Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.

My eyes flutter open in the darkness. The shift in our bed was minimal, but it still managed to wake me from my restless sleep. I don't think I was always such a light sleeper. Prim used to get out of our bed regularly during the night and I wouldn't know until I woke up. But now, even in sleep I notice the absence of Peeta's arms around me, when he rolls over, or even a change in his breathing from the peaceful, steady breaths that mean he's asleep to the irregular, tormented ones that signal he's woken from a nightmare. Any and all of these things can awaken me. It's the same with him. Sometimes I wake up in terror, and try to calm myself down by cuddling just a little closer to him. It's so hard for the both of us to get a good night's sleep that I don't want to deliberately wake Peeta up so he can comfort me, even though I know he wouldn't mind. But he always knows somehow, when I need comforting, even if I haven't cried out and made my terror obvious. Perhaps we've just become incredibly attuned to one another.

The moon must be full or nearly full, because there seems to be more light in the room than usual. I look over and see Peeta's silhouette. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me. It's not a cold night, but he's shivering and leaned forward, probably with his head in his hands.

"Peeta?" I say softly, and he starts and sits up straighter, but doesn't turn to me. I wait a few seconds, then sit up and scoot across the bed to the edge where he is. I reach out and place my hands on his back. He jolts as if I've shocked him and I wonder if maybe I should just leave him alone, but then he sighs and I feel the shivering subside. I lean forward and press my cheek against him, between his shoulder blades.

After what seems like an eternity, he says, "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

I gently shake my head against him, "Don't be sorry. You should always wake me if you're upset." How can he apologize when it was unintentional, and he's so obviously having a hard time? His selfless concern for me reminds me of when we were in the arena during the Quarter Quell and his heart stopped. After Finnick resuscitated Peeta and he saw me crying, he actually looked worried about me. It was absurd, when he was the one who'd just died.

Peeta starts to turn and I pull away from him so we can face each other. He takes both of my hands in his and looks down as he softly strokes the backs of them with his thumbs. He seems very focused and I can see his troubled expression start to fade. He once told me that his nightmares were usually about losing me and everything would be all right once he woke up to find me next to him, but this clearly isn't the case anymore. This nightmare must have been a result of what was done to him in the Capitol, not during the Games.

I can hardly bear to see him like this and think of him suffering alone. "Promise," I insist, "promise you'll wake me when this happens."

Peeta's eyes raise to mine and he hesitates, then says, "I…promise I'll wake you if I need you."

I'm about to protest about the way he amended my request before agreeing to it, when he speaks again.

"I don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep tonight," he says, his brow furrowed, "I'm going to go downstairs and draw, or read or something."

"I'll come with you," I say.

Peeta shakes his head, his lips tightly pressed together. "You should sleep."

I give him a small smile and squeeze his hands. "I can't sleep without you here."

Peeta's beautiful blue eyes widen and he says, "I'll stay, then."

I let out a sound of exasperation: half-laugh, half-sigh. "No. I'll come with you. I don't mind. I mean, unless you want to be alone or something."

"No, I always want to be with you," he tells me, then leans forward and presses his lips to mine for just a second.

"Let's go, then."

Peeta gives me the sweetest, most adoring smile, then he lets go of my left hand and we make our way out of the bedroom. I can completely understand his desire to get out of there. Sometimes the nightmares are so frequent and disturbing that I find it hard to stay in bed. I try not to associate the bedroom with nightmares, but it's hard not to, when it's the only place where I have them.

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Peeta starts to head into the living room but I remain rooted to the floor. "How about some hot chocolate?" I ask.

"That sounds good," Peeta says, turning to face the kitchen, "I can get it."

I smile, place my hands on Peeta's shoulders and look into his eyes. "Peeta," I say.

He stares down at me, both quizzical and amused, "Yeah?"

"You just let me take care of you for a while."

I can tell by his chuckle that he remembers when he said these same words to me in the cave during the Games. I'm thrilled to have been able to say something to improve his mood, even if it's only for a second.

"All right, Katniss."

Despite my protestations that he should wait in the living room where he can be comfy, Peeta follows me into the kitchen. He sits at the table and watches as I prepare the hot chocolate. When it's finished, I join Peeta at the table and pass him a steaming mug. Like me, he wraps both of his hands around it. I stare down at the dark beverage. "Prim liked hot chocolate a lot. I guess that's one of the good things that came out of winning. It was nice to see her have a few extra things like this, things all kids should have."

When Peeta reaches out and takes one of my hands in his, pulling it off of my mug so he can hold it, I realize my voice had started to shake. I take a deep breath and look into Peeta's loving and sympathetic eyes. "Remember the first time we had it?" I ask, in an attempt to distract myself so I don't start crying about Prim.

He smiles and nods. "On the train on the way to the Capitol."

I nod, and then we sit in silence for a couple of minutes, sipping and blowing on our hot drinks. "Do you want to talk about it? What happened just now upstairs, your nightmare?"

Peeta shakes his head and looks upset again, causing me to regret reminding him of it. "It had to do with you. You don't want to know."

"If it'll make you feel better to say it out loud, then I do want to know."

Peeta gives me a look that seems to ask if I'm sure, and I smile encouragingly in response.

"Well, I was dreaming about what would have happened if they - in Thirteen, I mean - had allowed you come into my room alone the first time we saw each other, after the hijacking," he breaks off, searching my face for a signal to stop.

I nod slowly, keeping my eyes on him in hopes that it will show him I don't want to shy away from this topic.

"And in the dream," he continues, "I had no control over myself at all, while I... killed you. It was like I was just watching the whole thing from outside my body."

Oh, no. No wonder he didn't want to wake me after an experience like that. No wonder he was startled when I said his name and touched him. I've come to trust him completely, but with a nightmare like that so fresh in his mind I'm sure he was afraid for me. Peeta raises a hand to his face and leans his forehead on it as a look of distress comes over him.

I lean forward, so he can see me better with his averted eyes, and say, "I know you would never hurt me now."

He still looks worried but manages to smile and nod as he says, "I wouldn't. I couldn't."

I reach forward and smooth some hair back from Peeta's face. "Does it help to talk about it?" I ask.

Peeta seems to consider my question, then says, "I think so, as long as it doesn't scare you."

"It doesn't scare me at all," I say with conviction. My memory of our reunion after his imprisonment and hijacking will always be with me, but I'm over it. I don't mind talking about it, if it can help Peeta to cope with things.

He looks so incredibly relieved over what I've just said that I find myself wishing we'd broached the subject before. Did he really think I was still afraid of him, on some level? I hope none of my actions have given him a reason to.

We finish our hot chocolate and I put the mugs in the sink, while Peeta heads into the living room. When I join him on the sofa, his arm finds its way around me and I lie my head against his shoulder. His other arm reaches for my leg, which is mostly bare. I'm wearing a tiny pair of shorts, so he's able to run his hand almost all along it before he reaches any clothing. When he does, his hand travels back down toward my knee.

"You're so beautiful," he says, "I still can't believe how lucky I am."

I lift my head and turn my face toward Peeta. "I'm lucky," I tell him. I think of Haymitch's words. Was it a thousand lifetimes that he said I could live and not deserve Peeta?

"The girl with the game," he says softly.

I raise my eyebrows and can't help letting out a laugh. "What?"

"Oh," Peeta says, as if he didn't realize he'd spoken those words aloud, "that's what I would call you sometimes, in my head."

"Are you kidding me?"

He's confused by my reaction and says, "Only sometimes. Actually, more often, I would think of you as the love of my life."

"I don't mind either nickname," I assure him. "It's just funny because…I always thought of you as the boy with the bread."

"Really," Peeta says, smiling, "before the Games?"

"Before…and during, and after, too," I admit.

He pulls me close and kisses my temple, then says softly, "Maybe we're more alike than I thought."

I nod slightly, loving the feel of his lips against my skin.

"Peeta," I say.

"Hmm?" he says, between soft kisses.

"I know you first noticed me when I sang that song," I say, "but what held your interest for so many years?" I'm not fishing for compliments, I am genuinely curious. Peeta was plenty attractive, reasonably well-off, and had many friends. I've never really understood what could have been so special about me. Why I was the only girl who made a lasting impression on him.

"Everything," he says, giving me a squeeze. When I remain silent, he continues, "Even though I didn't know you really, I loved everything I knew about you. You were so independent and brave. I could hardly believe it when you started showing up at our back door with meat, when you and I were so young. I really admired you for it. I don't think I would have been able to feed my family like that when I was twelve."

"You could have, if you'd had to," I say, honestly believing it.

"I don't know, Katniss," Peeta says with a smile, "you know how loud I am when I walk."

He's made me laugh again, and I love him for it. Every time I feel happy as a result of anything Peeta says or does, it makes me adore him even more. I lean forward and kiss him. He pulls me onto his lap so we're directly facing each other. Peeta slides one hand up the nape of my neck, and softly runs his fingers through my hair. His other hand goes up the back of my shirt and gently pulls me even closer to him, eliminating the small space between us.

Both of my hands cup his face, as my mouth moves with his. We spend a few minutes like this before we wind up lying down on the couch, side by side, facing each other. Peeta's lips travel from mine across my cheek and then to my neck.

I feel completely relaxed, and tired again. I can tell by how slowly he's moving that he's calmed down and is ready to get some more sleep, too.

"I love you," I say. This causes Peeta to pull away so he can look at me, through heavy-lidded eyes, and touch his forehead to mine.

He smiles and says, "I love you."

Peeta lies back and I rest my head on his chest. There's just enough room for him to be on his back and for me to be sideways, tucked safely between him and the back of the couch. It's not long before we fall asleep again. This time, his arms remain around me until morning.