And we're back! Sorry for the longer than usual intermission between chapters! Hopefully, the gap between chapters three and four will be a little shorter!

For those of you who asked, I have outlined eight more chapters for this story. Never fear, we're nowhere near the end yet! ;-)

I want to thank all of my reviewers once again for your feedback! I got some constructive criticism where there could have been flames, so I appreciate your kind honesty. This chapter deals with a lot of confused flip-flopping of emotions that was at times difficult to write, but I hope you can all appreciate the end product!

I can't bring myself to open my eyes right now.

I've been awake for more than a few minutes, but a fresh memory keeps replaying in my head, stirring up a new type of horror within me. When I open my eyes, the scene in front of me will confirm it and never let me forget, haunting me both day and night.

I don't remember how it even happened. I know Peeta had come to me during the storm. I was content he was here, speaking to me once again. But the conversation turned into something much more serious than I'd imagined in such a short amount of time. He was professing his feelings once again, something I could never do.

I do care for Peeta though, in new, different ways than I've ever cared for anyone in my life. He knows that now. I just wish I'd found a better way to express it.

An enormous knot of shame and fear twists in my stomach as I finally pull apart my eyelids, waiting for the blow. The tension is worse than ever.

But when I look around, I'm alone. I don't remember coming up to my bedroom, but I'm in safely beneath the covers in my pajamas. The room is just as I'd left it. My other senses open up and I can hear Greasy Sae tinkering about in the kitchen.

I'm starting to consider the possibility that it was all dream until I shift to sit up. The discomfort is immediate. It's not blinding pain as it was before, but I'd feel more comfortable if I have didn't move for the rest of the morning.

Other subtle signs of disruption become evident. Sheets on the others side of the bed are flipped over, as if someone's come out from underneath them. The window blinds have been pulled up. The movement downstairs travels across a few rooms and then up the stairs. It's something Greasy Sae would never do.

He stops dead in the doorway with a plate of food in hand, surprised to see me awake. I'm trying my best not to look mortified, but it's too obvious to keep completely hidden. He steps his good foot backwards and pivots slightly, perhaps considering a quick sidestep out of my sight. He changes his mind. His eyes turn to meet mine and he's facing me once again.

"I told Sae you were really sick and she shouldn't expose herself to it," says Peeta as he begins to walk swiftly to my side. He places the plate on my bedside table and stands stiffly, one hand in each of his pants pockets. "I told her I'd take care of you for a few days."

Apparently disregarding what he'd just said, Peeta begins walking away just as quickly as he came. "I left you some bread downstairs," he says over his shoulder.

"So you're just leaving?" I yell after him as he passes through my doorway. "Is that how it's going to be then?"

Peeta spins around, using one arm to brace himself against the doorway. The stolid façade that covered his face just a moment ago is gone. A look of lingering sadness replaces it.

"I thought you'd want to be alone."

In a lot of ways, I do want to be alone. But I've been laying here for what feels like ages, building up a speech, calculating just the right words to let Peeta down gently as he confessed his love for me. Instead, Peeta is standing there, trying to let me down gently. I honestly didn't see it coming.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he says, cutting through the heavy silence between us.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I shoot back. The anger is boiling within my chest, but I try to hold it back for just a bit longer.

Peeta pulls his hand through his disheveled hair then shakily points it toward me in accusation.

"You can't sit there and tell me you're happy about that."

His head falls in shame. "It's like I don't even know what happened," he says. "I just wanted to know that you wanted me around, that a part of you still wants to be with me. I was so desperate to know for sure." Peeta slowly begins walking to the end of the bed. "But I promise you, it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

"But it was supposed to happen," I accuse. My guilt has morphed into rage and I imagine a different side of Peeta I haven't seen much outside the arena: The boy with a manipulative plan to get whatever he wants.

"What? No!"

"You thought you'd just come over in a storm, get cozy, and not bother to come near me? Or did you think you'd just try your hand at ravishing me until I eventually stopped you?"

I know I'm being vicious, but I don't care. Peeta deserves every bit of it. I think briefly of the need I too felt, but push the feeling away just as quickly as it came.

"I just wanted to talk to you," Peeta's voice has gone breathy, as if he's choking on something. I think he's pleading with me. "I swear to you I never had any other sort of motive behind it."

I'm starting to believe him, but part of me can't let it go.

"I don't know," I continue. "You sure seemed to know what you were doing."

Peeta's eyebrows perk up and he stares at me in disbelief. "Everyone knows about sex, Katniss. Don't act like you've never been exposed to it. That doesn't make it firsthand experience. When do you think I could have possibly done that before?"

He's right, of course. We've all heard about it, sometimes more vividly than we'd like. We've seen the images too. Especially Peeta and I because of our stay in the Capitol, where sex is celebrated as sport and unashamedly advertised.

But I can't let it go yet. "You thought it through," I further accuse.

Peeta has calmed significantly. Without my permission, he moves to the other side of the bed and sits on the very edge.

"I won't pretend I've never thought about being with you," he admits, "but it was supposed to be something special, not some pathetic attempt to make you love me. It was supposed to feel right."

Peeta's ability to speak with unparalleled honesty stings me. I pity him. I'm spitting hate at him, accusing him of luring me into his arms through deceit, yet he's still telling me he loves me in his roundabout way. Surely another girl- any other girl- could learn to appreciate his heart and treat him better. Meanwhile, I find myself selfishly frustrated with his confessions.

"We're not even friends, Peeta," I moan as guilt begins to overrun me. "You don't even talk to me."

"You don't talk to me, either."

"Fine. We don't talk to each other," I concede. "That's the most basic stepping stone for a friendship and we don't even do that. How are we supposed to have any other sort of relationship?"

Peeta considers it for a long moment. Conflict reads all over his face, but I think we're both too torn apart to keep up the fight.

"Alright," he says, moving to his feet once again. "Let's be friends."

I nod automatically, but a memory is coming into full bloom in the back of my mind of the last time Peeta and I tried to be friends, between Victory Tour and the Quarter Quell. Our arrangement had crossed the boundaries of friendship at many points, but not at our new level of recklessness. Part of me wouldn't mind going back to that old friendship.

"You should grab yourself some food," I suggest, trying to bridge the gap between those comforting memories and now.

"I already ate. I've been up for hours. My brain's forever on a baker's schedule," he smiles. I reciprocate with a weak laugh even though his joke doesn't truly reach me.

His voice gets serious. "I really do have to head home, though. I've got some things I want to get done." His lack of specifics makes me doubt him, but I don't argue.

Before disappearing from sight, he swings around one more time and adds as cheerily as possible "I'll cook you dinner, though!"

"I'll see you then," I reply with not nearly enough enthusiasm.

There's a dull ache in my body that lingers throughout the day, more akin to dread than pain. I can't help but run every possible outcome of my actions through my head over and over. Each scenario is worse than the previous. I can see no good coming of our friendship, but I refuse to leave our shared scars unattended. We have to do something to change it all.

It takes a great deal of persuasion to force myself to eat, then another internal battle to get up and shower. The physical discomfort comes and goes, but I very rarely leave the couch once I'm downstairs. I explore the television for the first time in ages and realize that Plutarch Heavensbee has been steadily making improvements. The singing show he'd mentioned to me on the trip back to District Twelve is on the air, though it's clear that the featured performers are mostly amateurs.

Peeta shows up a bit earlier than usual, but takes longer to cook than Greasy Sae would. He's very secretive about the small bag of food he's got with him and he insists I relax in front of the television until the meal is done. When it finally finishes, he's rushing me into the kitchen with a wicked grin on his face.

Whatever he's made, the smell entices me. He watches as I take a seat and examine the dish. When my eyes focus in on the dried plums, a smile creeps across my lips.

"I couldn't get any lamb, so I substituted it with rabbit," he says, "But I think it'll still be good!"

I've come to associate this lamb stew with my time in the Capitol, but it's refreshing to see Peeta in a pleasantly optimistic mood again so I eat up without hesitation. The dried plums and cream sauce practically melt in my mouth.

"It's really good," I praise him. "You can barely taste the difference."

"I thought you'd like it."

The guilt throbs a little harder knowing that Peeta's been relating things as trivial as dinner to me. If he's trying this hard to be my friend, I should at least try to do the same for him. I make an extra effort to start conversation, but I'm not too spectacular with it. We discuss Haymitch becoming a hermit, whether or not Greasy Sae's being paid to care for us, and other issues that don't affect our lives much. It's better than nothing.

I wash the dishes, but Peeta waits by my side to dry them.

"We should get working on that memorial soon," he mentions casually as we finish up. "We could show them our ideas next week. Bristel's giving me the final blueprints for the bakery then."

I know it's not my business, but curiosity gets the best of me.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you were rebuilding it, Peeta?"

He shrugs. "I didn't think anyone else would care. I like the work, but I can't keep doing it out of my house. Technically, the property's mine now, so I might as well use it."

"Was your family inside? Did you get them out?" I know the questions were a little too much right after I ask them because Peeta suddenly looks lost to the world.

"I'm sorry," I try to wave it off.

"No, it's fine," Peeta finally says. "They were inside. So were a lot of customers. They weren't able to identify who was who, so I decided they should all go into the Meadow. Together."

I'm trying not to get emotional. There's a time and place for such things and this isn't it. We're in a similar situation, Peeta and I. The bodies of my father and Prim were never recovered and given a proper burial. At least Peeta has the meadow.

"We should work on the memorial right now," I burst out. "Just stay and we'll do that tonight."

Peeta nods, still a bit detached from the world around him. I give some time alone while I scrounge up the last bits of paper and art supplies that Peeta left here before the Quell. He might have better supplies at his house, but he doesn't complain when I place these on the table.

"What did you want it to look like?" he asks after settling in again.

"I hadn't thought of it much. I'm not much of an architect."

He sighs, then stares at the blank paper intently, waiting for it to reveal the answers to him. The pause is drawn out and my ears start to buzz. I'm trying to think of a natural way to break the silence when he speaks.

"I need your Mockingjay pin."

"I don't have it." The realization comes with a bit of shock. For the first time since it all began, I have no idea where the country's symbol of hope had gone. "They took it from me in the Capitol."

Though I hadn't thought of its absence before, now that I'm aware I crave the ability to hold Madge's last gift to me between my fingers once again. It was mine. What right did they have to take it?

"It's not gone for good," Peeta says confidently after reading the worry in my eyes. "They've got it somewhere and they'll hand it over."

"You want the memorial to be my pin?"

"Not entirely. I just think it should be incorporated in there." The pencil in his hand touches paper and his first vision comes to life before me.

As the night goes on, Peeta renders several different possibilities for the memorial. The sketches are rough, but most include a circle representing the Mockingjay pin. He's a better painter than sketch artist, but his ideas are more meaningful than anything I could imagine.

In the end, we fan them all out across the table and choose our favorites, narrowing down the basic elements we're looking for. In the back of my mind, I'm struck by how normal it feels to make plans alongside Peeta. I could have never done this a week ago. Perhaps there is hope for our friendship.

"I think that covers it," Peeta says as he gathers the most promising sketches. "We can work on it some more tomorrow, if you want."

He's leaning over the table, looking up at me through the thin veil of his shaggy blond hair. I give him a smile, but my cheer is fading. It's late and I know he's getting ready to leave again.

As he crosses the kitchen and heads toward the archway, I call after him.

"You don't have to go, you know." I feel immensely stupid as soon as the words leave my lips. Even I don't know what I'm trying to do here.

Frustration flashes across Peeta's face. "I thought we were just friends?"

With one sentence, I've sent our fragile relationship spinning. I've got to gain control of the situation if I want this to continue. I erase my face of all emotion and nod stiffly.

"We are," I say in a matter-of-fact voice. "But we kept each other company at night when we were friends before. I thought you'd like to stay since you usually come back in the morning anyway, but you're welcome to leave."

"Fine," he says. I'm not sure if that means he'll stay or go. He's moving down the hall and I do my best to follow him and still seem non-committal about the issue.

It's the longest trip I've ever taken down the hallway. I'm about to ask him to clarify when he reaches the end of the hallway and turns away from the door. He climbs up the first two steps before looking back at me.

"Shouldn't you lock the door?" he suggests.

I head upstairs just a few moments later. Peeta leaves the room while I change. We peel back the sheets and lay carefully on our designated sides of the bed without touching. Still, the heat from his body keeps me warm and I'm happy to know I'm not alone.

His voice breaks through the silent lull that almost overcomes us as we drift to sleep.

"Hey Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday."

My eighteenth birthday. I knew it was spring, but I haven't been privy to the date in quite some time. It's odd to know that in a different world, I'd be celebrating this day with feverish joy. All things considered, tonight's alternative isn't all that bad.

I know that I got to spend it with a friend.

"Thanks," is all I say to him.

About a week later, when Peeta's informed Greasy Sae that I've fought off my imaginary illness, he fashions me a cake. Sae comes over with her granddaughter and, much to my surprise, Haymitch.

It's an awkward, watered down version of a birthday dinner yet I can't complain. It's an odd cluster of relationships, but I owe my life to the people at this table.

We develop a pattern over the next few weeks. Peeta and I eat breakfast, then part ways. I become a mid-morning hunter, slowly working my way back into to my once great skills.

I reset the old snare line I once developed with Gale. I'm no longer sharing it with the Hawthornes, but I always try to give some of the haul away. The few children that have returned to District Twelve aren't starving, but that doesn't mean there isn't any struggle. There's still very few jobs here and most others must use up their food rations strategically.

Peeta bakes and works on the development of the new bakery. He's struck up some sort of deal with Greasy Sae again, because now she's only an occasional dinner guest. I bring him the meat and he experiments with new ways to cook it, giving me tips along the way. At times his techniques are unsuccessful, leaving us with chunks of charred woodchuck and bitter squirrel stew. I try to learn to laugh about it.

Every night, we are together. We work on the memorial until it's time to hand the plans over to Thom. After that, we learn to spend our nights like most other citizens of Panem. We play chess, though I'm not very good. We become fans of Plutarch's new show exploring the different cultural traditions of each district. We check in on Haymitch.

Dr. Aurelis calls my house to speak to both of us. I finally have things I can discuss with him like the memorial, progress in the district, and the daily routine I share with Peeta. Yet I sense his passive aggression when I refuse to discuss his favorite subjects: my mother, the war, hate, dead friends, Gale, and forgiveness. I honestly feel I'm better when I forget these elements of my life.

One night, Peeta suggests we work on my family book. There were several entries we'd meant to add in before the Quarter Quell bore down upon us and now the once impossible time that we needed to finish is upon us. It's relaxing, therapeutic even, to finally see it through with him.

"I need another book like this," I think aloud softly as we add in the latest entry one summer night.

Peeta looks up from his painting quizzically. "Like a duplicate?" He twists his wrist, cracking the bones within. I see him imagining the work it would take to copy the thick book.

"No, I different type of book," I explain. "A book of people."

The idea has struck me rather quickly, but I'm now intent on getting it done. We both pause to consider it.

"I'm forgetting too," Peeta admits even though I have yet to do so myself. "I know the names but I can't remember much of the faces."

We talk a little about the idea before heading off to bed together as we do every night. Tonight, all of my loved ones are faceless and screaming in my nightmares. When I'm jolted awake in terror, Peeta brings me a mug of hot cider. I fall back to sleep with my head on his chest, clinging to my only friend.

Peeta clutches his drink tightly, his usually young, bright face replaced by that of a much older man. I know it's the look he gets when lost in memories that he'd rather not relive.

He's been weary all morning. So weary, in fact, that I took over cooking breakfast after he burned the first few strips of bacon. I don't cook, thus our breakfast has become an especially bleak affair.

"This isn't a big deal, Peeta," I tell him. I know it's not what he wants to hear in the midst of his flashbacks, but someone needs to bring him back to reality. "You told them you wanted the bakery built. You gave them the plans to get it done."

"I know," he replies, still in deep thought. My frustration toward his sentimental fears triples.

"It's not like it's done, anyway," I continue with a bit more bite in my voice. "It's just a walkthrough. They've barely got the structure up."

"I know."

And suddenly, Peeta is back. He's glaring at me, but he's back.

"Then what are you fussing over?"

"I'm not fussing," he insists. "It's just a big deal to me, that's all."

I nibble at a piece of bacon and realize it's far too chewy for my liking. "You bake all the time. I don't see how this is any different."

"Anyone can bake," Peeta begins, but I cut him off with a stern look. "Okay, not anyone. Most people can. But the bakery and the whole business end of it was part of my family. I wouldn't have even gotten it if-"

If his older brothers weren't killed in a firebombing.

I nod before he has to finish the sentence.

Sometimes, it's hard to find sympathy for Peeta. He's been given a great opportunity to remember his family and do something he loves all rolled up in one, but he approaches it with pure dread.

I'm trying to find the best way to express it. The words have finally come together and start bubbling up my throat. A noise squeaks out, but it's quickly and concisely cut off by yelling in the distance.

Peeta's head perks up as well. Curiosity gets the best of him and he strolls out of the kitchen into the living room, where he begins to peer through the windows.

I can't make out every word, but there's only one person who could be screaming out such vile filth at this hour.

"What's Haymitch even doing awake?" I ask.

"Bleeding, apparently," Peeta responds, his face a mixture of concern and disgust.

The look does not leave his face as we both leave the house and cut through the yard onto Haymitch's property. The old man is a bit of a nocturne these days, so Peeta and I have gotten in the habit of visiting after supper when he's just waking up to start his night. I've no idea what's kept him up into the morning.

Haymitch's body is covered in odd blood splatters and dirt. He's hollering at the ground like a man unhinged until he sees us. He staggers a few steps toward us as we approach.

"You!" He points a finger at me accusingly, then flings it back toward the spot that's made him unstable. "Get this!"

We're only a few feet away when I make out the sight. The blood is not Haymitch's, but that of a goose that now lies dead on the ground. Next to it, the murder weapon: an old, rusted shovel also caked in blood and dirt.

"What the hell were you doing?" Peeta asks Haymitch, though his voice contains very little surprise that Haymitch would do such a thing.

"Yardwork!" Haymitch grumbles. Even outdoors, the smell of white liquor from his breath overwhelms me. "The damn thing scared the hell out of me."

"I think you scared it too, Haymitch."

Haymitch leans in and whispers harshly, as if telling the tale of a great conspiracy. "I think they've been living on my property. That one came right up behind me. I felt something grab me from behind, so I turned and hit it."

It's clear that he'd hit the bird more than once, but I don't dare bring it up.

"Stupid bastard," he hisses toward it once again.

Peeta shakes the oddity of the situation off first. "Let's just get rid of it."

I lean forward and gather it up by the feet. Haymitch has damaged some of the best meat, but with careful preparation it could be used for a decent stew.

"We're not eating it," Haymitch protests before I've even mentioned it. He points several yards away at something I didn't notice before. "Not in front of the children."

In the distance, barely visible in the tall grass and dead leaves covering his yard, four goslings waddle precariously. I wonder if they can comprehend what's happened to their mother.

It seems silly not to eat a perfectly good goose, but Haymitch is insistent we leave it be. Peeta and I watch as he regains control of the shovel, once his weapon of choice, and digs a shallow grave in the empty flower beds at the back of his house.

When he's done, I tell him "I'll take the little ones down to the lake later on."

"You think I can't manage to bring a few goslings back into the woods?" he responds, acting like I'd handed him a great insult. "I'll do it myself."

Peeta, who is no longer wrapped in his own thoughts, grabs the shovel from him. "You should get some sleep, Haymitch."

"Excuse me?" Haymitch stabs a finger into Peeta's chest. He's still drunk as can be, but he's melted back down to his normal level of drunkenness at which he can almost control himself. "I'm responsible for you, not the other way around. I will do whatever I damn well please."

To drive in the point, he walks over to Peeta and claps a hand on his shoulder.

"I've got to visit Ripper down at The Hob," he tells us.

"You can come with us then," Peeta says. "Katniss and I were just going to visit the new bakery."

I shoot him a stern glance. "I don't remember saying I'd go-"

"I was just about to ask with to come with me before we came outside," Peeta's teeth are clenched. He looks desperately at Haymitch, who is trying to wipe his bloody hands off on his bloody jeans, then back to me. He's silently pleading with his eyes.

"Fine!" I grumble, thinking of my half-eaten breakfast and scrapped plans for the day.

We manage to convince Haymitch to change, but he still looks ragged as ever to we make our way toward the square in silence. It's become harder just to talk with Haymitch these days. With no more talk of the games or rebellion and no interest in day-to-day life, everyone else in District Twelve finds themselves discussing either the past or the future. Haymitch sees no reason to discuss either.

He parts with us just as we're about to enter the square, heading toward the entrance of the abandoned coal mines. Just next to it stands the fledging upstart of the new Hob, which few people find exciting now that's it's not considered illegal. With the shops in town still in pieces, it's the only place to go.

The bakery comes into view across the square. Bristel is waiting outside. I synchronize myself to Peeta's pace. A slow, steady death march toward his former home.

"Did you really want me to come with you?" I ask.

Peeta takes a deep breath and shrugs non-committally. "You don't have to. I was just saying that so I didn't have to go alone with Haymitch." His eyebrows knit together and after a pause, he adds, "But you're always welcome to come in."

I hold back the sigh. He says I don't have to, but I can. I feel like it's a test. If I give the wrong answer, I fail him.

"I'm kind of interested to see what it looks like, if that's okay." I know better. I know that even when his life is on the line, he's never asked me to help him through anything, to delve into his darkest feelings along with him.

Bristel is dangling the key out in Peeta's direction long before we're close enough to reach it. As Peeta unlocks the door, his hand clutches the key unnaturally tight.

It really is too early on to make much of it. The floor is unfinished and the walls are white. There's a serving counter, but no glass displays installed. Gaps in the wall have pipes sticking out in places where sinks will later be added. Only the oven is complete finished, waiting to be christened.

"Since there's no staircase in this floor plan, we were able to give you a little more room in the back," Bristel says with pride.

I watch Peeta as his whole head wheels around the room, looking from floor to ceiling, over a few feet and back down to the floor again. He does this around the whole front area for almost a minute before anyone speaks again.

"It shouldn't take more than a month now," Bristel says. He points to a far wall. "We just need a few tiny specifics. Like what color paint-"

"Green," Peeta interrupts as if he couldn't hold it in any longer. "It used to be light green in here."

It's then that Bristel realizes Peeta is stuck in his old memories. He looks at me wearily, pulling his mouth to one side in an awkward grimace. "Okay, that's fine. I'm just going to step outside. Just let me know later how you want the other rooms painted."

And then I am alone with Peeta and his thoughts. He quickly pops his head into the soon-to-be prep and storage rooms, but comes back and continues to endlessly inspect the storefront.

"It looks really great," I finally comment. "Just like it used to."

He looks in my direction, but he doesn't acknowledge me. His eyes are empty. I notice heavy bags under them that I hadn't seen before.

I let out a small yell when he stops and collapses with his head on the counter, gripping to its edge for dear life. He lets out a strangled grunt and grits his teeth, one cheek flat against the countertop.

"Not now." I barely hear the words escape his lips as he's overtaken by his demons.

I rush over to him, but pause just inches away from his skin. Is it safe to touch him? Will he think he's being attacked?

Instead, I angle my body carefully against the counter, laying my face flat just inches away from his. He grunts and flails. Eventually, his tears are streaming down. I wonder what flashback is filling his mind. Or perhaps it's a vision brought on by hijacking?

"Not real, Peeta," I say, not sure whether it's really a flashback or implanted scenario. "Not real."

It seems to calm him, though he's still visibly shaken. Slowly, the cries end. His breathing steadies. His face relaxes.

The pure self-loathing that consumes me comes out of nowhere as I begin to count all of the times that I've faulted Peeta for his unsteady will, from his first day back after the hijacking to just this morning. I can't help but ask myself why. Didn't I care that he was suffering just like me?

The answer is simple: I've always known, I've just been too selfish to care. He's always comforted me when doubt and fear overtook me, but he never even wakes me up when he has nightmares. If he did, I probably would have brushed him off. I wonder if these incidents are what happens when he's alone during the day.

When I feel safe enough to do so, I brush my fingertips down along the side of his face, tucking some hair behind his ear as I do. He doesn't respond.

It feels like a century has gone by before his eyes open. We're still both positioned with one cheek on the countertop, facing each other with trepidation.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

I try to shush him in a way that's soothing but it comes out shaky. I wait until he stands up straight before doing so myself. I analyze and reanalyze the situation as we stare at each other cautiously.

I remember what it's like to feel insane, maybe to be insane. I want Peeta to know he's so much more than those feelings. My self-loathing mixes with something far past desire: a genuine need to make Peeta feel safe with me.

I hold out my arms to him and he's collapsing once again, this time into me. He nestles his head into the crook of his neck and breathes me in deeply. I hold him as closely as I can, calling on every ounce of the little maternal instinct I have to calm him.

"It's not your fault," I tell him as I rub his back. "I promise it's not your fault."

I feel his head move against me, but he doesn't speak. His fingers find the end of my braid and begin to fiddle with my hair, twirling it in a way that brings a little peace to both of us.

"Bristel's probably wondering what the hell is going on in here," Peeta eventually chuckles.

"Let him wonder."

Peeta's grip is loosening, but I'm not ready to let go. When he starts to slide his arms away, I catch his wrists in my hands and do my best to look him in the eye. For the first time I can remember, I feel certain.

"I don't want to be friends, Peeta."

His reaction isn't coming out right. Where I expect to see understanding and delight, I see anger, fear, and a pout spreading across his face. I haven't earned his acceptance yet.

"I know what I said before," I say, "but things have changed since then. I think we should try to make something of this."

I give his wrists a slight squeeze and try to stop myself from shaking. The vulnerability is agony and I'm half-tempted to take back the truths I've just spilt to get rid of the churning in my gut.

His face softens, but the questions linger. "What are we supposed to do, then?"

"What we always do," I reply. I want to give a better explanation, but nothing comes to mind.

A little smile crosses his lips and I think of another thing we should do.

I kiss his lips gently, letting go of his wrists in favor of gripping his shoulders securely. His hands fall to my waist and he presses his lips back into mine. My heart races so loudly, I'm afraid he can hear it. I know that this is what kissing Peeta should have always felt like.

"And that," I add when we finally pull away.

"And that," he repeats amusedly.

We leave the bakery as discreetly as possible and walk back to Victor's Village. We barely make it through my front door before we're kissing again.

I'm gripping his back and he's clutching my side as we lean against the door, rubbing against each other dangerously. Peeta kisses down my neck and I let out a little shutter that stops him dead.

"Not now," he says. When his head moves away from me, he wears a sour face. "Let's just relax right now."

"I wasn't even thinking about that!" I scold him. Then again, I wasn't thinking about it when it happened, either. "I just want to be close to you."

"Later," he promises.

I recognize the strange limbo we're in. Peeta and I have been here so many times before. We're certainly not friends, but we're not quite lovers either. We're just together.

But this time I promise myself things will be different.

I don't know what Peeta plans for us, but he's not the only one making plans.