We start spending more and more time together after that.

He is usually awake before me and has made breakfast by the time I venture downstairs. Afterward I go to hunt and he goes home to bake. I spend my days traipsing the woods of my childhood, the ghosts of my father and hunting partner never far behind. Whatever I manage to shoot down becomes our dinner, but sometimes I get ahead of myself and catch too much, resulting in a trip to my old mentor's house. He's usually found in his yard, feeding the small army of geese he's been acquiring since our return, or passed out on his couch. This time he is heading in as I arrive, and waves me to join him.

As soon as I close the door he's opening up his latest favourite type of alcohol, whiskey. I place my game bag on his counter, pulling out the two squirrels for him, when he pipes up, "So what's with you and the boy?"

"What do you mean?" I try to sound as neutral as possible.

"Your little arrangement - him going round your house every day. Cooking you dinner, going into town holding hands. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"What about it? What's it to you?" I say, more severely than intended.

"I was sent back here to look after you, sweetheart," he says. His voice then quietens, "I just want to make sure you know what you're doing."

The seriousness of Haymitch's tone lets me know his concerns are genuine. It stops me for a moment because I don't know what to say. I've tried not to put too much thought into mine and Peeta's relationship up until this point – I did that before and all it did was cause uncertainty and pain on both sides. And there are moments when I'm with him and feel genuinely content, even happy for a few seconds. My mind wanders to this morning we were eating breakfast together, and once he had finished, his hand slipped under the table to find mine, tracing patterns into my skin. Of course I'm still terrified; that he'll wake up and just leave, that he'll slip back to the way he was before he came home. But he takes his medication every morning, as do I and we keep on moving. I tell myself I will cross that bridge if I come to it, and only then.

"I know you love him sweetheart. Anybody could see that," he says. I can feel the tears springing to my eyes. "But he's never going to be the same person he was."

I feel the tears free fall down my cheeks, mourning the loss of the boy who would make jokes on his deathbed and confess his love for me in the most offhand way. Now replaced with a boy whose laugh is difficult to come by, who's constantly asking for permission to hold my hand or kiss me. Haymitch crosses the room and pulls me into an awkward hug and I respond, because he must miss that boy too.

"No, he's won't ever be the same person," I say, pulling away. "But neither will I." Haymitch doesn't respond to that, so I leave his game on the table and head back home.