I don't own The Hunger Games, Peeta, or Katniss.

Mata Hari

(5.0 Years Later)

Peeta's POV

The flame sputters and whispers, as if it were my old friend. And at that thought I snort internally. Fire. Friend. We hate each other. Bad experiences... Burning flesh... Rebellious birds...

Yet how many times have I painted a picture of those flames? Dancing, encased in their brick house? Dozens. I've tried to tame them with my paints. And they always look friendly and inviting on the canvas, but never as friendly as they do tonight.

It's her presence, I think. The beautiful, wild flame herself.

Or maybe it's because the flame serves a special purpose tonight: To toast bread.

We crouch before the hearth, Katniss and I, solemnly watching the flame lick two cheese buns on a stick. Of course we had to carry out the time-honored District toasting tradition, and of course we had to substitute plain bread with cheese buns. Her favorite.

She is absorbed in the fire, distracted, and I take a moment to look at her. Can't help it. She is aglow, more enthralling than the blaze. Her olive skin is soaking in the light from the flames. Her Seam eyes are merry, a tiny smile scrunches her nose. Silk—silk is all I can call it—falls vertically in its raven tresses down, down, down her back. Freckles dance on her high cheekbones. Soft brown. But they're only visible when you're close enough to kiss her.

When I look at her, the air in our living room takes on a dreamy consistency. It is light and fluffy and warm. Surreal. I could be wrapped in gaseous whipped cream. It feels like that. It feels happy. I've never been this content in my life. And is it even allowed? Is it? Am I allowed to feel like this forever? Because nothing will go wrong for the rest of my life. Never. She is working magic, making this room a haven, and hasn't she just vowed to spend the rest of her existence with me?

Yes.

So it will feel like this, every single evening. With her.

Of course, evenings already felt something like this. But now she's truly mine, and they're guaranteed.

And how fitting that tonight is the 5th anniversary of the rebels' victory. To me, that day is marked only as the day that she came out of danger forever. A small festival proceeds in town, the spruce music floating through the village and dancing its way through the window, a loud whisper, a beat I can feel. My fingers drum against the brick in unison with the tempo.

And she feels it too, of course. Her bare foot taps on the wood floor. She can't resist it. How can she? She is a native of our District… We turned to music long ago.

Our cheese buns are more than crispy and golden by now, and she gives me a worried, quizzical look when I accidentally burn one. My mind had been wandering. I delicately hand her the one with no charred spots. We eat them. She relishes hers, her eyes smiling knowingly at me from over the top of the bubbling cheddar. I must look as happy as she does. I feel warm, and it's not from the scalding bread.

And the music wafting in is so lively. Just the right volume, a spry and chipper tune, and I can tell that Katniss is trying to contain her body from dancing. Jittery fingers, hair gently swaying.

Why contain it, though?

It's a happy night.

So I wait for her to finish her cheese bun, and I take her in my arms. We twirl through the house, to the beat, making up the dance as we go. It's only us two souls in the huge house, but it is anything but lonely.

She folds her small, rough hands around my neck, coiling my curls shyly around a finger.

We spin. Her cropped white dress grazes my knees.

She giggles when my leg causes me to stumble into the wall.

And she leans in, touching her chapped lips to mine, brushing sweetly. Oh, I could easily paint a beautiful picture on her face with my lips...

She dips.

Her tiny feet, calloused, grainy, press into mine whenever she fumbles.

We spin some more, because we can keep closer that way.

And I'm hooked on her eyes. Silver and beaming, they never end, they hold answers that I want. She holds her gaze. She's got me pinned.

I'm grinning like an idiot.

I twirl her.

Her pixie laugh brings the blood crashing to my heart.

Oh, keep me here forever.

And somewhere in between her kisses, I can't help but wondering: Am I healed, finally? Is she? Our wounds are closed, no longer boiling, no longer oozing. I think we are scarred, and that is all.

All I know is that I'm too happy to still be broken in any way.

A/N: Some classic, slightly corny Peeta/Katniss fluff for you all. Really original, I know, but what would a Mockingjay epilogue be without it? Peeta's POV was hard to write from… I haven't dared to try it until now.

And FYI, a Mata Hari is a temptress of sorts. I just liked the word, even though it sounds like a type of fish. And it kinda fits, doesn't it?

So I would greatly appreciate an honest opinion on this… Some criticism would be lovely. But praise gives me warm fuzzies, as well. Thank you!

And all my reviewers… Dah! You are incredible! Special special thank you to those who review regularly… You know who you are. Make my day, you do.

And this was a failed attempt at a quick update. But I'm trying…