my account."

"I'm up," she assures him, reaching up to rub at her eyes. Her days didn't have much significance on the train, but she can't remember the last time that she ever slept for so long in her life.

"Well, there's no rush," he says. "But I did make cinnamon rolls."

It's decided, then. She's getting up.

It isn't until she's in the middle of brushing her teeth that she remembers that she left her dress on the bathroom floor, and that's only because it's not there anymore.

She wonders what, exactly, it would take to convince him that she didn't leave it there because she forgot, just that she meant to wear it in the morning. It's not that much of a stretch, either. She doesn't exactly have anything else to change into and on top of that, she has no idea at all where she should have put her dress.

Besides, if she's being honest, she does like a shirt. Probably more than she really should. But he offered it to her, whether or not he was being genuine when he said that he liked it on her. And it's not like she has a lot of clothing options, anyway, so she's going to keep it.

Peeta is waiting for her in the kitchen. There's a dish in front of him filled with what must be his cinnamon rolls and they're absolutely gorgeous.

"How many do you want?" he asks after a moment, and when she turns to face him and sees the plates and forks in front of him, she's embarrassed for some reason.

"Um . . ." she trails off.

"Two to start off with, then," he says cheerfully, dishing two of them out and then setting the plate in front of the chair she sat in at dinner. She notices that there's already a glass of water waiting for her as she sits down and is surprised by how sweet the gesture is.

"I have some good news," he says after he's put a couple of the rolls on his plate. "I called the train station in District Six this morning. It turns out that they found your bag just a little while after you transferred trains and just needed someone to claim it so they knew where it was going. So I was able to get that done for you."

She's impressed, honestly. Tracking down that number couldn't have been easy and even if it was, it must have been one of the first things he did when he woke up. That and making breakfast for her. "Thank you," she manages after she's finally swallowed her bite.

"Oh, you might not want to thank me yet," he says, which is enough to make her stomach drop before she hears the rest of what he's saying. "They put the bag on the next train headed our way, but it's another bridal train, so it has to make the rest of its stops before they drop it off at the station."

"Thank you," she says again, because she's not really sure what else there is to say. "Really."

"You're welcome. I was thinking, though, that you might need some clothing to wear in the meantime. So – if you're feeling up to it, of course – maybe we could go out and get you some today?"

It takes a moment for her to understand what he's suggesting because of how shy he sounds. Is she feeling up for what? To let him buy her clothes? "You don't have to," she says.

"I'd like to," he says. "Of course, you're still welcome to my clothes. As much as you'd like to wear. I just figured that you might be a little bit more comfortable in something of your own."

He certainly isn't wrong, and as much as she wants to argue with him, she isn't sure if he would offer again if she did. She's still relieved that she had been feeling sentimental enough to wear her mother's dress the day that the train started having difficulties. That she had something pretty to meet Peeta in once the people on the train took back the clothing that they let her borrow.

"That would be very nice of you," she says. "Thank you."

"Now, if you're not ready, just let me know."

"Why wouldn't I be ready?" she asks.

"Well, I know how long you were on the train," he says. "If you wanted to spend a day here, that would be perfectly fine."

She thinks about it, but after all of the sleep that she's had, she can't imagine anything that would make wanting to stay in his apartment worth it. "No, I'm fine," she says.

He smiles at her. "Are you sure?"

She nods. "I'd like to get out. Really."

It's quiet for a long moment. She's halfway finished with the first of the cinnamon rolls when something chimes. He pulls something small out of his pocket and scans it. Once he reads what it has to say he sighs.

"What?" she asks before she can stop herself from being nosy.

"It's my brother," he explains, setting it down. "Like I said yesterday, they're really eager to meet you."

"Oh," she says, not entirely sure why that should frustrate him. There's another chime and he doesn't even check it, just sort of rolls his eyes.

"I told Dylan that I wanted to give you some more time to settle in, but he apparently took that as me telling him that I thought twenty four hours on solid ground was enough," he explains. "So he made reservations for dinner tonight and is hounding me to make sure that I actually ask you like I said I would."

"Do you want to go?" she asks.

"Not if you're not ready," he says.

She resists the urge to tell him that that's not what she asked. She's sure that he does, anyway. Otherwise he wouldn't have brought it up. And it's not that she really wants to go, but considering all of the effort that he went through to get her luggage, she's sure she could make it through a dinner. She decides to switch tactics. "I'd like to meet your brothers," she lies.

He smiles at her, but just barely. She wonders if he can see right through her. "You really don't have to go."

She nods, but then a thought hits her. "If you don't want me to go, you can just tell them that I'm sick. Girls got sick on the train all the time. They said it was because of the different viruses from the Districts. Immune systems and . . ."

He shakes his head before she even finishes talking. "No. No. Why wouldn't I want you to go? I definitely want you to go. Just not until you're ready."

He continues like she's just said the silliest thing he's ever heard.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to come across that way. I'd love for you to meet my brothers."

"Can I use your shower?" she asks before she finishes her last roll, deciding to get the question out of the way while he's already thinking that she's an idiot.

He hesitates for a moment and then laughs, but there's absolutely nothing malicious about it. It's like he genuinely thinks that it's funny that she asked. "Yes," he says, suddenly serious. "Yes, you can use the shower. You don't have to ask permission. It's just as much your shower as is it is mine."

The meaning is still there in her words, but she's overwhelmingly grateful that he didn't tell her that it's her house. She wonders if he knows that it isn't. Not yet, at least.

"But while we're talking about it, I wasn't sure if you would be bringing shampoos or soaps with you, so I picked some things up last time I was at the store," he says. "I had no idea what to buy, though. I wound up picking up the strawberry stuff, but don't feel like you have to use it. You can use mine – the stuff in the green bottle – if you'd prefer it. And you can definitely pick out the kind you like today."

"Strawberry should be fine," she assures him. "Um, about my dress . . ."

"Oh!" he says. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't want it to get stepped on or anything so I hung it up in your closet," he says.

She decides to swallow her apology and finish her breakfast.

Peeta's shower is different than the one that she used on the train. Rather than the panel that she had so much trouble with, there are knobs, like the sort on she's learned to use on sinks. It takes her a moment to adjust the temperature to something that's tolerable.

It feels incredible to stand under the hot water. She's positive that she spends too long just enjoying the way that the hot water feels against her skin. It takes her a moment to work up the nerve, but she does finally open one of the pink bottles and take a hesitant sniff.

She's pleased that it doesn't smell very much like the berries that she and Gale – used to – bring to Madge Undersee. She likes the smell much more than she had liked the rose scent that she had accidentally used during her last shower on the train. She lathers it into her hair and marvels at how different it is from how they bathed at home. How something as bizarre as a separate soap for her hair is suddenly commonplace after a few showers on a train.

The glass door of the shower is steaming up by the time she rinses her hair out and grabs the conditioner. There's even a bottle of soap waiting in there for her, though it's not strawberry. It's some sort of vanilla scent. She can tell it's for her, because the green bottle that Peeta uses proudly declares that it's a three-in-one. She wonders why he would buy her something different only to offer her the stuff he likes to use.

It takes a little while to work up the nerve to turn the water off and open the door, and when she does and the cold air hits her, she regrets it instantly. Just like she regrets not bringing her dress in with her as she reaches for a towel to wrap herself in.

She dries her hair as much as she can and braids it, but there's no avoiding it. If she wants to change back into her dress – which she doesn't, not really – she'll have to go back into the room. She secures the towel as tightly as she can, though it only really comes down to about the middle of her thigh. She steels herself and opens the bedroom door, saying goodbye to the rest of the steam, and heads for the closet.

It's just as she's reaching up to take her dress from the hanger that she hears footsteps behind her.

"Hey, so –" Peeta begins but stops suddenly, presumably because he's seen her towel. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I'm going to be in the living room."

She manages to nod but stays exactly where she is, clutching the towel as tightly as she can and staring at the back of the closet. She stays that way until she hears the door shut behind Peeta, which happens so quickly that she's nearly positive that he sprinted out. The thought of Peeta running from the room at the sight of his wife in a towel is almost funny. Maybe it would be if she wasn't so mortified.

She gets dressed as quickly as possible, but she's nearly positive that he won't try to come in again. She's right.

She's not entirely sure that she'll ever be able to face him again. But when she has her hair braided, her boots on, the shirt he gave her hung up in the closet and Peeta's pants folded on the bed, there's not much else she can do to stall short of running herself another shower.

As promised, Peeta is waiting for her in the living room, shoes on and everything. He's sitting in one of the armchairs and she notices his eyes trained on her as soon as she enters the room. If she's not mistaken, his cheeks are tinted pink. Is it possible that he's more embarrassed than she is?

"So, about that," he begins, and she's sure that he is.

"It's fine," she says.

"I appreciate you saying that, but it isn't. I promise it won't happen again," Peeta says. "I just heard the bathroom door open and I'm not sure what I thought you were doing in there but it wasn't that."

"It's your bedroom," she says.

"I'm not exactly staying in it alone anymore, Katniss," he reminds her. "Besides, if you're ever going to be anywhere near comfortable here, you need to have at least some level of privacy."

His tone is so definitive that she knows better than to try to argue with him.

"You know you're allowed to be mad at me, right?" he asks gently.

"I'm not mad," she says, because she isn't. Mortified? Yes. But not angry.

He smiles. "Well, I can't say I'm not glad to hear that. Are you already ready to go?"

She's nodding before he's even finished, because she can't imagine wanting to spend another moment in his apartment.

"For the record, my brothers have been telling me how excited they are all morning. I had to put my phone on silent because of all the texts," he informs her as they get on the elevator.

So that's what he was reading from. She files the information away for later. She's just wondering whether or not she's supposed to say that she's excited too when he leans against the back wall.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she insists, and he raises his eyebrows. "Okay. Maybe a little embarrassed. But I'm fine. I lived."

"For the record, there's absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about," Peeta says, just quietly enough that she's not positive she heard him right. "But I'm glad you're fine."

It's sort of raining by the time he pulls the car out of the big garage. If she didn't know better, she would think that the way he keeps glancing out her window – maybe at her, she isn't sure – means that he's nervous about it.

She nods, watching out the front window. He navigates through the maze of buildings impressively. It only takes a moment for them to reach town and she wonders if it's the same as living in the merchant quarter.

"There might be a hoodie in the back," he says, thankfully breaking her reverie before she can think about home for too long.

"Did you want me to check?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

"Oh, no," he says. "I'll do it when we park. We aren't too far, anyway."

She nods.

"Parking does get a little bit rough around here. Do you want me to drop you off closer to the store?"

The thought of walking around here alone is so strange that she has to look over at him to realize that he isn't joking. "No."

He nods. "Fair enough."

He groans a little bit after he's looked around in the back a little bit. She gets out of the car even though he told her that she could wait.

"I don't even have an umbrella in here," he says, looking over at her. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," she says.

"I might be able to find somewhere to park a little bit closer," he says.

"No, you couldn't," she says, because she had been looking, too, after he pointed out the store that he had been planning to take her too and there haven't been any empty spaces. "Peeta, I can walk in the rain."

She realizes that it's the first time she's actually said his name out loud when he raises his eyebrows. He's smiling, though, so she's sure that she said it right.

"I mean, it's just rain. I won't melt," she says and he laughs.

"Has anyone ever told you how incredibly low maintenance you are?" he asks as he starts to lead her down the sidewalk.

It's a combination of the fact that she's sure that what he's saying isn't exactly a compliment and the breeze that makes her cross her arms, which only serves to make Peeta laugh again, but only for a second before he realizes that she isn't laughing with him.

"Hey, that's not a bad thing," he says. "It just means that you're grounded. Real."

"As opposed to fake?" she asks skeptically, but she can feel her irritation fading. He seems earnest enough, at least.

"Yes. Definitely," he says. "I think you'll see what I mean the more you're around here. My point is that you're easy to be around."

She nods.

"It was supposed to be a compliment. I promise. Sorry."

She lets her arms drop to her side at this and he's so relieved that he actually sighs.

"You know, you spend a lot of time apologizing."