The following three months were the same. Day in, day out, I would wake up in Peeta's strong arms. We would go downstairs for breakfast, making idle chit-chat now and again, and sometimes just bathing in the comfortable silence.

Day after day, always the same, and for a few brief moments, it made me happy. After a lifetime of living in fear and doubt, never knowing what the next day would bring, the routine and uniformity was comforting…and far from boring. In fact, it may have been the happiest time of my life.

And that thought made me guilty as hell.

I knew I would never get over what happened. If I could, I would be heartless, jaded and cold. The fact that I could feel just proved I was alive, even if it left me feeling like I was crumbling into pieces; trapped in a box in the far corner of my mind as my body went through the motions.

But one thing always pulled me through. One thing always brought me back to myself, and to reality.

Peeta.

I'm not sure when the dynamic between us changed. Slowly, but surely, something shifted between us and amid the comfort we found in each other, I began to feel something else.

Longing? Lust?

Something else?

Of course, I'm pretty sure Peeta was oblivious to my sudden internal conflict. About a month and a half ago, when we were in the kitchen making lunch, I glanced up at him, and stopped mid-sentence. That's when it began to change, in that one brief moment.

The sun had just streamed through the window and cast a halo of gold around his ash-blonde head, illuminating the left side of his face as he concentrated on chopping up pieces of fruit for a salad. For a moment, it was like my world just…stopped. I was caught, afraid to move, afraid to breathe in case I infected its beauty. It's perfection.

In that moment, he was perfect.

Although, then I realised that there is no such thing as perfection.

But to be honest, Peeta comes pretty damn close.

He had glanced up and caught me staring, cocking an eyebrow at my idiotic expression.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mmmhmm," I said, not trusting myself to form words, and never mentioned the incident again.

I remember what Finnick told me in District 13. About how he and Annie fell in love. And although it saddened me to remember him, it also made coping that much easier. By remembering the good moments, not the bad, I could cope. I remember the way his sea-green eyes shone as he recalled the girl from District 4 who had stolen his heart without meaning to. How it just snuck up on him.

I suppose that's what happened between Peeta and me. It wasn't a whirlwind romance in reality. Just a succession of brief moments that found their way in softening my heart and breaking down my sturdy barriers.

And Peeta didn't even realise he was doing it.

But today was different than any other. Peeta was distant, cold. Although we spent many happy days in silence- not caring if either one of us muttered a word- today was different.

The tension in the room was palpable; you could cut it with a knife and serve it up on a silver platter. I felt uncomfortable, uneasy….something I haven't felt in a long time. Not since Peeta arrived in District 12 at any rate.

We were in the kitchen. I was sitting on a stool, leaning my elbows against the counter as I nursed a cup of coffee in my hands. I had recently become acquired to the taste and found myself salivating for a caffeine buzz almost every afternoon.

Peeta was standing by the counter staring out the window as he sliced a loaf of bread that he had baked for us to eat. I watched him warily, noticing his shoulder muscles tense through his t-shirt, seeing the glazed look pass over his eyes and the odd tremble in his hands.

Peeta gasped and cursed a string of profanity so well versed that I was simultaneously stunned and impressed. Peeta never curses if he can help it, and I never thought I would hear such filth exit his mouth.

I jumped off the stool and raced to him. Peeta cradled his bleeding hand in his other and pulled it to his mouth to staunch the flow of blood.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," he growled. He obviously wasn't fine. I rolled my eyes and pulled his bleeding hand into mine to check the damage. His soft fingers had grown calloused from working in the garden, tending to our Primrose bushes.

I was under no illusions any more. Peeta stayed over at my house every night. Slowly, I had urged him to bring his clothes and possessions from his own home and place them in mine.

We lived together. No doubt about it.

I slowly turned Peeta's hand around in mine and inspected the wound. The gash ran in a diagonal line from the knuckle of his index finger to the soft skin of his palm. Both of our hands were drowned in a sea of crimson, flowing freely between us.

"God, Peeta," I bit my lip and dragged him toward the sink, pulling his hand under the stream of ice-cold water. He winced at the freezing sensation but didn't move from the spot.

"You're going to need stitches." I told him, rinsing my own hands under the steady stream, drying them on a nearby dishcloth and rummaging in the cupboard for our first aid box.

"It's fine," he said. "It's just a scratch."

"Yeah, and Buttercup's the president."

"I don't have time for this," he moaned as I grabbed his hand and began to piece the skin back together with sterile thread.

"Just shut up and sit there," I growled. "I'm not very good at this, and you twitching isn't making it any damn easier."

"Fine," he said. Ten minutes, and seventeen profanities later, Peeta hand was mended.

The same couldn't be said for him.

As soon as I had finished patching him up, he leaped up and headed for the door, grabbing the jacket hanging on the hook.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," he answered, pulling the door so hard I was sure it would break from its hinges.

"Peeta, you're injured. Just stay here for a while."

"I have to go," he said firmly. He stood with his back to me at the door.

"Where?" I asked. I was worried about him. He was angry, unhinged. Something was wrong and I wanted to fox it. But how could I fix him when I couldn't even fix myself?

"I have to help Greasy Sae in the market, go to Haymitch's and check he hasn't choked on his own vomit, go to town to help with the rebuild, get some supplies so we don't stare…"

"Peeta, relax."

"I can't relax." he said, his shoulder's slumped and I heard a faint sniffle coming from him. He was crying.

And my heart shattered at the sound.

I grabbed Peeta's good hand in mine. He glanced down at it sideways. I turned him around and stared him straight in the eye. Tears collected in his long eyelashes, threatening to stream down his face. His hand trembled in mine and his lip began to quiver.

"This is how you cope, isn't it?" I said softly, gently stroking a stray tear that had fallen down his cheek with my finger and cupping his cheek with my hand. "You have to take control. You take care of everybody else. Let me take care of you."

Peeta shook his head adamantly and tore his hand from mine, racing out the door and through the gate. I followed him a few steps, before calling "Peeta!"

Peeta's footsteps slowed but he did not stop moving.

I ran to him and matched his step automatically.

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday." he said gruffly.

"No what day is it?"

"Wednesday, July 18th."

"Peeta," I said softly, "what day is today."

Peeta sighed and another tear rolled down his cheek, this time he made no move to hide it as he stared at me.

"July 18th. Hunter's birthday. Today, he would have been 19 years old."

And with that, Peeta raced off, and I was left stranded in the middle of the street, unable to do anything but wait for him to come home.

Later that night as I lay in bed, watching the moon soar higher into the sky as the night wore on, I heard a noise from the kitchen.

The door slamming shut.

He was home.

I stayed where I was. Lying on top of my sheets, rooted to the mattress as Peeta stumbled noisily up the stairs.

The door creaked open and Peeta treaded into the room softly, or at least he attempted to. He never was very stealth.

I pulled myself up into a sitting position and he froze, wide eyed and ashamed. Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie-jar.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"'s okay." I mumbled back. I could smell the liquor from his clothes and his breath as he tugged at his jacket and threw it haphazardly over a chair, before sitting on edge of the mattress and kicking of his boots with two soft thuds.

"Where were you?" I asked softly, although I knew I had no right to intrude. Peeta grunted and lay down in the bed next to me.

"Around."

"Haymitch's?"

"Yeah," he replied.

After a further ten minutes of silence, I couldn't bear it any more, I had to ask him. "You went to the bakery, didn't you?"

In the faint moonlight that lit the room, I saw Peeta softly and saw his shoulder's begin to quake. I grabbed his hand in mine and squeezed it reassuringly.

It was like opening the flood gates as Peeta finally broke down.

"It's all my fault," his voice was choked with tears and I scrambled into a sitting position and held him in my arms, stroking his hair and soothing him like a mother to a child.

"No, it's not."

"I shouldn't have left you in the arena. Then The Capitol wouldn't have captured me and bombed our district to get to you."

"No, Peeta…it's my fault."

Peeta stopped sobbing to look at me. I expected to see hate or anger in his eyes, but I didn't. I saw understanding, sadness…

Love.

"At first, I wanted to blame you," he answered honestly, "but I couldn't. They wanted to get back at all of us. I know that that's real. But my family…they're dead….and I…I h-have no one…"

Peeta collapsed into another wave of tears and fell onto the bed, his shoulders shaking.

"It's me. My fault."

"It's no one's fault but the Capitol. And they're gone now. They'll never hurt us again."

"They couldn't hurt me any more than they already have." Peeta choked out through tears.

Peeta laid his head against my stomach and I softly combed my fingers through his hair as I cradled his head in my arms.

"You're wrong." I said softly.

"About what?" he said.

"You're not alone. You have someone. You have me. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" he breathed.

"Promise."

Peeta shook in my arms and I let him cry long into the night; let him soothe his aching heart. That's what he needed. He also needed a shoulder to lie on, and I could offer that too.

Peeta sidled closer to me on the bed, his head never leaving my stomach and my hands never leaving his hair.

"Stay with me." he whispered.

"Always."