My feet crunch on the gravel as I walk towards the Victors' Village. Thankfully a small cloud drifts lazily in front of the sun, giving a brief respite from the afternoon heat. The days are growing longer now that spring is coming to an end and the District is in full bloom. The town is slowly coming back to life as more and more people return, or relocate here, after the war. But they haven't forgotten. We haven't forgotten.

The nightmares are back. After those first few blissful nights of falling asleep with Peeta, not just beside him but with him - limbs hopelessly entangled together - I had foolishly hoped that the images that danced in my mind were gone for good.

I should have known better. The people we loved, they have gone for good. The images of evil that took them will never leave us.

Last night an old, familiar scene played out in my mind: the Capitol; the smoke; the yellow coat. My beautiful baby sister, her skin blackened and burned...and me too late to save her. Again.

Waking up is better now, though. Peeta is there, cocooning me in his arms while he presses his lips against my forehead. Even with this, though, I still need to focus on the empty ceramic vase, counting backwards from ten, and breathing deeply until the room stops spinning. But now I do so from the warmth and safety of his embrace. And it is better.

In the last few weeks things have...shifted, a little bit, between us. His kisses set me alight, that warm ember that he planted while we were in the cave years ago flaring at the slightest of touches, but my fire for him is deepening, burning stronger. My heart pounds and flames of desire lick every inch of my skin. So far it has been contained; we are both too cautious to plunge into anything too physical, too afraid of how it might change us. But we're slowly learning about each other's bodies, and it is the best kind of lesson.

Unfortunately, though, even the most passionate of kisses can't keep the nightmares away once we close our eyes.

He still has them too. Some nights his sleeping form is so stiff beside me that it forces me into consciousness. He is silent, but his tense muscles scream in terror until I wake him, unable to bear seeing his agony physicalised in such a way. He still has flashbacks too, his pupils battling the demon within. He finds that gripping things helps; the backs of chairs, the bench, even the railing outside. Anything that he can lock his fingers tightly around. Holding physical objects firmly in his grasp grounds him, and brings him back home, just like the little vase does for me.

This morning was one of the good ones. We both slept peacefully for most of the night; my nightmare woke us both but it was just the once. Then we woke up together, his hand reaching out to stroke my thigh as the first shafts of sunlight beamed through the open window. We lay quietly for a little while: our bodies pressed together; our fingers lightly running over arms, legs, hips; our lips gently finding the backs of hands and, of course, each other.

I still haven't told him. I have known for almost two months, since that cool night by the fire when the cards lay forgotten on the rug, but I can't seem to be able to formulate the words. I know that he loves me too. He always has. It is almost like that knowledge, the understanding that we both know he feels – how he has always felt – makes the words catch in my throat. I think it so many times a day, there are so many times when I want to tell him. I almost need to tell him…but then I can't. I don't know why.

I try to show him however I can. Most of it is physical; through kisses, caresses, embraces. Through bringing him strawberries, or placing an orange flower next to his pillow. And through my hunting and my work at the bakery site. I show him so many times a day, and I am almost certain that he can see it in my eyes every time he looks at me. Surely he must see it. I feel like it is bursting from me every time I catch sight of those beautiful blue eyes or those strong tanned arms; every time his lips seek me out. I just can't find the three little words that he so longs to hear.

The bakery is almost completely finished, so Peeta has been spending a lot of time working out final details with the last of the crew. I have gone along to help with construction a few afternoons a week, after I finish hunting. It keeps my days full and I enjoy it. Oh I like feeling useful, sure, but mostly I love watching Peeta in his element, taking control of the site that is his; the dream that ultimately belongs to him.

Thinking of how he was this afternoon before he left - so strong and assured when overseeing the workers install the ovens - I am impatient to get home to him. It is so close to being finished, his bakery. I can't wait to see it all come together, and I can't wait to see him in there, his apron tied around his waist once more, flour dusting the face that will surely be content to be back where it belongs.

I speed up as I turn into our street, wanting to get home quickly to talk to him about his afternoon. Usually we leave the site together but today Rory was meeting him at home, to talk about working in the bakery once it opens. Peeta wanted privacy while they talked, because he needs to know that he can trust all of the staff that he will have. He didn't want the watchful eyes and the listening ears of the ones finishing up the construction. It's important to him that he gets the staffing just right.

I walk up the garden path, admiring the rainbow of flowers on display, and kick off my boots as I reach the front door. I place my hand on the door knob and turn it, a grin spreading across my face as I know I will see him in a matter of seconds. I still struggle to recognize this person; this girl who gets dizzy with excitement at the prospect of seeing a boy. It is so far removed from the Katniss I used to be.

As I step into the hallway I suddenly stop short. Something's wrong. I'm not sure why but my hunter's instincts are screaming at me, and I gaze wildly around the hall, trying to find a reason.

There. The picture on the wall.

Months ago we found a framed picture of the Capitol, one that Greasy Sae had taken down before I returned. We removed the photograph, taking satisfaction in tearing it up into tiny pieces, and replaced it with one of Peeta's charcoal drawings; one of Lady. We placed it carefully on the wall by the door. It reminds me of Prim but it is an image that would bring her joy, so it does not hurt so much to see every day.

Today, though, the frame hangs crooked on the wall, the glass smashed and littered across the floorboards. My eyes widen at the sight of it.

I hurry down the hallway, trying in vain to locate him in the house. I can feel my heart pounding wildly in my chest as I scour the rooms, hoping that this one hasn't been too bad; that I will find him in time. He hasn't had one like this - where he is overtaken to the point of destruction - in so long. But every single time a flashback appears, even the recent battles that are getting shorter and less intense, I am gripped with the heart-wrenching fear that this will be it. That this time I will lose him to it. Ice runs through my veins at the thought that this time he might not return to me.

My heart leaps to my throat as I finally catch sight of him outside, crouched between two primrose bushes. His legs are bent and pulled up against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around them. He must only just be coming down as his eyes are still squeezed tightly shut and his knuckles are flowing with blood.

I run to him immediately, crouch down directly in front of him and wrap my arms around him. "Peeta, it's not real. You're back now, Peeta." I gently stroke his cheek. He flinches at the touch and my heart drops, but then he shakes his head slightly and relaxes. His eyes remain closed. "Come on, Peeta, open your eyes for me. I'm not going to hurt you." I continually stroke his face, whispering reassurances and brushing his hair back from his eyes, until he finally peeps his eyes open, and I get a tiny glimpse of that beautiful blue that I love so much.

Inside, after filling a bowl with warm water and grabbing some tweezers and a few clean rags, I sit beside him at the table. I gently clean his hands, wiping the blood from his split and bruising knuckles while he stares down at the table. I carefully pick bloody shards of glass from the wound. He lets me do it without complaint – only the occasional wince in pain – but his vacant stare worries me. After a few minutes, once I have finished wrapping the bandages around his knuckles, I break the silence.

"Peeta," I begin, reaching across to stroke my thumb along his cheek and lifting his face to look at me, "what happened? Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "Not really," he mumbles.

"Are you sure? Because sometimes it helps."

He shakes his head again, and his eyes find the table once more. "Is Rory okay?"

"Rory?" I question, my heart rate picking up slightly. "What does Rory have to do with anything?"

Peeta refuses to look up at me. He picks at a nearby placemat with his nail, but his voice raises slightly in concern. "I thought you must have seen him. I thought that was how you knew to look for me."

"No, I saw the broken frame," I answer wildly. "Was Rory here when this happened?"

Silence.

"You have to tell me Peeta! If Rory might be hurt you have to tell me! What happened?"

He nods, staring down at the table and twisting the corner of the placemat over and over. "He…he was here." He falls silent again. I refuse to wait.

"What happened Peeta? What triggered it? What aren't you telling me?" I put my hand over his, stilling his fingers as they twist and twist the placemat. He lifts his eyes.

"Everything was going well," he says, knowing he has to give in, "and I hired him here on the spot. He was so relieved that he put his arms down on the table and rested his head on top of it, like this." Peeta rests his forearms forward, the sleeves of his t-shirt lifting to reveal his biceps, and the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath the fabric. When he lays his head atop it, and his blonde curls flop onto the hard wooden surface, I realize that the image is familiar. The hair and the skin are so different, but the image of the male form leaning on the table is close enough. Although last time the figure lay fully across it, wounded. All of a sudden I know what he saw.

"Gale," I whisper. "They look so similar."

"Yep," he says, his voice muffled as he talks into his arms, "it was almost exactly the same. And I felt the flashback coming on so I yelled at him to go." He lifts his head, but he still isn't looking at me. "He looked startled, but he wouldn't leave at first. And then it was like Rory became him, you know? He wasn't Rory anymore." His voice is laced with pain.

I shift closer to him. As worried as I am about Rory, it is Peeta who is hurting now. And I need to know more before I can know what to do next. I stroke his arm, encouraging him, as he continues.

"I can't really remember too much after that. He ran out quickly, but I don't know if I hurt him before he left. The images in my mind certainly didn't leave." His voice is flat as he recalls what he saw. He stares blankly at the table. "I remember yelling at him, roaring at him for kissing you. And then I couldn't stop the flood of memories, of images. I watched you lean over him and kiss him, and the drugs that you gave him helped so the lashes on his back weren't sore anymore. And then you climbed up onto the table with him and you stroked his arms just like you're doing to me now. And you kissed his neck…and you kissed…and you let him..." His voice cracks and he trails off, unable to continue.

He doesn't need to. In my mind I can practically hear him yelling at Rory, spitting out words of jealousy and anger, raging over events that he can see so clearly but that never really happened. I can so vividly imagine his jet black eyes, his body stiff with tension as the demon that has been lying dormant for weeks, that he has been able to beat down at every recent flashback, takes over. He can be terrifying when he is like that, especially to someone who isn't expecting it.

I kiss his bandaged knuckles but then leap to my feet. "I have to find Rory," I say. He nods, a single tear dripping onto the table. "Hey," I lift his face with my hands, forcing his eyes to meet mine. "Whatever happens, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't you."

I hastily press a kiss to his forehead, and then force myself to walk away.

It doesn't take long to find Rory. He is over on Haymitch's porch, a safe enough distance away, keeping watch on the house. He says that he didn't want to leave Peeta alone, that he was afraid for him. That he was afraid for me. Typical Hawthorne; even after being threatened by a boy twice his strength, he still looks out for us. It reminds me of his brother volunteering to go to the Capitol to rescue Peeta; risking his life to save the only one who he saw as a threat. Risking his life to help me.

We talk for a few minutes, and I reassure him that these flashbacks are rare. I explain what happened to Peeta in the Capital, sparing him some of the details, but making sure he knows that the flashback isn't his fault. It's no-one's fault but Snow's.

Rory tells me his version of what happened. He says that he was out of the house within a minute; Peeta didn't hurt him, he didn't even try to. He stood, yelling at the table as his eyes flashed blue and black. He calmed down as he gripped the back of the chair, but that is when Rory left. As he fled through the front door he heard a yell and a crash – the picture, I assume – but he didn't think he could return to help. He didn't want to make it worse.

Rory understands. He survived the war too, and it has given him wisdom beyond his years.

"I'd still like to work at the bakery," he says quietly, "if he'll still have me."

"I'll talk to him, Rory," I respond. "If he decides not to it won't be because he doesn't want you working there, it will be because he is worried he will hurt you." I sigh. "That's what he does. He worries about everyone. But his flashbacks are becoming less frequent, and he will be more prepared now when he's around you, so who knows?"

"Thanks, Katniss," he says. Then he surprises me by reaching over and giving me a hug. Maybe he can tell I need it. "Let me know, okay? I'd better get home."

I walk with Rory to the edge of the yard, and as I squeeze his arm in farewell I am filled with a rush of warmth for him. I've watched him grow from a small child into this strong, confident boy. He has changed before my eyes and now here he is, taking over his brother's role, and looking out for me and my family. Because Peeta is my family.

A small smile touches my lips as I turn and walk home.

The next morning, after a terrible night plagued with death, ash and tears, we fight as we wash our breakfast dishes. It's not a new argument, but now he thinks he has fresh ammunition. I disagree.

Peeta gets these ideas in his head that he is dangerous. So dangerous that he will cause damage. He's not worried about hurting himself, but he is worried about hurting me. And now Rory. And anyone else that we care about.

He thinks that he should leave.

But there is no way I am letting him go. No way.

We have never really fought like this before, not since we came back here. I yell. I don't mean to but he just makes me so mad! And I hate being like this, which makes me even angrier. He tries not to raise his voice, which only serves to infuriate me more. He is just so frustrating. I want to get it out, get it all over with, but he doesn't. He is calm and controlled, taking long pauses to think everything through before he speaks.

"I'm dangerous Katniss, don't you see? It's not normal for someone to be like this.'

"NORMAL, Peeta? What is normal? We have never known normal! Even when we were kids, when our world was as normal as it has ever been, children were sent off to slaughter each year...and that was entertainment! Tell me," I pause, "...what is normal?"

He sighs sadly. "Normal is being together and not being afraid of hurting you. Normal is not having nightmares. Normal is being able to be with my girlfriend without having to worry that I might turn and kill her at any moment!"

Despite his tone my heart skips a beat, unexpectedly, at his choice of word to describe me. Girlfriend. It sounds weird, unfamiliar. I've never been anyone's girlfriend. And boyfriend seems like too casual a word for what Peeta means to me.

I don't allow it another thought, though. I don't want any distractions, not now. "No Peeta! This, how things are now, is the closest to normal that we have ever had. And we are healing. We are getting better. Your flashbacks are so rare now, and your real memories are so much clearer after each one…"

His voice raises now. It doesn't come close to matching my volume, but his anger is slowly surfacing. "I don't care, Katniss. I could have one at any second! I could snap…and I could kill you! I could've killed you already! And I could've killed Rory yesterday!"

"NO!" I cut him off. "He told me. You didn't even try to hurt him! You were focused on the table, focused on the things that you were seeing! And gripping the chair…it helped. It grounded you and brought you back. You brought yourself back!" My voice lowers a bit, and softens lightly. "Don't you see? You are getting better."

"No." His voice is low and flat. "It isn't enough." I reach out to touch him but he flinches away as if I am burning him. "I don't want to leave you but I don't know what else I can do. All I know is that I can't stay here. Your safety is too important." He turns to the window, a clear signal that the conversation is over.

"FINE!" I yell, my frustration at his stubborn attitude winning out. "If that is what you want! I may as well make it easier for you and go now." I stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I reach the end of the hallway and slam the front door too, kicking it once for good measure.

I stomp down the road, my face fixed in a permanent scowl. This anger, this fear of losing him...this is why I didn't want to fall in love, ever. I didn't want to feel the way it can scorch. I didn't want to feel so vulnerable because of one person.

I kick at stones on the path as I storm along, my body tense and anxious, and only once I slip under the fence in my usual spot do I feel my shoulders start to relax.

I don't hunt much that morning. I run through the woods, feeling adrenaline surge through my limbs. I check the snares that I set yesterday – a rabbit and two squirrels – and I meticulously clean all of my weapons. I sharpen the arrows and scrub dirt from the bows. I even polish my knife. I feel restless, but too energized to hunt successfully. I'm so tense and my body is buzzing with nervous energy. I don't like it.

Finally, after a couple of hours, once the woods has worked its magic and allowed me to feel more like myself, I make my way back.

I stop short. There, snoring softly in the midday sun, back propped up against the broken fence, sits Haymitch. I roll my eyes. It is rare for him to leave the Village. It is unheard of for him to be out this far. He must be waiting for me.

I stoop down and shake his shoulder. "Haymitch," I say firmly. Nothing. "Haymitch!" I repeat, louder this time. Still nothing. I kick his leg. "HAYMITCH!" I yell.

He jumps, startled. "Well gee, sweetheart, you don't need to yell." He rubs his hands over his face before lifting his arm up towards me, assuming he will find assistance to stand.

I just scowl. "What are you doing here Haymitch? Did Peeta send you?"

"Send me? Heck no. The boy doesn't even know I'm here. But I heard you two have your lover's tiff before, and thought you could do with some advice."

Oh great, I think to myself, advice from Haymitch. That's just what I need. I reach down to grab his hand and haul him to his feet. He stumbles a bit before regaining balance.

"So...did you see him?" I ask. I am almost fearful of his answer. I'm not mad at Peeta anymore, my anger always leaves relatively quickly after I lose my temper, but now I'm worried. Worried that while I've been out here, he might have left. I don't even know what he meant when he said that he would leave: just move back to his house for a while, or leave forever? I hate both of those thoughts, but the second is unthinkable. I shiver at the thought.

"Yeah, I saw him," he replies. "He's still sittin' at your place, licking his wounds."

I look up at him, hopeful. "So he didn't leave? Do you think that he will?"

"Narh," he shakes his head emphatically. "The boy never could stay away from you. Why do you think he came back here in the first place? There ain't nothin' here for him but you."

I cock my head to the side as we walk together, considering this. I have never given too much thought to Peeta's return; not in relation to me anyway. After he came back I slowly realised that it was him I was waiting for before I could step forward, move on in my life. I never stopped to think that maybe he needed me too. I just assumed that he had nowhere else to go...and then over time he grew to love me again. But maybe he needs me to survive just as much as I need him.

The thought makes my heart leap with hope.

"The thing is, sweetheart," Haymitch interrupts my thoughts, "you two are just doing what you've always done. What was it you said to Flickerman after your first Games? 'We saved each other'? That's what you're still doing now. You just won't admit it. That boy ain't goin' anywhere."

I nod silently, hopefully, kicking at a rock on the ground. He's right. I can't fault Peeta for wanting to protect me. That's what we do, we protect each other. I just can't bear the thought of him wanting to protect me from himself. The last thing I want is to be away from him.

"So...what do I do now?"

"Well, that I don't know, sweetheart, but you'll figure it out. You usually do." He sounds almost fond of me in that moment, and as I look up to his weary face I catch him shifting his features back to his usual scowl. But not quick enough. I saw the tenderness in his eyes as he spoke. He cares about us, about me and Peeta, even if he doesn't want anyone to know it.

"I don't know what to do. If he leaves...well there's not much I can do about it can I? But I don't want him to move out. I don't even know exactly when he moved in. So what do I do now? If he starts the argument again we won't get anywhere. He just makes me so mad." I can feel my voice rising as the frustration begins to fill me again. "He's not right about this, Haymitch, I just don't know how to make him see that!"

"Okay, stop right there," he grumbles, lifting his hands in protest. "I'm gunna talk for a second so don't interrupt me. And listen up 'cos I won't say it again."

I nod, wordlessly, knowing that this is a rare moment. We continue to walk along together, and we focus our eyes on anything but each other. It's just...easier that way.

"The way that I see it, you have two choices. One: You can keep on fighting, keep on yelling and pushing the boy away by telling him that he's wrong. But that isn't gunna do good for anybody because, really, he isn't wrong. Or...or you can swallow your pride and you can apologise."

I open my mouth in indignation, eager to interrupt him and shoot him down. I hate apologising. But I quickly bite my lip, knowing that he will stop if I cut in. He sees me.

"Apologising isn't a sign of weakness, sweetheart, it is a sign of strength. My mother used to tell me that. She'd say, 'It shows that you value your friendship more than you value your pride.'"

Unexpectedly, I feel tiny tears pricking the backs of my eyes. Haymitch has never spoken of his mother, and now it is like somehow my own father is with me, giving me advice so similar to what he said once before. My hand reaches up to touch the scar on the inside of my arm and I can hear his voice again, 'This welt doesn't make you weak, Katniss. It shows that you are getting stronger.' Now here, in this place, all these years later, his voice and his message are reflected in Haymitch's words.

I hang my head, knowing what I have to do. I know that Haymitch and my father are both correct. As stubborn as I am, as much as I hate to apologise, I value Peeta more than I value being right. I shouldn't have yelled at him. He is just trying to help me. I don't want him to leave but he needs to get better; we need to get better. And I need to have more faith in us. What we have won't disappear, no matter what happens. After everything that we've been through, I know that for certain.

I reach out and squeeze Haymitch's arm, throwing him a quick, watery smile.

He grunts. "Happy to help, sweetheart. Now hurry up. I need a drink."

I enter the house quietly and find him in the kitchen. Flour litters the benchtop and Peeta is pulling a tray of cheese buns out of the oven. The savoury aroma fills the room as he places the tray on a mat on the table, but he doesn't look at me. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms tightly around his waist. The muscles in his back relax at my touch and he leans backwards into my embrace, turning his face so towards mine.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my eyes squeezed shut.

"Me too," he replies. He wraps his arms around mine and kisses my cheek before spinning around and wrapping me tightly in a hug. I am filled with warmth, gathering strength from his arms.

We stand there quietly for a few minutes, relieved to be together again.

I break the silence, wanting him to know. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so mad. I shouldn't have yelled at you and stormed out. It's just that the thought of you leaving me is the worst possible option for me, you know?" I keep my face pressed firmly against his chest, glad that I don't have to look at him, and make sure that my voice is calm. "We can work something out, I know we can. I don't want you to go for a while but, if you think you have to, then, well... we will just have to work something out. Otherwise...we can search for answers here. We can talk to Dr Aurelius. We can write down all your triggers. We can work out a plan for next time you have one, for every time you have one. I just want to be with you. We can do whatever it takes..." I trail off, burying my face into his chest.

He gently pulls away, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear as he gazes at me with eyes filled with love. "Oh Katniss," he exhales, "I –"

I cut off his words, leaning in towards him and kissing him gently. I don't want to hear about his love, I want to feel it. My eyes close as the kiss softens and sweetens before deepening. And I want him to feel mine.

I pull my face back and lean my forehead against his. "I don't care what we have to do," I whisper, "just stay with me."

He answers with my favourite word; "Always," he breathes. And then, gently, he leans in and claims my lips once more.

Author's Note:

Thanks so much for your patience with this story. I was working 14 hour days, so I literally didn't turn on my computer at home for over a week!

Thanks again for the favourites, alerts, PMs and reviews. So so much appreciated. PLEASE keep them coming - they literally keep me writing! This chapter is a little different to the last few, so I would LOVE your thoughts.

Kudos and thanks for this one goes to curious12 and goofy10, who are awesome with giving me feedback and ideas. Sorry it took me so long to reply this time, ladies! You are both wonderful xo

So much credit to Suzanne Collins for her amazing words. But a little smidgen to the creators of How I Met Your Mother, who I subconsciously tuned into when writing about how Katniss can't seem to tell Peeta she loves him. I realised after.