I wanted to thank you all for the feedback last chapter – I received some incredible suggestions! I wish I could implement every last one of your ideas... for now, I'm doing the best I can to synthesize your recommendations with the vision that I already have for this story to make this fic the best it can be!

One guest review in particular really caught my attention. (I wish I knew who you were because your advice really hit home!) You were upset that I'm ending the story so soon – and I'm so sorry to let you down, as well as anyone else who agrees, but I want you to know that this really isn't the ending. I know I won't be able to completely wrap up my loose ends in two/three chapters, and that is surely not my intent. Right now, my goal is to be able to provide a satisfactory midpoint that will also serve as a break in this long tale of recovery just to allow my myself and my readers to catch our breath. That way, if people want to jump ship, they at least have a happy note to go out on. And if they want to keep reading, I'll have another 150k words coming! Additionally, I think this is also a little selfish attempt of mine to expand my audience. I know some readers will be intimidated by a huge word count, and this allows me to start fresh with a revitalized topic. Hopefully, this process will give me the energy to push through this little slump I'm in and revamp my writing! All in all, the sequel will essentially be a direct continuation of the first, so nothing will be lost in the process.

I'm sorry my author's notes have become novels of their own in the last few chapters. I think since my interpretation of THG trilogy has been a little more "free" over the past few chapters I've felt this innate need to explain myself. I hope I'm not annoying you all with my awkward rants!

Well, anyway, let's get to the chapter! :) Two of my lovely readers, RonaldGarcia91 and boldexpression, had the incredible suggestion that I write the next chapter in Peeta's perspective. Unfortunately, I already had part of the chapter written and I liked it enough that I didn't want to scrap it completely, so I decided to make this chapter EXTRA long (hopefully making up for the fairly short one last time) and include both Peeta's and Katniss's POVs. I mean, I feel like it's essential to know exactly what's going through Peeta's head since he's being so rash – I should've thought of that before!

Without further ado, here we go. Finally, a little ray of sunshine. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


Peeta

I pound on his door, over and over again, my fists driving into the solid wood until the plank flies open—I nearly stumble forward from the momentum.

Before me, Haymitch stands with a widened, alarmed stare.

I don't allow him to toss inquiries or criticisms my way before I grunt lowly, "I need a place to stay tonight."

His eyebrows synch, yet his quavering hands tug the door back farther, granting me access to the room with the lingering stench of booze. Even from the porch, the muted redolence of alcohol wafts through the air. Regardless of how many times he attempts to clean the place, the scent will never resign.

I stalk past him, head lowered in part-shame, part-exhaustion as I make my way to the staircase. My mind is clouded and fuzzy and teeming with dizzying images—of Katniss and tears and blood—but I shove them into the darkened corners of my brain. I suppose I deserve the grief those thoughts bring, for what I've done, but at the moment, my deadbeat excuse of a body can't possibly cope with it.

As my heavy footfall echoes from the steps, I hear Haymitch's voice ring from behind me in his characteristically cross timbre—yet this time, a hint of concern has rooted there, which isn't something I'm acclimated to hearing from my old mentor.

"Care to tell me what the hell is going on with you?"

"I will the moment I find out myself," I toss his way. The tone resonating in my throat is foreign; it's not angry, it's not drained. It's of a whole new breed, frightening and alien all the same. What have I become?

One bedroom at the top of the stairs has been designated as a "guest bedroom," but considering that Haymitch is not the most sociable of sorts, the room has gone unused for years. I push through the door, instantaneously immersed in the chilling gloom of late afternoon. Dust motes fill my lungs as I tread across the floor, pacing nervously throughout the room. My muscles are restless despite my overwhelming exhaustion; I need sleep, I tell myself. After pulling the bedroom windows open in one swift movement, I dive into the bed with the sickening creak of mattress springs climbing from below me.

It surprises me when, in just a few short minutes, the door squeaks open, revealing a cross-armed Haymitch in the threshold. At the sight of him, I stubbornly coil the sheets tighter around my aching body to cloak my eyes from view.

"Peeta, please." The desperation in his voice stuns me. Never can I recall hearing such a degree of softness in his tone. "You're scaring me."

After a long while, I finally muster the courage to remove my face from the blankets, whispering back with just as much desolation, "I'm scaring myself, too. I don't know who I am anymore."

He chuckles humorlessly. "You're Peeta Mellark. The baker, the painter, the goddamn ray of sunshine that's so selfless it's a miracle he remembers to make himself breathe. The fighter who survived Capitol hijacking and beat the odds countless times over. The kid who is just as broken as the rest of us, but has never had a problem putting his own happiness on the line to make others feel whole again."

My stomach contorts, a gaping hole forming in its center. Sentiment is an entity so incredibly rare coming from Haymitch that I couldn't possibly take it for granted. There's a stitch of anger lingering in his words, but not for one second can I even dare to doubt their sincerity.

Before I can say anything, he continues. "And don't you dare contradict that, kid. If you were anything less, you wouldn't have had a search party sweeping the entire district for you this morning. We were worried about you."

At this, the burning sensation of bile begins to rise heedlessly in my throat.

"How could you possibly be worried about me?" I hiss back, my jaw growing impossibly stiff. I'm not used to being this angry, not about anything. "Katniss was the one who almost died last night because she tried to pacify her monster of a fiancé!"

Haymitch glares at me for a long while, his light eyes narrowed, lips clenched tightly.

Finally, he releases a slow sigh of frustration. "You are no monster, Peeta. You know that vicious feeling that's gnawing away at you right now? That's called remorse. If you're as monstrous as you claim to be, you wouldn't be able to feel that. But you do."

My eyes squeeze shut—in shame, in anger, in confusion—and I allow him to stand before me, fists tightened rigidly. It seems like hours have passed before his voice finally pierces the quiet again.

"Get some sleep, boy," he instructs, his tone terse and hollow. "Maybe you'll finally come to your senses in the morning."

Only after the sound of the door slamming echoes through the empty room do I will my eyes to open—and now, again, I am painfully alone. I suppose isolation a reality I've brought upon myself, as it's surely for the best, but it seems so cruel now. My mind inadvertently wanders to the thought of the olive-skinned, grey-eyed woman. How it would be to have her in my hold now, to hear her angelic song, melting every last ounce of anxiety. To be able to run my fingers through her hair, over her warm skin, every contour and plane of her body, and—

I snap myself out of it. You can't think about her, Peeta. You don't deserve her.

How could I have been so naïve, so ignorant to believe for one second that I'd earned her company? Maybe the old Peeta had merited some degree of her affection—coincidentally, that was the Peeta that never received such fortune—but this new Peeta, this Capitol-warped, half-mutt excuse of a man, deserves nothing. Not after he almost killed what he loves most in this entire world.

I tell myself, over and over, that she can't trust me again. Even if she does manage to recollect her faith in me, I won't ever allow her to rely on it. If I can't trust myself, how could she? I'd thought that I'd recovered enough, that I was better, comparatively. And then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, she was lying on the floor. Unconscious. Bleeding. Wounded, at my own hand.

How would I ever be able to permit myself to believe I won't hurt her again?

My fingers wring at the fabric of the comforter, twisting between the sheets as I press my mouth firmly against my pillow to empty a scream into the material until my throat is stripped raw. My system is sore, beaten down from crying for hours earlier today as I'd sat on the shore of the lake. I'd dipped my toes in the water, trying to break some ghost of a sensation through the numbness of my body as my expended mind attempted to piece together what had happened and push every last thought from my head. But I'd felt nothing. Nothing but a burning tingle in my throat and a phantom ache in my chest. Of course, then, I'd thought Katniss was dead. In such an unfathomable state of shock, the gears of my mind had rusted over and broken down. I couldn't think straight then, just as I can't think straight now—but then, I'd wondered if I was even alive, still. I couldn't feel the water on my toes. I couldn't feel the grainy sensation of sand against my palms. My body and my mind were detached, and nothing was real, nothing

A hollow knocking on the door shatters through my barrier of thought, and my entire body stills underneath the blankets. Before I can grant the guest permission to enter, the door swings open, bearing the last person I'd expected to see along with his companion.

I jolt upright in bed, fingers still clenched around the fabric.

"What are you doing here?" I ask them. My mouth opens to spit out a second question—'Is she alright?'—but I restrain myself.

Even in the dusky golden light of the waning afternoon, the vexation in the man's silver eyes is painfully clear.

"You're making a mistake, Peeta," he tells me, thick arms folding over his broad chest. He nudges the door closed, slowly pacing across the room, his eyes flickering away from mine indignantly.

Again, my mouth opens to respond, somehow, but no words bubble to the surface. Thousands of fragmented thoughts spin through my mind, but none of them manage to piece themselves together in some coherent sentence.

But then, suddenly, I feel myself blurting the previous question before I can will myself to hold it back.

"Is she alright?"

Johanna stands at my bedside, surveying me with her cocoa-tinted eyes, but her lips remain pressed in a hard line—as if, for once, she doesn't know what to say to me.

Gale halts by the window, his eyes shifting out beyond the opened frame. He huffs a sigh. "She blacked out again. Had to carry her all the way back to town. Mrs. Everdeen's looking out for her now, and she says she'll be okay, but… come on, man. You and I both know that it's not that simple."

"Nothing's simple anymore," I mutter, my fingers running exasperatedly through my hair.

"It was never simple to begin with," he pushes, turning my way, finally meeting my eyes. Beyond the frustration that's manifested over the surface, I see that an innate anguish has anchored itself there. "Maybe you grew up sheltered, with a meal on your table every night and a warm bed to sleep in, but don't tell me you thought life was easy. Things have never been good in Twelve, not even for a Merchant boy. But, you know what we would do? We'd do the best with the hand we were dealt. Sometimes, things were so damn convoluted that nothing made sense anymore, but we would still push through it. It's how we grew up. And now, that is exactly what you have to do. You have to grow up, put on a straight face, and deal with what's been shoved in your face. You can't just quit. Not with Katniss."

Too drained of energy to provide an adequate response, I allow my face to fall in my hands, rubbing my palms over my aching skin. You have no idea how much I wish I could go running back to her, I want to tell him. But I can't find a way to discard the image of her whenever I close my eyes, her unconscious body crumpled on the floor—the result of my horrific inability to control myself. "I have to, Gale. I have to let her go."

Finally, Johanna pipes in; her tone is far softer, more gentle than I'd deemed Johanna capable of. "She needs you, Peeta, just as much as you need her. Now, more than ever."

"It doesn't matter that I need her. What she needs is to be safe," I whisper back, my eyes meeting hers.

Gale shoots me a heated glare. "I did not leave her in your hands so that you could push her away when things got rough."

"It's for her own good," I groan. My voice cracks, my shoulders slumping; my body is failing me now, faltering, prepped to finally cave.

A curtailed laugh bursts from Gale's lips, void of all cheerfulness.

"Sometimes, you are so selfless that it skews your entire perception of things. You're trying so hard to punish yourself that you've convinced yourself she's better off without you," he hisses, aggravated. "And, as much as I hate to admit it, she's not."

At his assertion, my muscles grow rigid; he continues to glare at me from his spot beside the window, his stare impenetrable. How could he say that? Of course she would be better off without me. She'd been happy long before our paths ever meshed—with Gale, particularly—as he was able to put that beautiful smile on her face before I could've even hoped to have the opportunity. He could keep her happy; not to mention, he wouldn't accidentally kill her, ever.

I look to Johanna, who is surveying me carefully. Her eyes flicker to Gale as she murmurs, "I'm going to let you two hash this out while I go check on Katniss." She then places a small hand over my clenched knuckles, in some gesture of reassurance before she parts, leaving Gale and I alone.

Neither of us can bring ourselves to speak at first; we avoid each other's glares, keeping our lips pressed firmly together. But suddenly, as if a new thought has just flooded his mind, his shoulders sink. An elongated sigh expels from his lips, the anger in his expression evaporating, leaving a tired, miserable boy trapped in a man's body.

"Peeta—" His eyes have fallen shamefully to the floor. "I like you. I really do. I've tried to find reasons to hate you for so long, because you could catch Katniss's attention in a way that I never could, but I always come up short. You always do right by her, regardless of how difficult it is, because you've always wanted to see her happy. Don't you dare disprove me now."

The admission is far from what I would've ever expected to receive from Gale, and it absolutely floors me. I watch him in confusion as he continues to avoid my stare, his fingers kneading over a knot at the base of his neck.

Now that he's admitted his faith in me, I immediately pray I won't lose it. But then I remember, this is trust I shouldn't have earned in the first place. "I want to make her happy, Gale. But it's so much more important that I keep her safe." My voice falters. "I can't hurt her again," I whimper weakly.

Instantly, he's studying me again. "What do you think you're doing now, then?"

Protecting her, I ache to growl back, but my voice is lodged too far deep in my chest to drag itself out before I finally register his question. His words slice through my resolve, striking a different chord than before, and it sends my insides reeling.

I'm hurting her now by shutting her out with the same technique she'd performed on me for so many months, aren't I? I know just how this type of rejection feels—it plants this seed inside your core, which only grows and develops into a beast that can't be subjugated. And I'm purposely inflicting it on her. It pierces you from every angle, robbing you of your air, of your strength, until you suffocate. After all, breaking through someone's resolve is something you deem as under your control, but it's truthfully just beyond reach.

Gale was right in a multitude of ways. I'm hurting her now, regardless of the course of action I choose to take—making for a predicament that is hopelessly multifaceted and convoluted.

I run my hands through my hair again. "Things really aren't simple, are they?"

"No, they're not," he agrees; I look up to see a trace of a smile snaking over his lips. "At least, not with Catnip. She's an expert at finding herself in impossibly complicated situations."

My hands are quavering slightly as they push themselves over my face. "You know her so well, Gale," I begin, my voice strained.

He knows where my thoughts are headed and he interrupts me with a curt, "So do you. Better than I do, even. I don't even know her favorite color."

Green. A phantom of a smile threatens at my lips, but then I remember why it's been absent the entire day; my chest pounds again, my muscles twisting.

"You know, there's a reason that you know her better than me," he continues without a hint of malice in his tone. "She's so stubborn, and I've always just let her sit in her cage, because I didn't want to make her uncomfortable or angry. But you've always taken the time to work past that. And she's actually opened up to you, way more than I could've ever prayed she open up to me. Because of that, she loves you, Peeta. More than she knows. I can see it in the way she looks at you, and is always inching toward your touch, however unintentional. When Katniss loves, she loves with her whole heart—and there's no going back. So you can't pull away now, not when she's finally placed so much trust into you. If you break that trust now, she'll never be able to love anyone else. Ever. She's lost too much already."

In the wake of his spiel, I find myself wordless, not even a trace of a thought spinning through my head. For the first time, my mind has been wiped blank.

Gale paces towards the side of the bed, and suddenly, his large palm has curved itself around my shoulder.

"Take the night to think it over. But please, please listen to what I said. I still love Katniss—she's like my little sister. And I can't stand to see her hurt."

"Then this past day must've been hell for you."

Surprisingly, he chuckles. "Not for the reason you're thinking. We'd moved her to the hospital to be safe, and when she woke up, she was up to speed in about thirty seconds. Tried to rip out her IVs and everything just so she could follow you into the woods."

A smile curves at the corner of my mouth. That's my Katniss, I think before I can stop myself.

"Things will be alright," he tells me, his voice more tender now. "Both of you are hurt right now, and it may take some time to even begin to mend that, but… it'll get better, you know. As long as you allow it."

I look up to him, a silent gratification rising from my expression when my throat is too weak to emit a verbal response.

"Now, get some sleep, Mellark. You look like hell."

I donate a slight nod to him, and with one final sympathetic smile, he turns around a disappears from the room. Tucking myself back into the comforter, folding my throbbing body in the sea of sheets, I attempt to push all but the idea of rest from my mind. I've reached the point where my thoughts are a hopeless, frazzled jumble of unintelligible ideals; maybe things will make more sense under morning light.

But my mind does not do as it's told. As the black fog of unconsciousness begins its descent, wrapping around my frame and offering to take me under, I hear her voice echoing somewhere in the corner of my mind.

Stay with me, Peeta, she begs, and I'm back to that first real kiss so many months ago, back to the night on the train, back to when we made love. The image of her grey eyes rises behind my lids, and I find myself latching onto the thought. I love her so much, as I always will, regardless of where these circumstances leave us. Even if I end up in another district, fifty years down the line, my love will not have dwindled. It never could.

Her eyes are the last things that greet me before I finally succumb to the long-overdue blackness.


Katniss

I wake to the cool sponginess of a damp towel pressing to my forehead. Mom sits beside me, a glum smile written over her lips. She says nothing. The house is empty and painfully quiet; I don't have to be told to know that Peeta didn't come back.

I must've passed out in the woods—I have no memory of trekking back to town, no retention of settling into the cushions of the sofa as I am now. After asking Mom about it, she tells me that Mae has diagnosed me with a concussion, instructing me to take care of myself this time and "no gallivanting into the woods." And then, in a tone laced with thick reprimand, she orders me not to sleep for another twelve hours since I've already lost consciousness twice. Reluctantly, I agree; I suppose I deserve this fate after scurrying out of the hospital without the go-ahead. She then parts for a few minutes to brew some tea. Mint flavored—my favorite. But it tastes bitter now, stinging my tongue with every bated sip.

Haymitch visits in the heart of the afternoon. Peeta's staying at my place tonight, he tells us. And then, with a gentle tap to the nose, Keep your chin up, Sweetheart. He'll come around.

But I've never been iced out by Peeta before; at least, not to such an intense degree. He has always been the master of demolishing my walls, not constructing his own. This situation leaves me without a prayer, without a sliver of knowledge on what to do. I do not have a silver tongue as Peeta does. I can't talk him out of his isolation like he can for me. I feel helpless, I feel hopeless. I feel at a loss and absolutely broken.

Eventually, I relocate myself to the bedroom, the pent-up anxiety from earlier beginning to tear at my seams. I pace back and forth, my hands running jaggedly through my ruffled hair. The air of the room seems thicker than usual, swelling in my throat. I can't breathe.

I drag myself to the window and throw the shutters open, just as Peeta likes. While the action is partially for the oxygen, in the back of my mind, a little voice tells me that it's some sort of call. A call for Peeta to come back. Maybe, if I leave the window open…

I shake my head and pace over to the dresser, hunching over as my fingers grasp at the handle of the bottom drawer. I push past the film of dizziness that's beginning to close in as I tug the knob towards me, unveiling a chest full of undergarments. Aggressively, impatiently, I burrow through the pile of socks until my palm meets with a small velvet pouch. I haven't taken this out in months, but I need it now more than ever.

After tugging open the seal, my fingers dig into the pocket in search of the miniature orb—just like the one I have embedded in the band on my ring finger right now.

But I find nothing. The pouch is empty.

My heart flies to my throat, the first thought crossing my mind being that I lost it. I lost the pearl that Peeta gave to me on the beach. Frantically, my palms fly to the floor, matting down the carpeting in search of the tiny bead. And then—

A shiver runs down my spine. Slowly, cautiously, I lift up my left hand.

A mixture of relief, disbelief, and irritation courses through my veins as I realize what I should've known all along. Of course, the pearl of my wedding ring is the pearl. I'd told Peeta once upon a time that I'd kept the tiny gem in my sock drawer, and needless to say…

He'd thought of everything, hadn't he? As always?

In a wave of dizziness and shock, I find myself collapsing on the bed. Our bed. But it feels bleakly empty and cold without a second body, and my head is throbbing wildly. With my hands folded together, protectively cupping the band on my left hand, I curl up in the blankets and finally let myself run dry of tears until my throat is desiccated and raw. Hearing me finally acquiesce to the sobs I'd repressed for so long, Mom comes in to offer me more tea, and then supper, but I have no doubt that my stomach will reject anything I present to it at this point.

When the sun begins to sink beyond the horizon, coating the entire room in a luxurious golden glow, Johanna comes to visit. The mattress dips under the additional weight as she crawls up beside me, resting her back against the headboard. I can't bring myself to look at her, not even when she speaks.

"He's tearing himself apart, Katniss."

Something in my chest twists. "He's not the only one."

She lets out a sigh, her hand finding my blanket-enshrouded shoulder.

"We were just over at Haymitch's, trying to reason with him. Gale's still over there, you know, going all big-brother on your fiancé."

The corner of my lips twitch slightly, but a full smile doesn't dare to make an appearance.

Her voice softens now. "He needs you."

"Try telling him that," I snap back almost immediately.

"We did." Her response comes out in something like a snort. "And he knows he does. But he's convinced that you need for him to stay away from you. He can't trust himself anymore, and there's really nothing that can be done right away about that. I think you'll just have to be patient and wait for him to realize how much better you are together than as two separate units."

But I don't want to wait, I ache to scream. "Any chance he'll reach this realization by the weekend?" I reply weakly. "For the wedding?"

The chuckle that bubbles from her lips is half-amused, half-sympathetic. "When did the ever-so-stubborn Katniss Everdeen allow herself to become so dependent on someone else?"

I just groan into my pillow.

Her hand gently graces my shoulder in assuring circles. "You should go talk to him, Brainless."

"I thought you said there wasn't anything to be done right away."

She shrugs as I tilt my head to look at her. I haven't taken the time to acknowledge how she's changed over the past several months; her short-cropped hair is beginning to grow out, her brown eyes sparkling. She looks… healthy, I suppose. I wonder if having Gale around has bolstered her vigor.

"I honestly think that you need to see him more than anything. You're a mess."

"Thanks." I roll my eyes for her.

She chuckles as she helps me from the bed; at first, I'm reluctant to move, and my pounding headache only triggers more hesitation, but as I thump down the stairs I feel a swell of ambition. My skin feels cold without his touch. I need to be with him, even if only for a second. Peeta has always drawn me from my darkest moments with his promise of refuge. He deserves nothing less in return.

I knock once, then twice on Haymitch's door before stepping back and folding my arms over my chest. The night air nips at my skin, soaking me to my bones with the penetrating cold, but I bite my lip until the pain in my body has subsided.

The door squeaks open within a minute.

"Sweetheart, he's not doing so great."

"Does it look like I'm taking a walk in the park to you?" I snarl back.

Haymitch shakes his head with a disapproving chortle. "You're going to come in whether I give you permission or not, aren't you?"

"Good guess." My eyes have narrowed.

With a disgruntled sigh, he shifts to the side, allowing me to step into the darkened corridor. Almost immediately, I'm assaulted by the pungent scent of booze, my nose instinctively crinkling up. Even though his sobriety has improved since the summer, I suppose there are some aromas that will never fully recede.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs. Gale just left, so he might be trying to get some sleep."

Like it makes much of a difference. Despite a wavering dizziness that settles in my head, I pound up the stairs, making no point of being quiet. At the top, the hallway is dark, only one door slightly ajar, drawing me in.

When I delicately push the knob back, I note that the window is wide open, the tattered curtains dancing slightly from the breeze that trickles through the frame. My stomach calms at the recognition.

My footfall is nothing if not obnoxious as I stumble into the room. On the bed, the sheets are contorted around a stocky figure, swelling and receding slightly with a pattern that coincides with steady breathing.

He must be asleep.

I feel not an ounce of hesitation as I bring myself to the edge of the bed, lifting the hem of the comforter as I slide in between the sheets. His face is to mine, his body curled up underneath the blankets; I unfold him gently, slipping into his grasp. Naturally, his arms wind around me, as the gesture is something so common, so habitual between us. The warmth of his body welcomes me in, and for the first time in what feels like ages, my muscles begin to unravel. I let out a sigh.

All too soon, Peeta stirs and his eyes open; even through the dark that has recently settled over the district, the blues of his irises shine clear. With a genuine fear resonating in his features, he tries to push me away, but my arms only coil around his torso more firmly.

"Katniss—" he gasps through the black, struggling in my hold. Each of his jolts cause my throat to thicken more and more, but I do not allow my resolve to diminish.

I nuzzle underneath his chin, into the warmth of his neck, his heartbeat audible as my cheek presses to his chest. The pulsing is what soothes me, solidifying my will.

"Don't push me away," I command resolutely, my voice swamping over his skin. And then, more meekly, "Please."

"You need to stay away from me. I promised I would keep you safe, and—"

"—and you also promised that you would stay with me, always. Remember? The night on the train? After we kissed for the first time back in Twelve? After you… after you made love to me, Peeta? You promised me that you would never leave me. To me, that was the most important oath of all."

His struggling ceases, and for the first time ever, my words have spoken louder than my actions. They silence Peeta, bringing his body to still.

Then a soft whimper echoes in his chest. "I hurt you, Katniss. I don't think I can ever forgive myself."

"Well, I've forgiven you. And you know how stubborn I am."

An abbreviated, half-hearted chuckle bubbles to his lips, but his muscles still remain rigid. I pull myself up so our noses lightly brush; I can see, even in this lighting, the shiny streaks that trail from his eyes from so many hours of crying. He smiles despondently at me, blinking out yet another tear.

This time, when I bring my hands to his face, he does not push me away. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut once my palm grazes over his jaw, his entire body beginning to tremble as he chokes back a sob.

"I'm a monster," he whispers almost inaudibly. His hushed voice washes over my face, piercing the cool silence of the room.

I feel myself sigh. "You have your demons, yes, but that doesn't make you a monster," I tell him quietly. "I have my own demons, too. You're always here to ward off mine. So… here I am, Peeta. I'm ready to help you fight yours."

The fleeting speech is tacky and brief, but as it falls from my lips, I feel his arms tighten around me. His fingers dig into the fabric of my shirt as he presses his forehead to mine, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth.

"I don't deserve you. You're so—so good to me, Katniss."

"Don't you dare try and convince me you're not good to me. You're the one who's been watching out for me since we were, what—five years old? And six years later… remember, you threw me the bread."

He smiles again, and when my lips press against his heated cheek, he does not push me away. He only clenches me tighter as if it is me anchoring him to reality.

"Speaking of bread… if it wouldn't be too much trouble to you, we can still have our toasting at the end of the week."

He lets out a strangled sigh. "Katniss—"

"Marriage is about being there for the other person through thick and thin," I interrupt, not allowing him the opportunity to waste his breath on a lost cause. "It's not supposed to be a picnic, and if we can get married within a week of one of your worst episodes, I suppose that means we can do anything, right?"

He sniffles, but doesn't protest.

"I love you." My grip on his face grows firm. "I love you when you're happy, when you're angry… even when you're broken. Especially then. I love you for everything you are and everything you're not. And you're not invincible, Peeta. Neither am I. We are two goddamn mangled puzzles that help piece each other back together."

One of his hands slides up my spine, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake as it braids into my tangled hair. He holds me to him as closely as he can manage—if I hadn't been yearning for his touch for so long, I'm sure I would find the pressure uncomfortable.

As he holds me with relentless might, a sensation of satisfaction begins to bubble under my skin. For the first time, it is me who has broken down Peeta's walls, who manages to pierce through his protective barrier and prove the impossible. The triumph is restorative, planting a seed of hope in my chest where I'd momentarily worried I'd gone barren. I may possess neither Peeta's charm nor his way with words, but I can provide him comfort in his greatest need of it.

He lets me kiss him now as we tangle underneath the sheets; he folds my tiny silhouette in his arms as our lips mesh together. I feel his tongue hesitantly tracing my lower lip, and the taste of him runs wild in my mouth, sending enlivened shivers through my system. It feels like years have passed since I last kissed him—I suppose that's anxiety's effect on time. It stretches it, contorts it until intervals are no longer recognizable, no longer tenable.

"Promise me you'll stay with me, Peeta," I pour into his mouth as he shifts his body over mine, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the tender skin of my neck.

His breath draws in, preparing a response, but he's cut off by the shrieking squeal of brass hinges as the door to the room flies open.

Peeta freezes over me, our faces both jerking to the inundating light that floods from the threshold, surrounding a dark figure in the center.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you two love-birds made up and everything," Haymitch slurs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But if you're going to… contaminate a bed, you might as well do it to your own."


When Peeta and I return to the house, my mother is propped up on the sofa, a book unfolded in her lap. She looks up the moment the front door flies open, a broad smile working its way over her thin lips when she sees the two of us holding hands as we duck through the entryway.

This time, when she offers to make me tea, I accede contentedly.

Peeta ignites a fire in the hearth, tucking me in a mound of comforters on the floor. For a brief moment, he joins my mother in the kitchen; I hear gentle, indiscernible murmurs exchanged between the two. Although I can't understand the words, their tones are persistently tender. Mom always did like Peeta.

After bringing me a mug of the steaming brew, she plants a loving kiss to my forehead before dismissing herself for the evening. For a moment, my chest aches to invite her to stay the night. I hadn't realized how revitalizing, how comforting motherly compassion could become—how much I'd longed for it after all these years—until today. Surely, we still have bridges upon bridges to construct in order to mend our ruptured relationship. But for now, I am certainly thankful that she's back, even if only for a few days.

Once she's gone, Peeta curls up with me at the foot of the hearth, supporting my back with his chest. He wraps himself around my body, kissing my hair over the tender, throbbing skin that had struck against the wall the prior night.

"I probably shouldn't sleep tonight," I tell him softly, remembering what Mom had put forward earlier. "Since I have a concussion—"

I don't have to finish. "I'll stay up with you."

"You should get some rest, Peeta." It wouldn't surprise me if he'd obtained absolutely no sleep the prior night after his episode.

He shakes his head. "I couldn't. Not without you."

My focus becomes disoriented somewhere in the tongues of flame that lick at the stone of the hearth, in the dancing shades of orange and yellow. I feel his lips press just below my earlobe; the kiss is chaste, but sweet, and triggers the release of a sigh I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Are we okay?" I ask him quietly, my voice nearly lost in a large crackle from the embers of the fire.

He doesn't answer. And I suppose I should've predicted his silence; a yes would be premature, but a no would be too definite. There's a hell of a stretch of grey area in between the two. I just wish I knew where we fell.

After quite some time, his arms tighten around me, and his breath washes over my ear.

"How could you've forgiven me? After what I did to you?"

"Peeta—" My voice is nearly strangled as I crane my neck, revolving in his arms so I can meet his eyes. After these endless hours of uncertainty, I seek the solace I've always been able to find in his gaze. Although there are tiers of concern layered in their depths, it's still Peeta Mellark that is staring back at me, which ignites a flicker of warmth in my chest. So, like I told Gale in the forest: "There was nothing to forgive."

"I almost killed you—"

"I'm not going to tell you again, Peeta." My palm finds his jaw as I finish my rotation, straddling his hips with my knees on either side of his waist. "It wasn't you. That was a monster that the Capitol created almost two years ago. And that monster has been getting weaker and weaker every day. Maybe this was its last stand. Its last attempt to bring you down. But you won't let it win, will you?"

He shakes his head solemnly.

"It's settled, then." I press a kiss to his forehead. His hands, which are splayed across my back, scrunch slightly, crinkling my shirt in their grasp. "Let me make you happy, Peeta. Let me eliminate every last reason for that monster to come back."

"You already do make me happy," he whispers gently, his tone pure and weightless. The sincerity in his eyes is potent, leaving no room for skepticism. "You always have."

"Then please… let me marry you."

Even through the desolation that glazes over his expression, his lips tweak up slightly in a crooked smile. "I never thought that you would be the one fighting for this marriage."

Instantly, my mind flies to the band on my left hand, and I press it to his torso with a cocked eyebrow. "And I never thought that the pearl I was wearing on my finger was the same pearl you gave to me on the beach during the Quarter Quell," I rag, my palm unfurling over his broad chest. "But I guess today is full of surprises."

His eyes dart away from mine, a blush curling in his already flushed cheeks. "I was saving that little fact for a rainy day, but I guess I shouldn't have underestimated your detective work."

"You should never underestimate Katniss Everdeen." My eyebrows raise, prodding him forward when I see the gloominess beginning to dissipate as a result of the banter.

"I hear she's tough girl." The smile on his lips returns as his eyes meet with mine.

"Definitely not someone you'd want to meddle with," I breathe, inching closer. My nose graces his.

"Although I hear she's engaged to a baker. Apparently, he paints, too. Sounds like a weak spot to me."

"No, I don't think so. Remember, he can throw a hundred-pound sack of flour over his head. Or wrestle you to the ground without breaking a sweat."

"Or skewer you with a paintbrush. Pretty threatening."

Neither of us have time to release the tired laughs that are building up in our raw throats before our lips meet. I'm not sure who instigates the kiss, but within moments his hands have twined protectively around me, drawing me in as I wrap my legs around him. And for the first time in what feels like years, but has really been little more than a day, I feel full. That resonant emptiness that had lodged inside my core has finally been warded off.

So this time, when I ask him, "Will we be okay?" he finally can provide me an answer with no hesitation, no threat of the invasive grey area returning.

Just honest certainty.

"Always."