Nearly as soon as they get the news that the brick house is theirs, Peeta cancels the cable service. It's a little bit funny. He seems to think that she's more fond of the shows that they watch than she is, because he tries to assure her that they can still watch movies. But really, she isn't all that concerned about spending evenings with Peeta without the TV playing.

It's not as if they aren't spending all of their free time packing things up, anyway. She doesn't mind it, either. There's plenty of work to do. Peeta has all sorts of things to box up, and he's particularly meticulous about the way that things are done. In fact, it's the most fussy he's been since she's known him. Everything has to be packed in just the right box, and in addition to having the contents of the box marked on the top along with the room it's meant to go in, he runs a list on his phone with the location of important items.

They start in the kitchen. He stands on a stepstool and passes her cookbook after cookbook from the cabinet above the stove. She's been packing them dutifully away into the box that he's already marked cookbooks (kitchen). He keeps her entertained, as always, telling stories and cracking jokes. He even takes it well when she teases about the way he insists on things being packed. So well, in fact, that it's hardly even fun to joke about it.

He must know. Must be able to tell, by now, when she's being silly.

Once they start packing his more personal belongings, from the bedroom and the living room, she gets the full backstory of nearly every object that's ever had any importance to him. They all seem to start with "Oh, man! I can't believe I kept this!"

It's a funny thing, his nostalgia. She can't understand it, but that may be because she's never had things before. Never had anything except for her memories to reminisce on.

This is almost enough to make her wish that she did. That she had something to show Peeta from her childhood, other than a few threadbare shirts that once belonged to her father. She can't help but to wonder if she's going to feel that way, someday, when she looks at the back of her plant book. If the dandelions and sunflowers and daisies will make her sentimental one day. She's never been much for nostalgia, but she's never had things, either. Not really. Not like Peeta.

"Where should this go?" she asks when she finds the huge book on a high shelf in his closet. "I was thinking the closet box, but we don't have one."

"It's a system, Katniss," he reminds her. He must know that she's teasing him, because he sounds almost too patient. She knows that it's a system. He's told her this about a dozen times, now. And he does have a system. It's just slightly too complicated for her liking.

"Well, where does your system want this?" she asks, holding it up. He looks up from the crate that he's been unpacking - just to repack. Another part of the system - and grins.

"Hey! That's where that went!" he says. "Come here."

She does, and he pats the floor beside him, so she sits beside him. "What is it?"

"It's my yearbook," he says. "Or, well, one of them. I think the others are in storage. But then, who knows, right? I didn't think I left this one out."

"Yearbook?" she asks, passing it over. "What is it?"

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in a little closer. She rests her head on his chest and lets him show her everything in the book, starting with the messages his friends wrote. He goes through and shows her everyone of any importance, so that she can put faces to the names he tells her about. She doesn't pay too much attention to them, though. She's just itching to see what Peeta looked like a few years ago.

She recognizes him before she even sees Peeta Mellark printed under the picture. The boy is unmistakably him. The glasses he wears in the picture have thicker frames than the ones he wears now, and his hair was much shorter than it is now. So much so that it didn't even have room to curl.

"Dark days," he jokes with a little chuckle.

"Why?"

"Oh. Just . . . the hair. And the glasses."

"You don't like your glasses?" she asks.

"Not too much," he says. "Then again, I never really have. Except maybe when I first got them, and I was amazed at how clear everything looked."

"I like the glasses," she says, and he looks surprised. She's not sure why. Maybe he assumed that she didn't. But, if anything, it's the way he smiles that spurs her on. "I do. The old ones and the ones you wear now. They look good on you."

"Well," Peeta says, grinning. "I'll have to wear them more often, then."

He does. For days after that conversation, the case for his contact lenses remains untouched on the counter.

Her other favorite day happens while they're packing, too. Or, rather, while Peeta is packing, and she's thinking about how little she wants to pack. They had agreed that they would spend their day off getting ready to move, and that's what Peeta is doing right beside her. She wouldn't mind boxing up their clothes at all, if Peeta hadn't insisted on giving her a box of her own.

There's no way that she has enough stuff to fill an entire box. That doesn't even really matter. She has nowhere near as much stuff as he does — as evidenced by all of the boxes that they've filled over the last couple of weeks. But Peeta was as optimistic as ever when she tried to say that she'd just put her clothes with his.

So, she's a little bit afraid that her box won't be full. It's a silly fear, really. but it's not for her sake. She never wants to be the reason that Peeta loses his optimism. She stalls, instead. Takes all of her clothing out of the dresser and the closet. Looks through it. Holds a few pieces up and says that it's a shame it got so warm so fast, before she could wear all of the sweaters he bought her.

If nothing else, her clothes are on the floor. She even took her dresses down. But she doesn't want to pack at all. She catches sight of the picture of Peeta and his brothers on top of the dresser and stands up just enough to pull it down. "Did you want to go ahead and pack this now?" she asks when she sits back down, but she doesn't offer it up just yet. Peeta really does look genuinely happy in the picture. And now that she knows it's from a wrestling match, she recognizes the outfits he and Rye are wearing. They wore the same kind in District Twelve.

"What's this called?" she asks, tapping at the picture.

"The headlock? Or the singlet?" he asks.

Singlet. "My school had them," she says. "For all the wrestlers."

She's not sure what prompts her to keep pressing, but she does.

"So, did you like it, then?" she asks. "The wrestling, I mean."

"I did," he says. "Why?"

"It's just . . . you never talk about it, really. But you look happy here. Which, considering the fact that you said you lost . . ."

He drops his head down to his hands, groaning dramatically. "I'm never gonna live that down, am I? Even from my wife! Rye and I are gonna have to have a talk."

She laughs. "You told me. It was one of the first things we really talked about."

He looks up at her through the crack between his fingers. "Oh. Yeah. I guess you're right."

"Of course I am. The question still stands. Were you really happy?"

"Yeah," he says. "I was happy. It was such a big deal, it coming down to the two of us. And Rye was much better than me. I mean, I wasn't bad - I did make it to the final round, after all."

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "Definitely."

"But Rye just had a knack for it. You know?" he asks.

"Not really," she admits. "I didn't realize that was the sort of thing you could have a knack for. Knocking people over and holding them down."

His jaw drops in mock-offense. "Oh, Katniss. Katniss, Katniss, Katniss."

"What?" she asks.

"It's not like it's easy. It takes skill. And practice. You don't just knock people over. You have to have other things working for you, too. Like, for instance, the element of surprise."

She tenses. She's not sure why. Maybe she's expecting for him to tackle her or something. But he doesn't, he just goes back to folding his clothes.

"But, as you may have noticed, Rye never did anything with it. Mom and Dad think it's a shame, because he could've totally gotten a scholarship if he wanted one. He just never had anything he wanted to study. Mom would've been happy with anything if it would've gotten him a Capitolite for a wife."

"So he really didn't like it that much?" she guesses, ignoring the apologetic look he gives her after the last part. She's far from thinking anything good about the woman, and she knows it's mutual. His mother doesn't like her much, either.

"Nope. He just liked having something to get him out of the house during the week. We all did, really. Anyway, everyone was really excited about the match. They were chanting and cheering and I think my parents even stood up in the bleachers to get a better look."

"So you were happy. Not just smiling for the camera."

He laughs. "I gotta ask, Katniss. Why the sudden interest in my wrestling career?"

"Just wondering," she says. "I think I would've liked to see you in a match."

She looks down at the picture and then sets in Peeta's box, on top of his clothes. He has more to pack, but the clothing on top of it should cushion it, and make sure that the glass doesn't break. At least, she hopes so.

"So you're not angling for a demonstration?" he asks, bumping his shoulder against hers. "Or I could teach you, maybe. I mean, you've certainly taught me enough stuff to warrant a couple of lessons."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Don't underestimate me, Peeta. They had wrestling in Twelve, you know."

His eyes widen. "Don't tell me you wrestled."

She looks away. "I watched a lot of tournaments. Every single year."

That makes him laugh, and it's a warm, contagious sound that settles somewhere below her ribs. "Well, if you watched the tournaments . . ." he jokes. "No. I knew they had wrestling in Twelve. Us kids only really got into it because Dad used to do it when he was in school. It came time for Dylan to want to do an extracurricular, and dad may have pressured him a little bit. But he wanted to be like Dad, and Rye wanted to be like Dylan, and it was just sort of something that the Mellark boys did by the time I got old enough."

"So you didn't want to be like Rye?" she asks.

He raises his eyebrows. "Maybe a little. But that really can't leave this room. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

"You have my word," she says, grinning. It isn't really a secret, but it's not a bad thought, him wanting to trust her with things like that.

"Yeah. So, before they knew it, my parents had a house full of wrestlers. Which Mom hated, by the way."

"Did they not -?"

That's when he pounces on her. He moves quickly, and even in his excitement, he cups the back of her head with his hand, lowering it down gently so that it doesn't hit the floor too hard. He braces himself just above her, shins and forearms firmly planted on the floor on either side of her. She surprises them both by giggling.

She didn't even realize that she was capable of giggling, really. He responds with a laugh of his own, and then sobers up for a moment.

"Is this . . . um, is this okay?"

She huffs in agitation that she doesn't feel at all. "You just caught me off guard," she says.

"Oh, I'm sure," he says, looking so earnest that she almost believes him. "You could probably get out, too, if you really wanted." His head drops down a little bit. She can feel his breath on her neck with the next words. "Since, you know, wrestling is so easy."

She wriggles, trying to get away, but it's no use. He has her pinned. And he doesn't even have his body weight on her.

"Probably," she says, but when she presses her palms against his chest, she's met with much more resistance than she had expected.

"I could do this all day, Katniss," he says.

For some reason, that thought doesn't bother her at all.
She's surprised to realize that she doesn't really want to move. In fact, the only thing remotely uncomfortable about this position is the button that's digging into her back from a shirt. She shifts a little bit to dislodge it and then looks up at him, chin raised stubbornly.

"Didn't realize you were doing anything."

"Oh, now you've done it," he says, grinning as he pulls back. Enough to look at her but not enough to let her free. He's practically sitting on her legs, even if his weight is braced on his shins. In all her wriggling, her shirt has inched up to reveal some of the skin of her midriff. He glances up at her, as if asking permission. As soon as she nods, she feels his fingers brush against the skin on her belly.

The muscles there contract. He hesitates, and then resumes the little touches. Before, she had thought his hands were so soft. But now they're rough, yet not unpleasant.

"Feels good," she says, even if it does tickle. "You know. I was wondering what you were gonna do with me. Since you got me and all."

"I've got a few ideas," he says. She's not sure why the words send a little shudder through her, but they do. Peeta uses the hand that had been resting on her belly to - very gently - run his fingers down a lock of her hair, following it down to where you it meets her skin. Her eyes close at the soft touch, and he sighs happily. "I love it when you leave your hair down," he admits, his voice slightly hushed. "It just . . ."

"What?" She bites her bottom lip.

"You're just so beautiful," he says, leaning forward. Back into his earlier position. "And, I mean, it's not that I don't like it in the braid," he says, maybe a little shy and definitely very pink. She can't help but to like it. To like being the one to have this effect on him. "I like it no matter what."

She rolls her eyes. "You know you're not gonna offend me by complimenting my hair, right?"

He gives her a sheepish little smile. And when he leans down, he's probably aiming for her cheek, but she turns her head. Peeta certainly doesn't seem to mind getting her lips. She doesn't mind this either. Not in the slightest.

It's like kissing in the bed. But better, somehow. She wasn't entirely sure that was possible. But it is. He has a way of kissing her senseless, and this is no exception.

She isn't completely pinned. She has more than enough room to lean up and return the kiss. And she uses it. He makes a couple of attempts at speaking, but she doesn't stop long enough to let him.

"First lesson," he finally manages. "Your opponent is more easily taken down when they're off guard."

"Yeah, okay." She angles her head up, more than ready to get back to business, but he pulls away just a little more.

"C'mon," he prompts. "I'm about as off guard as they come."

She rolls her eyes.

"Come on," Peeta says. "Give it a shot. For a hunter like you, this ought to be nothing. I'd bet that - uff." He goes down far too easily when she wraps her legs around his and tries to roll over. Maybe it ought to bother her, him going easy on her, but it doesn't. So ends up on top of him.

Only, she's not sure what to do. "Lesson two?" she asks hopefully.

She shakes his head, grinning. "You're on your own. You've got me. Now you've got to figure out what you're going to do with me."

He's teasing. Clearly. Copying what she said earlier.

But two can play at that game. "I have a few ideas."

Peeta swallows hard. "You had better move fast, then. Make sure I can't get up."

"I think I can do that," she says, and leans down to kiss him again.

Peeta's optimism ends up paying off. She never thought that she would have enough to fill the box, until she does. She smiles far too widely when, with her plant book and bag on top, the box is full enough that it doesn't need anything of Peeta's in it.

She knows that it's a silly thing to be happy about. Knows that Peeta has filled plenty of boxes in the last few days. That she's helped with a lot of them. And though she feels accomplished, Peeta is the one that bought her all of the clothing. That's been spoiling her.

She can practically feel his eyes on her when she - finally - fills the box. Sure enough, he's watching when she steals a glance up at him, and the smile on his face is sort of a relief. It makes her feel less ridiculous. "I've never had things before," before, she says, giving him an explanation even though he doesn't seem to be asking for one. "Not really. At least, not anything that was mine to begin with."

She looks down at the box, and a piece of hair falls from her braid. Peeta's touch is feather-light as he tucks it behind her ear.

"You do now," he says. There's something in his voice that tells her that he'd give her anything in the world, if she'd just ask him for it. Then he inches his marker towards her, and she lets out a little laugh.

She writes her name on the box in little block letters and hands the marker back. When he inches towards her, she expects for him to write clothes (master bedroom)underneath her inscription, but instead, he takes the cap off with his teeth, the way she's seen him do dozens of times, and adds three exclamation points. It's contagious, his excitement. But he still looks a little guarded when she laughs. Like maybe he thinks she's making fun of him.

But that's not the case. It's endearing. He really can't wait to move into the house. To their house. She's excited, too, now that she's sure that this is something that's going to happen. She and Peeta sealed the deal with the real estate agent, and she pretended that she wasn't happy for them to not have to interact with the woman again anytime soon.

So she takes the marker from his hand before he has the chance to put the cap back on and adds a couple of exclamation points of her own. His handwriting is much better than hers, and it's clear even just in their punctuation. But she gets her point across well enough, if the far too noisy kiss he presses into the side of her head is any indication.