He carries her off the train because she's not moving fast enough for him. She laughs in his arms. He's been so good. So patient. Even when she knew he didn't sleep after her proposal, even when she lingered to say goodbye to Annie and Johanna and work out the details with baby Finn's upcoming visit. Effie wanted to stop by too. All these conversations, exchanging plans and phone numbers, and he watched and said nothing with a fire in his eyes. He only looked at her. He was so eager, so ready, so done with the obstacles keeping them from getting home.

The whole train ride his good leg bounced and shook, even when she placed a hand on his knee to still him. He fidgeted constantly. The whole time she wanted to smooth his hair out of his face, laugh and tell him that nothing would be different when they got married, but she didn't. She held her tongue. Because to him, for some reason it would be, and she could respect that.

Each district made him more tense with excitement.

"Enjoy your last few hours of freedom," she teased, threading her fingers through his and kissing his cheek.

He groaned softly, looking at her with an innocently belligerent expression. "No," he said, shaking his head. "So glad it'll be over soon."

She rolled her eyes, but gave his hand a light squeeze. They sat in contented silence the remainder of the ride.

They had decided not to tell anyone yet.

Now she's regretting, if only to have someone else to laugh with over the scene she's witnessing.

Within twenty minutes, bags left forgotten in the living room, he has the kitchen fully operational and scrambles around, making his sloppiest batch of bread yet. He almost dug through the freezer for an already made loaf but at this she put her foot down.

"You are making this bread, Peeta."

His head whips up from the bowl he's hunched over, flour in his hair bursting outwards like a puff of smoke. His hair sticks up like a mad scientists. Her face contorts in an effort not to smile.

"Then stop getting in the way of my kitchen!" he shoos her out of the way, frantically whisking a bowl as he tears open the cabinets for ingredients. She steps out of the way, but only to watch in amusement.

"It's not a race."

He shakes his head at her again. "Go get yourself pretty. You can have first shower," he mumbles, clearly only paying half attention.

"Yeah, yeah. Such a gentleman." She calls over her shoulder.

"You're lucky I'm letting you shower first!" he cranes his head around the corner to yell to her back retreating up the stairs.

In record time, they have both showered, dressed, barely let the bread finish cooling, and were now tackling the almost completely unused fireplace in the living room.

"For a girl on fire, you sure can't work a match." He muses, the shower having considerably lessened his adrenaline.

"They keep breaking. Why'd you buy such cheap matches?"

"Me? Those were here when I moved in."

"Ugh. Here. Let me do it."

Another sandpaper scrape and the kindling went up.

Other than the slight snap of flame, it's quiet. The quietest it's been in weeks.

Peeta glances at her, her face glowing soft orange in the light from the hearth. She glances up at him, smiling shyly. For all their rush, they suddenly don't want to move.

"bread," she reminds him softly, but it's more an acceptance than anything else.

He nods, lifting the plate and handing her a slice. He even added a few pats of butter to the side of the plate.

She bites down her smile, tilting the skewer closer to the flames.

She wants to tease him, but he slides his arm around her, hyper-focused on his efforts on a piece of bread. They sit side by side, hiding their enormous smiles; until they each can't bear the burden and their faces glow with happiness. The fire burns brightly, contained in its mantle.

And despite her protests, this is exactly what she wants. Comfortable quiet. Memories. Hope.

The bread is dry, and a little too flour-y, and it's not like the blackened corner on her slice made the experience any more pleasant. Still, it's good. Good is solid and dependable. Katniss likes the simplicity of "good".

And it's perfect when his eyes fall on her as she nervously licks crumbs off her fingers. Full and perfect. Not simple. Complicated and scary and messy and confusing. Yet so damn amazing. And under the amazings and perfects and mess, there is a simple goodness. All she needs, that simple goodness.

His eyes are good, and perfect, and bad, all mixed around and glinting in the firelight. They glitter with something wicked and in its own way beautiful, and it's exactly what she wants when he scoops her up in his arms. His hold on her is clumsy, limbs splayed sloppily in all directions, but she holds on tight and he gets them up the stairs.

"Do you feel different?" she asks timidly, glancing up at him with big eyes as he tears at the buttons of her sundress.

He nods emphatically, pushing her onto her back on the bed before leaning down to kiss her neck.

"Do you?" he hisses softly in her ear.

"A little," she says quietly, "But not much."

"I thought you'd want it that way," he tangles a hand in her braid, combing his finger though it to undo the plait.

"I don't know how I wanted it. I just wanted you."

At this, he devours her lips, gripping her waist tightly. She feels the press of his whole hand into her skin and the strength behind it makes her shiver. She grips him back just as tightly.

"I'm sorry," he says, briefly pulling and way and combing his fingers through his hair, "I just- I mean, you're my wife."

The word is gorgeous and full as it escapes his lips; he drawls it indulgently, enjoying the sound. He takes a drag of the word with the pace a cigarette's burn, the red flare of the tip almost perfect with how his lips release the sound before it turns to gray ash.

A chill does an elevator drop down her spine and she can't help but enjoy the sound just as much.

"Peeta," she says softly, looping her arms around his neck.

"Yes?" he looks at her, eyes slightly dopey with happiness.

"Your wife would like you to stop wasting her time and get to it." She says in a gravelly voice, and he leaps at her invitation, wrapping her possessively in his limbs and physically staking his claim on her.

His force is like a gust of wind, the incline of a hill, the rush of a river that leads her stumbling and blindly following. She's the same dependent rhythm under his body, steady hands splayed against the skin of his back, same soft eyes staring up into his with love and trust, sparkling in the hidden faith that everything will be alright. They cannot strive for perfect, but they're doing just fine with alright.

Afterwards, they fall asleep; his body curved around her back, familiar and new, each night the same but fresh.

A/N one more chapter and an epilogue. That's all I have left to write. So after over a year, this fic is winding down. Which is weird. I miss having an arc to work on. And I'm sorry about the sporadic updates. So tell me, what have you thought of this fic? I'm gonna miss a lot of you followers, with your amazing feedback and loyalty. Also I'm super nostalgic because I just read "Fangirl" by Rainbow Rowell and oh boy that connected with me on a spiritual level. I miss you. And last chapter was a little underwhelming in the realm of reviews. Show me some love? The end is near.