A few days later, the first snow falls and blankets Victors' Village in a thick coat of white. On the day that it happens, getting outside is the last thing on my mind - not only because it's cold and Peeta has made it his personal mission to keep my house warm, but because my latest knitting endeavor is making him a good sweater and I'm determined to do it right.

It's not that he doesn't have clothes, because he does. He re-wears a lot of the same things, just like I do. It's not like we have anyone to impress; we dress for comfort. But ever since his episode on the night we let the fire die, all I can think about is making sure he stays warm. And that can't happen in t-shirts and frayed cotton.

I know for a fact that he'll be warm in what I'm making him. There's no way around it. I'm going to work extra hard to make sure the stitches are tight and even, and I want him to feel good in it. Which means that I'll need to get his measurements. The socks that I made before it snowed are already falling apart, which is a testament to my skill - or lack thereof - I'm sure. It's not a problem, though. I have plenty of yarn and I can make more. As long as Buttercup doesn't make a habit of stealing my arsenal for his own entertainment, I should be set for a while.

I rifle through my yarn stash while Peeta encourages the fire. The snow falls heartily outside the window, so thick I can't see across the way. When Prim and I were young, when our father was still alive and we had the right outerwear, playing in this type of snow was her favorite thing to do. Snow angels, that's what she liked.

Part of me wants to smile at the memory but more of me wants to cry. I give in to neither and keep my eyes cemented on the bouquet of yarn laid out in front of me.

"What color?" I ask Peeta, clearing my throat so my voice doesn't come out clogged with the tears I won't let fall.

He glances at me over his shoulder from where he kneels on the hearth. "Hmm…" he muses, setting the poker down. "Green?"

"Not orange?" I say, picking through the yarn for the forest green that found its way to the bottom of the pile.

"For now my orange hat, socks, and scarf are enough," he says with a small smile.

Maybe I've been a little overzealous when it comes to the color orange. I remembered what he liked and ran with it. I can't blame him for wanting something new.

"Green it is," I say, bringing the yarn along with my needles over to the fireplace where the measuring tape sits.

I found it in the sewing room - when we first moved into this house, it seemed silly to have a room dedicated solely to sewing, but I soon learned that with so many extra rooms, you might as well.

Peeta knows that I want to make sure this sweater fits him correctly. I don't know if he knows how much it matters to me why it should fit correctly, but he's promised to sit still during my process. Not that I think it would be hard for him - between the two of us, he's never been the fidgety one. He can sit and concentrate on a singular thing for hours on end, as evidenced by his art.

"I need to measure," I say, getting down to business as he sits in front of me and waits for instructions. As it stands, he's wearing a flannel shirt with holes in the elbows and two buttons missing; it's too big for him and lays over his shoulders strangely. It can't stay on for my measuring. "It will be easier if you take your shirt off."

I worry that he'll draw attention to what I've said, making a big deal out of something I'm asking for out of necessity, but he doesn't. Instead, all he does is unbutton his flannel slowly, his thick fingers getting tripped up on the small buttons. I'm tempted to reach forward and help him, but I ignore the urge. That seems too intimate, and I'm not sure what he would think of it.

Once all of the buttons are undone, he tosses the flannel to the couch and waits for me to start my work. I'm having a hard time looking him in the eyes, so I move around to his back and start by placing the measuring tape across the plane of his warm shoulder blades.

As I take him in, I'm met with a patchwork of scars in different stages of healing. Some of the grafts are raised and angry, others pink and new like a baby's skin. Other parts, the ridges along his sides, are mottled, jagged, and tight.

Up until this point, I hadn't seen the physical scars that the war gave him. I had no idea they would shock me this much, or upset me in this way. The map of his skin is pain personified, proof of what they did to him.

He has scars like I do, scars that will never go away no matter how impressively they heal. They'll always be visible - in more ways than just one.

I don't want to stare but I can't stop looking. I'm glad I chose to start from behind him because I don't want him to know how intensely I'm studying what they did. I don't want him to feel self-conscious. I don't know how I would feel if he looked at me in the way I'm looking at him.

As if he knows exactly what I'm thinking, Peeta says, "You okay?"

I shake my head a little bit to bring myself back. "I'm fine," I say. "I've just never done this before."

Measuring isn't exactly rocket science, but just like I wasn't prepared for the rivulets of scars on his back, I'm also not prepared for the way it feels to touch his bare skin. I trace the measuring tape as gently as I can, the pads of my fingers delineating where it should go, and goosebumps rise in their wake.

"Sorry," I whisper, so quiet.

Peeta shakes his head so subtly I almost don't see it. I'm glad he doesn't respond with words, though. I'm not sure what he would say, but it would most definitely be more than I can handle.

After I've gotten the measurements of his back that I need, I take a deep breath and move to face him. He gives me a shy, gentle smile, and I can't help but mirror the expression. He might be the only person who can get me to smile by doing so little.

"Hi," he says, and I lift my hands to span the tape across his broad chest.

He's not bulky in the way he once was, but he has been gaining weight in small increments. I can tell in the shape of his arms and how he's begun to fill out his jacket a bit better. It's heartening to see. If we keep eating in the way that we have been, I'll end up in the same boat.

I run the measuring tape down his arms all the way to the ends of his fingers. I turn his hand over in mine, allowing myself the luxury of tracing the light blue veins on the underside of his wrist. He lets me. I make sure the tape lies flat and make note of the number in my head, then position it around his middle for the last measurement that I'll need.

I'm not prepared for the way my heartbeat quickens as I gently wrap the tape around Peeta's midsection. I had forgotten about the trail of blonde hair beneath his belly button that leads lower, but seeing it now reminds me of how the sun had once caught it - when he was so close to death.

Now, death is far, far away but my heart is beating like it's right around the corner.

I don't have much time to linger on the confusing mess inside my head before the front door blows open and Haymitch stumbles inside, drunk and belligerent. "It's cold as a witch's tit out there," he says, shivering for effect.

He's not wearing a coat, which I notice when I look up and scramble away from Peeta like we've been caught doing something wrong.

"Well, look at the two of you," Haymitch says, disorderly as ever as he leans against the stair railing without bothering to shut the door. Cold air blows in and I get to my feet to block it from reaching Peeta, who's still without a shirt. "Getting cozy, eh? That's nice. Just remember to be safe about it, alright? You let me know if you got any questions."

Instantly, my face flames red and I can't look at either of them. The only option is to get away from this situation, so I do what I do best and run away - heading up the stairs and to my room before I hear anything else smarmy that Haymitch might have to say.

Being alone is what I've always been good at. It's how I've always coped. Escaping to the woods, the meadow, even at school I would find places to be accompanied only by my thoughts. So, I assumed coming up to my room would help - but it doesn't.

I don't feel comforted being here by myself. I've spent days, weeks, and months alone in this room, sequestered by my own doing, away from the one person who comes close to understanding me after everything we've both been through.

It's a hard pill to swallow, but I wonder if escaping is no longer my best bet. I stand by the door, listening to the rise and fall of the boys' voices downstairs, and wait for it to go silent so I can go back down and see Peeta. Because that's what I want. I want to be with him.

I'm terrified of feeling that way, but I'm more terrified of feeling nothing at all. So, I trust my instincts - they've never led me astray before - and gravitate towards the person I need.

When it goes quiet downstairs, I open my bedroom door and listen at the top of the stairs to make sure the coast is clear. When all I can hear are the sounds of Peeta moving around in the kitchen, I descend the stairs and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that it's just the two of us in the house again.

"He's gone," Peeta calls, most likely having heard me come down.

I come around the corner to the kitchen to find Peeta standing at the counter. His flannel is back on, but the buttons aren't done up - and that jolts me a little. Not in a bad way, but in a way I'm unfamiliar with. I can't think about that right now, though, so I force it out of my head.

I stand beside him and watch what he's doing with quiet intensity. As his fingers move fluidly in the dough that he's kneading, he says, "I assumed you probably wanted to be alone."

I keep my eyes on his hands, unable to look up as I try to verbalize my thoughts. He's always been the wordsmith, not me, so I don't expect anything great - but I try.

"No," I say softly. "It's better here, with you."

…

A couple nights later, Peeta and I are full from dinner and sitting at the table after we've finished eating. "You know what sounds good?" he asks out of nowhere. I shake my head, wondering what he could possibly want after we just ate so well. "Something sweet."

I raise my eyebrows and say, "Dessert?"

He nods. "I've been saving something. Let me show you."

We're at his house tonight, so he beckons me into the kitchen and opens the pantry to pull out a nondescript bag. When he opens it, I look inside and am met with a smell that's rich and sweet. "Chocolate?" I say, unable to believe it. Sure, we're not lacking in the food department anymore, but chocolate is by no means a necessity.

"Yeah," he says, setting the bag on the counter. "I couldn't help myself. I had to buy it."

It's impossible not to be infected by the gleeful twinkle in his eyes. Plus, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to eat chocolate - something I've only had a few times in my life.

"When did you sneak off to get it?" I ask. "You and I spend almost all of our time together."

"The key word there is almost," he says, smirking. "I don't always stand guard when you nap. Sometimes, I leave it up to Buttercup."

"I do not nap," I mutter, but he doesn't bother refuting me because we both know that I do. He does too - frequently. Our lives aren't all that taxing anymore; we have the time and freedom for midday naps.

Peeta offers to teach me how to bake the cookies he plans on making, but I'm tired from eating and prefer to watch him work. He mixes all the correct ingredients together and they create something I've only tasted a few times - sweet dough that, once baked, the Mellarks would put on display in the glass case at the front of their bakery. Thinking back, I can't begin to count how many times Prim begged me to stop there on our walk home to ogle the sweets that we could only afford to stare at - never buy.

My life is so different now. The baker who had watched me go home every day is now working contentedly beside me.

Peeta mixes flour, eggs, sugar, baking powder, vanilla extract - all of these ingredients just to make cookies. Finally, the chocolate chips go in and the smell overtakes me once they do. I lean forward, getting closer without consciously meaning to, and watch the wooden spoon move as Peeta uses it to meld everything together.

When what's inside the bowl resembles chocolate chip cookies, Peeta asks, "Want to try?"

Neither of us have spoken in some time, so his voice startles me. I look quickly to his face to find him grinning at me, but I shake my head to answer him. "That's okay," I say.

"I know how much you like chocolate," he says, probably recalling my enthusiasm for the Capitol's hot cocoa. "You'll like it." Before I can protest further, he picks up a small bit of dough and says, "Open."

Something wild must take over me because I obey his words and part my lips. With our eyes locked, he slips the bite into my mouth and I close it, grazing the pads of his fingers with my lips.

We don't break eye contact as I chew. I don't know what keeps me from looking away, but whatever it is is powerful and heady.

All I can manage to tell him is that the dough tastes good. After that, I'm too flustered to converse much more.

…

After the cookies come out of the oven and the two of us indulge in three each, we fall asleep in front of the fire. I was showing him the progress that I've been making on his green sweater, and afterwards he asked me to teach him the stitches. I'm not a great teacher, but he's always willing to show me something new when it comes to baking, so I gave it a try. I'm not sure how well I put the information across, but he's a good listener.

After a while, though, my fingers got clumsy and my eyelids started to droop. The last thing I remember was leaning against his side and letting my cheek rest on his shoulder, feeling the way that his muscles were already relaxed from being close to sleep himself.

We must not have been asleep for long because when I wake up, the fire is still going. Peeta stirs as I do, and I realize the position we've found ourselves in. He's leaning against the couch with his feet stretched towards the flame - keeping the good one warm, no doubt - and I'm tucked against his side as close as can be, his sturdy arm keeping me in place.

Not long ago, I would be mortified by this. But now, all I can think is that I don't want it to end.

I tip my chin up and look at his sleepy eyes. Those blonde eyelashes blink slowly at me as he smiles, and I hide my face again before he can see how endeared I am. There's only so much I can take at once with him.

"Peeta," I whisper, and his hand flattens over the round of my shoulder to keep me close. I'm glad for it. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course," he says, without hesitation. "But we might be more comfortable in my bed, if you're up for that."

I nod and stand first, helping him to his feet once I'm all the way up. He leads the way to his bedroom and I follow close behind, taking it upon myself to start the fire in the fireplace once we get there. He heads to the bathroom and by the time he offers me a spare toothbrush, the fire is crackling with life.

I brush my teeth and unweave my hair from its braid, walking slowly to rejoin him in his room. I find him sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over with both hands hovering near the titanium portion of his leg. It's not often that I see it uncovered by a pant leg, and it's not jarring in the way that it bothers me to see it. But it's such a stark difference from his soft, warm skin - cool and metallic, a piece of machinery gifted after what he physically lost. It seems like a part of him and completely separate all at once.

I must be staring because he says, "I can keep it on, if you want."

I shake my head. "No," I say. "I wasn't… That's not why I was looking." I walk to the other side of the bed and sit down. "I want you to do what's comfortable for you. You don't always have to put my feelings first, you know."

I hear the soft clink of the leg as he sets it aside, and the mattress shifts as he lies down beside me. "Well, I care about you," he says - how he says it so nonchalantly, I don't know. It's nonchalant and filled with feeling all at the same time. I'll never master words in the way he has. He can make even the simplest statement sound so meaningful, yet casual enough not to spook me. "And I wasn't sure if you'd think it was strange, me taking it off."

"Not strange," I say, noticing the wide valley between us.

He notices, too, because he says, "Will you come here?"

Folding close to him is the most natural thing I've done all day. We fit together perfectly, with my head on his chest and our fingers intertwined over his stomach that slowly rises and falls. I drift off quickly, soothed by the floury smell of his skin and the soap of his hair, and stay asleep for the entire night.

…

Peeta and I are so well-rested the next day that we head into the woods first thing. It doesn't take me long to find squirrels, either. It's like they were waiting for me.

I shoot two of them, which is enough for the both of us, but there are so many left that it's hard to resist staying out.

"I don't want to waste them," I say with no context, knowing that Peeta will understand.

He looks at me for a moment, then back to the squirrels. "Maybe we could bring a few to Sae," he says.

I furrow my eyebrows and feel a scowl start to creep onto my lips. "You could," I grumble.

I still haven't been to the square or to what the Hob is slowly getting rebuilt into. Going to the woods used to be outside of my newfound comfort zone, but coming here has become routine again. Peeta wants me to take another step towards recovery, and he thinks he's being subtle by suggesting it so off-handedly. But I pick up on it.

"We could go together," he says. "I know Sae would like to see you."

"She sees me," I say, not ready to give up my argument yet.

"Outside of your bed, I mean," he says.

He knows I'm going to give in, so I don't say it out loud. I won't give him the satisfaction. And saying it aloud will only make it more real anyway, and that scares me. I'm not sure who waits for me in the square, whose face I'll see that I haven't seen before I turned into the scarred, burnt girl that I am now. I don't know what they'll think of me, or what they'll think of Peeta and I together. I'll try not to care, but it won't work. So, the best I can do is stay quiet.

I shoot the squirrels, though. I shoot three more and deem it enough for Sae. She'll be happy with three. She'd probably be happy with zero, but I've never shown up empty-handed in the Hob before and I don't want to start now. I want things to be like they were, at least in some small way.

Peeta makes light conversation as we head out of the woods in the direction of town, and the constant lilt of his voice calms my nerves. I chew on my lower lip, staring at the snow crunching under my feet, and I don't realize that I've begun to tremble until Peeta takes my hand in his and encourages me to be still. And after my trembling stops, I let his hand stay. In fact, I grip his fingers tighter.

I swallow hard and feel anchored by his grip as we walk through town, headed towards the square where Sae will be. It feels odd to be back here, all of the destruction and debris that's still present threatens to knock me off center, but Peeta never lets go of my hand and I don't let go of his. And that helps.

Sae doesn't make a big show of me showing up out of the blue, and for that I'm grateful. She treats today like any other day, trading me those three squirrels for yarn that I will definitely use. It's a color I don't yet have - light blue, close to the color of Peeta's eyes.

Before we leave, though, her eyes catch on our linked hands. And if I'm not mistaken, she smiles. I don't think she's ever once smiled at me before.

Somehow, by the time we get back to Victors' Village, Haymitch already knows. And since so little happens around here, he's latched onto the first bit of gossip that 12 has heard in weeks.

He shouts from his porch, "Get a room, lovebirds!"

I hold up my middle finger in his direction until Peeta ushers us both through my front door.

…

Peeta and I cook at my house tonight, and afterwards I head to the living room to follow the routine that we're finding ourselves in - lighting a fire and working on my knitting while he either watches me or sketches.

I feel confident tonight. At least more confident than the night before, which allows me to speak more casually when I ask him to stay over. "Maybe we could trade off nights," I say quietly, wondering what he'll think of my insinuation that our sleepovers will be an everyday occurrence.

He doesn't draw attention to it, though. He just nods with a small smile. Then, he says, "I need a few things from my house. My burn cream. And my… my pills."

"Okay," I say. "I'll wait here." The house is quiet for the few minutes that Peeta is gone, and Buttercup paws at the door after he leaves. I roll my eyes, saying, "He's coming back." But the truth is that I know how he feels. I want Peeta to hurry, too.

I let out a small sigh of relief when the front door opens again and Peeta comes in, shutting it quickly so the winter wind stays outside. He sets his night things on the stairs and comes to join me by the fire, dropping a casual kiss to the top of my head before sitting down close beside me.

"You've almost finished an arm," he says, gently touching the place where my needles have paused. "I'll be able to wear this in no time."

Warmth radiates throughout my entire body, beginning at the top of my head - right in the place where he kissed me. I don't know how to tell him as much with words, so I just look him in the eyes, smile, and hope that's enough. And for tonight, I think that it is.