What I feel now is an odd sensation. We've laid together in this bed too many times to count, but it seems different now. I feel different now. We've slipped back into our undergarments, but the sheets are still tangled around us. My fingers twitch and rub against each other as I glance out the window or stare up at the ceiling or peer towards the door. I look everywhere but toward Peeta, because I'm not sure what we do now.

The only people I've ever told I love are my father, my mother, and Prim. Gale said it to me, but I never said it back. I couldn't say it back. And I didn't even say the exact words this time either. But I told Peeta I did. And I do. I think I do. But I'm still not entirely sure what that all means.

That's not even why I can't bear to look him in the eye though. I'm terrified of what he might think, far too terrified to ask. Was I terrible? Was he? How would we have any way of knowing? It is something that's supposed to be instinctual, or is it something we're supposed to grow better at with time, together? And if I was terrible, will it change his mind about how he feels?

I wonder if we should try again. Maybe give us something to compare the first time to, since neither one of us has any experience at any of this. It is comforting, knowing that Peeta's also never done this before. Hopefully he won't know if I was terrible or not. As all these thoughts run through my head, I silently pray he'll never find someone else to compare me too. Not only am I afraid of how I might stack up, but I honestly can't imagine what my life would be like if Peeta ever disappeared from it. He's the one constant I have left. I don't want to end up a bitter, pessimistic person like Haymitch. Though even Haymitch is seeing better times these days.

Peeta slides out of the bed without a word and heads toward the bathroom. I watch his retreating form once I'm positive he isn't going to stop and turn around to catch my eye. When he comes back, he's pulling on an undershirt to accompany his boxers. As the bed shifts under his weight, he hands me a shirt as well. Sitting up slowly, wincing at the sore parts of my body that aren't used to stretching as they just did, I pull the shirt on over my head.

I don't know what it is about the thin cotton of the fabric, but it feels like an effective shield. With my stomach and back and shoulders hidden, I muscle up the strength to finally glance at Peeta. As soon as our eyes meet, we're both leaning in. Something pulls us to one another, and we come together so easily. He guides me to him, and I roll over on top of him, no longer capable of thinking deep enough thoughts to be self-conscious or worried.

His hands are trailing up my sides, beneath the shirt, and I figure I can't have been that bad based upon his reaction now. I've only just managed to put a shirt back on and already he's trying to take it back off. As if he misses the sight of my bare skin. My fake skin, so painstakingly redone in the Capitol. A perfect blank canvas for him to paint, again and again.

He pulls away slightly. His breath tickles my skin, moist in the warmth surrounding us beneath the sheets as we share our collective heat. "I'm sorry," he whispers. My heart sinks. Of all the things I can think of for him to say, I didn't expect this. His hand pushes through the loose tangles of my hair. My hair tie was a casualty of the quick but furious movements, and my tangled hair lays in heaps around my head. "We probably should have waited longer."

I wait for him to elaborate. He finally does, "Maybe we weren't ready. Maybe I pressured you and we-"

My laughing cuts him off. He looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have, a bit. "I was ready to rip your clothes off in the middle of town square," I remind him. I'm not at all ashamed of the admission, now that I've found a way to look him in the eye. This is natural, I remind myself. It's part of finding the new boundaries of who we are, together.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. His fingers play with the end of my hair. The other hand is settled on my back, between my shirt and my skin. It feels like it belongs there. As if it is an extension of my own body.

I nod, because I am. He gets out of bed again and disappears out the doorway and down the hall in a blink of an eye. I follow behind him, though I take my time as I wonder if we're going to talk about what just happened between us. Wondering if we're supposed to. Wondering what we would even say. I grab his bakery pants off the floor and slip into them with a coy smile. They smell of him and comfort me immediately, softening the madness in my mind.

I eventually make it down to the kitchen where he's bustling about. Soft, sweet aromas of sugar and cinnamon and maple float through the air as I breathe them in deeply. I still feel like I'm trying to catch my breath. As he works on whipping up a meal, I sink into a chair at the table and turn on the projector screen in the middle. Flipping aimlessly through the feeds, I pay little attention until I reach one of the Capitol gossip feeds and halt. There I am, draped shamelessly on Peeta in the middle of town. Not just for the locals to see, but for all of Panem with nothing better to do than sit in front of the feed and eat it up.

I hadn't even seen the mechanical camera eye flitting around town, but it must have been. Talk about poor timing. It must have found a way to film our little scene and sent it in to the Capitol. I'd be impressed with how quickly they got it on the air, except I'm too busy being livid at the invasion of my privacy. The volume is turned off on the projector, but I can read the ribbon scrolling across the bottom of the screen. My cheeks turn red as I read the words. My fists clench, and I want to smash them through the base of the projector.

Then I hear Peeta approaching, and my attitude changes immediately. I go from destructive to protective. I flip through the feeds, getting as far away from our public scene as possible as he comes up beside me and places a hand on the top of the chair. "Dinner is heating up," he declares as he leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. "And you make an excellent arm accessory," he teases, the words light against my ear.

Of course he saw it. He could have seen it all the way from the kitchen if he glanced up. In my newly renewed embarrassment, I slug him in the arm for his teasing. He laughs it off, asking if I'm going to throw him into a vase of flowers next, just like old times. It's one of the easier memories for Peeta to recall since it's one that the Capitol didn't have to alter all that much and so it isn't as shiny. The mention of it brings a pang to my heart.

"I just hope you aren't still acting for the cameras," he said offhandly.

With that one comment, I am able to completely forget what I just saw on the feed. I'm able to overlook the invasion of privacy and the constant interference in our lives. I'm able to look at Peeta and see the whole world, right there in his eyes. With two simple words, I say all there is that needs to be said about what happened today, about where we go from here. "What cameras?" I ask.