The following week, the snow is even more persistent. I can't remember the last time we had a winter like this in 12. Every time I wake up to even more white on the ground, I can't help but think how my mother, Prim, and I would have suffered just a few years ago. But now, I can have warm bread every day if I want it, and there's a stockpile of meat if we need it. As of right now, I don't want for anything.

I'm so comfortable that it's almost strange. Almost too good to be true. The fact that I fall asleep beside Peeta every night, the boy who has saved me more times than I can count, is definitely too good to be true. My mind starts to buzz when I think about it for too long, so I only allow myself to linger there in small increments.

I get softer at night, when I'm tired and my guard is down. I'm a morning person, so it's to be expected, and Peeta is too - he is a baker, after all. So, at bedtime is when we tend to have our most vulnerable moments.

We haven't slept apart for eight days now, and the nightmares have stayed gone for just as much time. If I had known that lying beside Peeta was all it would take to chase them away, I would have sought him out a lot sooner.

Of course, that's not all he's good for at night. He keeps me warm, too. And he's a good pillow. And it's nice to wake up to his serene face, the sound of his breath, and the softness of his hair.

All of that is very nice.

Now, as we're getting ready for sleep, I notice that he lowers himself onto the bed with a bit more care and stiffness than usual. When you spend so much time with someone, it's hard not to become attuned to their every idiosyncrasy, so his difference in movement sticks out to me right away. And I worry about him.

"Are you okay?" I ask, trying to keep from sounding fretful.

I still don't know the extent of what they did to him in the Capitol. At this point in time, I'm not ready to know and I don't think he's ready to tell me. But I know that his body hurts - after nights that he forgets his pills, he struggles to get out of bed in the morning. I don't like seeing him suffer like that, so I make sure he always takes them. As long as he keeps up with his regular doses, he feels fine.

This isn't that, though. He's favoring his back, whereas the other type of pain is centered in his legs.

"I'm fine," he says, but I know that he's not and he's aware that I know, too. I'm nothing if not observant - especially when it comes to him. After all, I don't have much else to observe at the moment.

"You're not," I say, sitting up. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," he says. "Just my back."

"What about it?"

He sighs and swallows, meeting my eyes for only a second before flitting them away. "I can't reach the place where the burn cream needs to go," he says. "It's been a… a while. The skin gets tight when I don't put it on."

"Peeta," I say, sighing. I throw the covers back and head into his bathroom where I know the burn cream is, then bring it back to the bedroom and uncap the lid. "You could've asked me."

I have my own burn cream that I'm supposed to be applying. At first, I barely used it so I know exactly what kind of tightness he's talking about. It took a verbal assault from Sae, who said that my skin grafts would shrivel up and fall off if I didn't keep them moisturized, to get me to start using it more regularly. Still, though, on days I forget, I feel that tightness and I can't stand it. I don't know how many days he's gone without it in the middle of his back, but the number has to be substantial because he's never asked me to help and I doubt he's called Haymitch over to do the job.

"I've taken care of you before," I say, positioned behind him as he gingerly takes his shirt off.

"I know," he mutters, sitting up straight as the taut skin won't allow much else. "But things are… different now."

He's not wrong there. I'd be hopeless at putting my finger on how exactly they're different, but we're far from the acquaintances we were when I saw him naked by the stream and nursed him back to health in the cave. Back then, there was enough distance between us for me to be comfortably clinical. Now, not so much.

"This is what I'm here for," I say quietly, squeezing the cream into my hand before carefully smearing it over his sensitive skin. He flinches at the coolness of it, to which I say: "Sorry."

I rub it on in slow, gentle circles and he relaxes as the cream gets warmer and the motion of my hand gets smoother. As I widen the circles, spreading the cream over his shoulder blades, down his spine, and across the base of his neck, I can't help but think about the night that he kissed me on the head.

It's silly to concentrate so heavily on such a throwaway gesture, but if I know Peeta I know that nothing he does qualifies as 'throwaway.' It meant something to him, and it meant something to me, too. I liked the feeling that it gave me - in my head, my chest, and everywhere else - and I want it back.

I realize, as I'm massaging the cream into the rounds of his shoulders, that I want him to kiss me again. I want to kiss him.

The thought scares me. Wanting anything at all scares me because the thought of having it ripped away is something I can't handle. But I don't want to ignore it.

So, I let my hands go still on his back and listen to the sigh that escapes him - relief. After he thanks me, I say his name. "Peeta," I whisper.

"Hmm?"

I don't respond, so he swivels at the waist so he can face me. And before I can change my mind or lose the courage I've worked up, I lean forward and press my lips to his cheek in a sweet, slow - yet chaste - kiss.

When I pull back, my heart is hammering and my face is hot. He's grinning from ear to ear and my lips are buzzing. Maybe his cheek feels the same way, because he reaches up to touch it with the pads of his fingers.

We lock eyes for a long moment, trading words through a look alone - enough of them so we don't have to talk. I blink first, and lie down afterwards. He joins me in the next second, pulls me close like he's done every night for the past week, and we tell each other goodnight.

That night, I dream. I don't have nightmares, and I don't fall into a black, heavy sleep either. I dream about dandelions. A whole field of them.

…

The next few days are filled with comfortable - yet tentative - kisses.

One afternoon, I come home from a solo trip to the woods - relieved once I step through Peeta's front door and see him working steadily at the kitchen countertop. It's not often that I head to the woods without him anymore, but this morning I felt I could handle it. It was decent while I was out there, if not a bit lonely, but I'm instantly happier in his presence.

The house is warm like it always is as I shed my hunting jacket and take the game out of my bag. I never skin or clean it on the same countertop that he bakes on, but I still like working in the same room as him and I plan to do that now.

"Productive day?" he asks, eyeing the two squirrels and one rabbit that I cart in.

I nod and set the game on the table, feeling his eyes on my back as I wash my hands at the deep-set, porcelain sink.

"Enough to bring to Sae?"

I shake my head and say, "Not today."

There was plenty of wildlife out and about. More squirrels than I could count and a few grouse, too. But I felt silly coming back to Peeta's house with a haul in tow only to ask him to escort me to the Hob, a place I used to be so comfortable going. I shouldn't depend on him as much as I do; it feels weak, and I still struggle to remind myself that weakness isn't necessarily a bad thing. I just wasn't ready to do it alone.

One day I might get better at communicating my honest feelings, but that's something else I haven't quite reached.

"Maybe tomorrow," Peeta says inconsequentially. I'm sure he knows the truth and can see right through me, but he won't force me to say it aloud. He's so good - sometimes, I think, too good for me.

For a while, we work silently in tandem with one another - I'm not sure what he's making, but he's intent on whatever it is - and prepping the game for storage takes me a fair amount of time, much longer than it used to. Once I'm finished, he calls me over to see what he's done.

I wash my hands a second time and lean on the counter as he shows me. "I shaped it to look like a heart," he says, grinning from ear to ear as he shows off the dough that's resting, plump and hearty, on the wooden block. It's sprinkled with rosemary, basil, and thyme, herbs he must have found in the recesses of his pantry because there's no chance of them growing in conditions like the ones outside. I remind myself, as I look at his sweetly-shaped bread, to collect herbs for him in the spring like I used to do for my mother and her apothecary business. He can clearly make use of them.

"It's nice," I say, because his happiness overwhelms me - in a good way. I point to an unformed lump of dough resting beside his masterpiece and ask, "What's this one for?"

"Just extra," he says.

I keep my eyes on it for a moment then look back to him with an idea in my head. One that would have never occurred to me a year ago, a month ago, maybe even a week ago. But it occurs to me now, and I want to follow through with it before I lose my nerve. "Can I?" I ask.

"Of course."

Peeta watches over my shoulder as I knead the dough with my hands, hands that are much smaller and less powerful than his, but they get the job done. It doesn't take long to turn the dough into something malleable and easy to shape, and it's simple enough to form it in the way I want. I cup my hands and curl them around the dough, creating a divot in the middle that goes down just far enough. When I pull away, I refine the edges and glance over my shoulder at Peeta, who's beaming.

"A heart?" he says, his blue eyes twinkling.

I nod once, one corner of my lips pulled up in a smile. "A heart," I answer, and with one finger, he touches the end of my nose and dusts a fine coating of flour there. I'm about to playfully protest, but before I can say anything, he kisses it away.

…

Two nights later after a dinner of rabbit stew, I'm working on Peeta's sweater in front of the fire like always as he sits next to me with his sketchpad open.

Lately, I've been curious as to what's inside it, because it's one of the things he takes with him everywhere he goes; just like his pills and his burn cream, he packs it when he sleeps at my house. It's not new, judging by the page that he's on, which tells me that he's been using it for years. How many, I'm not sure. But I'm not just curious to see his current drawings, I want to see the ones from before the war, before the Games, before we ever spoke. I want to see them all. I just don't know how to ask. The last thing I want to do is pry.

But I can see what he's drawing tonight, right now, as we're sitting side-by-side. He's using charcoal to sketch something we saw in the woods over the weekend, which was a lone male cardinal perched in a high branch, calling to his mate in a high-pitched, piercing chirp. Peeta couldn't take his eyes off of it, and cardinals are no good to eat, so I allowed myself to watch, too.

The only part of the drawing that contains any color is the bright red plumage of the cardinal; it stands out against the cream-color of the page and the dusty charcoal surrounding it. Peeta gets all the details exactly right, from the inquisitive positioning of its head to the ruffling of its feathers. I can't help but stare and marvel over what he can do, and I end up so entranced by the movement of his hand that he catches me before I can act inconspicuous.

We lock eyes and mine dart away, back to the work in my hands that I let go dormant. I start knitting again, intent on what I'm doing, but Peeta says, "I don't mind when you watch me."

I glance over without moving my head, only for a second. I'm still not good at stitching without watching exactly what I'm doing. "Okay," I say shyly.

"I mean, you let me watch you plenty."

It's true; I do. And I don't mind. In fact, I like the feeling of his eyes on me as I knit. I also like the feeling of doing something for him, even though I know by now that what we have - whatever you might call it - isn't about repayment. I'm still not sure what it is about, but that's a conundrum for another day.

"Do you want me to show you how to cast off the shoulder?" I ask, switching the subject towards something more tactile, something I know how to talk about.

"Sure," he says.

Peeta knows better than anyone that the best way to get me talking is to start me on something I know how to do. And I might not be the greatest teacher, but I'm okay at giving directions, and explaining what I'm knitting isn't all that difficult. My mother did it for me once, and I had much less patience than Peeta does.

"To cast off," I say, positioning my hands so he can see. "You just knit the first two stitches." I work as I speak, saying, "There's one, and two."

Peeta nods, quietly taking in what I'm saying as though there might be a test later.

"And then you pull that stitch over the front," I say, exemplifying the motion. "Knit again, one more stitch, and pull it up and over. And you just continue until all of the stitches are cast off and there's one loop left on the needle." I glance over at him, then back to my work. "This is the same cast-off I did on the neckline, and what I'll do for the back, too." He nods, and my hands keep working. "And now that I've gotten all the way across and just have one loop left, I'll just cut a tail and pull the loop all the way out. And that's one shoulder done."

I stretch it a little to show him, grinning softly as the firelight warms my skin and flickers across his face as he studies what I've done. "I think I'll leave that to you," he says, running his fingers over the stitches. They're not perfect, but I'm getting better. "I would be hopeless at this."

I set my project in my lap and let it cover my legs, then lean over to rest my head on Peeta's sturdy form. Before I get too comfortable, though, I pick it up and kiss the round of his shoulder while closing my eyes and breathing him in.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that," I mutter quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

…

The bedroom is particularly cold two mornings later, and I realize that the fire died overnight as soon as I open my eyes. Luckily, Peeta is still asleep beside me, so I slip out from under the covers and throw on the first thing I can find, which happens to be a dark brown cardigan of his that hangs past my hands and down my thighs.

I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as I kneel in front of the fireplace and toss a few logs in, using the long lighter that would have come in handy in the house I used to live in with my mother and Prim.

At least, in this house, we have heat. It just doesn't do a very good job of reaching the bedrooms. In the shack I grew up in, the only hopes we had of staying warm were the wood burning stove and the fireplace.

The fire comes back to life without excess coaxing, as it must not have died all that long ago. The room will warm up soon, but there's more reason for me to head back to bed than there is to get up. Peeta shouldn't get cold, and my body next to him will keep that from happening.

As I get to my feet again, though, I see that Buttercup has taken it upon himself to warm Peeta. He's gotten comfortable in my spot, curled up and kneading the blanket in the empty space I left by Peeta's stomach. I frown in his direction and he looks back at me with some sort of pleased satisfaction on his furry face, which only puts me off further.

I don't know what keeps me from ditching my efforts and letting Buttercup have his way. Maybe it's because it's Sunday and I don't plan on hunting today, or because I'd been genuinely comfortable and ready to fall back to sleep wrapped in Peeta's arms. But the last thing I want to do is crawl back into bed with that creature positioned between us, purring his heart out, so I have no choice but to lift him up and boot him to the end of the bed.

Being agreeable is apparently the last thing on Buttercup's mind because as soon as I get a good grip around his middle, he lashes out and scratches my hand. I let him free, gritting my teeth in the process and muttering obscenities as he scurries to the bunch of covers around Peeta's feet.

"Damn you," I growl, sticking the web of my thumb in my mouth. When I pull it out, there's a long scratch that's bright red and oozing blood.

"You okay?" Peeta asks, and his voice surprises me. I didn't mean to wake him.

"I'm fine," I say, crawling back under the covers. "The stupid cat just scratched me."

"Must've tried to move him," Peeta says sleepily, his eyes already closing again.

"How silly of me," I grumble, and allow it when Peeta takes my wrist to examine my hand.

He turns it this way and that, grazing his thick fingers over the fine bones of mine. The cut isn't actively bleeding, but it stings something awful. As if he knows, Peeta blows a thin stream of cool air onto it and once the throbbing dulls, he presses his lips against it in a slow, healing kiss.

"Think you'll live?" he asks, his mouth moving against my sleep-messy hair.

I press my forehead against his chest, winding the hand he just mended around his waist to get as close as possible. Without looking at him, because that might send me over the edge, I say, "I hope so."

…

The next night, the windows rattle with winter wind but the fire roars with life that keeps the room toasty. It helps that the two of us are under the covers as close as can be; I'm content, settled, and ready for sleep. But Peeta's fingers still move actively in my hair, which lets me know that he's not tired.

"Are you thinking about something?" I ask, blinking open my eyes from where I rest on his chest. I prop myself up on one elbow so I can look at his face, and I know that I'm right. The singular line between his eyebrows tells me he's deep in thought.

He touches my cheek and a ghost of a smile flits across his lips. "How'd you know?" he asks.

"I just know," I say, keeping a hand on his stomach as it rises and falls with breath.

"I'm thinking about Buttercup," he says, thoroughly surprising me. Out of all the things that could be running through Peeta's mind, the cat was the last thing I assumed.

"Why?" I say.

"I wonder if he's warm enough," he says. "All alone over there."

When Peeta sleeps at my house, Buttercup curls up with us in bed every night without fail. He's taken a liking to Peeta, as he's more careful with him than I've ever been. When I'm feeling particularly sentimental, I wonder if Peeta's gentle hands remind Buttercup of how Prim used to handle him.

During the nights I spend in Peeta's bed, I'm not sure where Buttercup sleeps. Most likely in the bed still, if the tufts of orange hair tell me anything. It's not in my nature to feel sympathy for him - he's proven time and time again that he can take care of himself just fine - but maybe, like me, he's gotten used to certain creature comforts.

Suddenly, it clicks into place and I understand what Peeta is saying. Or, rather, asking. And it makes complete sense. We're together nearly every minute of the day anyway, and I feel knocked off-center when we're apart. It doesn't make much sense to live apart anymore, if it ever did.

"You wouldn't mind him here?" I ask. I don't need to give context to the question. I know very well that we're already on the same page.

"I would like to have him here," Peeta says. "I would like to have you here." His eyes shine and he moves a tendril of hair away from my eyes to tuck it behind my ear. "Would you like that?"

"Yes," I answer - no hesitation. I would like it very much.

…

I start the process of moving what little I have over to Peeta's house the very next day. It made sense to move here, as he has the bakery ovens in his kitchen and there's nothing special about my house.

What I have to bring isn't much - I'm not attached to very many material things - just my hunting gear, some toiletries, Buttercup's food, and a few old photos that I've managed to save. My knitting supplies, pajamas, and most of my clothes are already at his house, in his space, amongst his things.

Without realizing it, we've woven our lives together. And now, as we take the final step, I'm not scared or intimidated.

Well, maybe it's not the final step. But I haven't let myself think about that yet. When I do, my cheeks turn red and my whole body gets hot and I'm not sure how to deal with those sensations, the sensations that only Peeta has ever given me. That now, I'm sure, only Peeta will ever give me.

The thought is comforting and safe. Knowing I have him and always will. Knowing we have so much history and a future, too. It's the first time I've ever been excited for the future, if excited is the right word. I'm not sure if it is, but it's close. And that's good enough for me, because I'm unusually upbeat today.

Even carrying Buttercup across the short expanse between our houses doesn't prove as torturous as I imagined it would. I wrap him in an old towel and hold him like an infant, which he absolutely hates, and I can't help but laugh at his annoyance. It's a bit of retribution from the scratch on my hand that's only just healed.

I get him in the front door and find Peeta setting up the handful of my photos in the living room. More specifically, on the mantel above the fireplace. As he doesn't know I'm watching, he dusts off the framed photo of my father, grown dingy with time, and places it right in the middle. Surrounding it, he sets up an unframed shot of my mother holding my sister as an infant with me standing to the side, just four years old. The smile on my face is tame, but my eyes are crinkled with happiness - my father was behind the lens, getting me to grin for the shot. Even though it was over a decade ago, I can remember the day clearly. It's a nice memory.

"Thank you," I say, and my voice startles Peeta. But he's quick to smile, looking at me for a moment before turning back around to make sure the photos are placed correctly.

"Is this a good spot?" he asks. I nod.

From my pocket, I pull out another one. It's an image of my mother and father when they were mine and Peeta's age, a professional photo that must have been for some formal occasion. I set it up to lean on my father's frame and rest my weight against Peeta's side, and he wraps an arm around me.

"What about you?" I ask, scanning the photos I brought. "Don't you have any?"

Slowly, he shakes his head. He flattens his hand on my outer arm and gives me a sad little smile. "They weren't really the type," he says. It's the first time in a while that I've seen him somber, and I don't like it. Of course, he's allowed to feel anything he wants, but it's my fault that his mind is in such a place and that upsets me.

"Oh," I say, wondering what I could possibly say to get his mind away from that subject. I can't think of anything in time, though, not before the front door blows open and makes us both jump.

Just as I turn around, a flash of orange flashes by and darts through the open door and out into the heavy snow.

"Buttercup," Peeta says, starting towards the door to put his boots on.

"No," I say, sighing as my shoulders deflate. I can't leave him out there to fend for himself - he only likes to go outside on the most mild winter days, nothing like this. He's not used to this house, he's out of sorts and probably confused.

Prim would never forgive me if I didn't go fetch him. No matter how cold and angry it'll make me, I have to go out and get him.

"I'll go," I say, shoving my feet into my shoes and pulling my hunting jacket from where it hangs on the stair railing. By proxy, he's my cat, so I should be the one to go.

As I stand at the edge of the porch and squint through the blowing snow, all I can think of is when Prim went back for the raggedy thing during the air raid drill in 13.

Buttercup causes more trouble than he's worth, which is what I'm grumbling about under my breath when I find him huddled by the side of Peeta's house, having found shelter there from the unforgiving wind.

"And where did this get you?" I ask, doing my best to pick the cat up gently. Understanding that I'm taking him to refuge, he allows me to gather him in my arms. He even starts to purr, which might do something to warm Peeta's heart but it does nothing for me. As I climb the steps to the porch, I say, "Do that again and see where it gets you. Frozen stiff, most likely."

I close the door behind us and find the house silent. I was only gone for a few minutes - four or five, at most - so I'm not sure where Peeta could have gone off to.

"Peeta?" I call out, shedding my jacket and depositing my snowy boots by the door after letting Buttercup free.

He doesn't answer, but the light is on in the kitchen so I follow it there. As I come through the entryway, I see him hunched forward with his hands on the table, all of his weight placed forward as his body trembles.

"Peeta?" I say again, this time a bit quieter. He doesn't look up. He doesn't give me any sign at all that he's heard me.

I realize, at that moment, that I left the door open when I left, which must have blown a whirlwind of frigid air inside. He's having an episode and it's all my fault. Because I went out to save the stupid cat.

"Peeta," I say for a third time, approaching him cautiously. "Let's get you warmed up."

That's all I know to do to bring him back. We haven't talked much about what causes his episodes besides the cold trigger, and we haven't talked at all about what they're like for him or what he feels during them. I've been selfish and not asked because I'm scared to know.

But because I haven't asked, I'm ill-prepared now. I don't know how to fix the state that he's in, and I doubt Haymitch is any more knowledgeable. I doubt he's even conscious. So, I have to do what I can - and right now, what I can do is get Peeta warm.

"Come on," I say, gingerly placing my hands on his rigid shoulders. "Let's get you to the fire. It's nice and warm there. I'll find blankets. It'll be okay." I can feel him breathing, but his breaths are shallow and quick. Not normal. "Peeta," I say, encouraging him with a small nudge. "Let's go to the fire."

He follows my lead, but not without a battle - a battle that I can't see. He tosses his head back and forth and clenches his jaw so hard that his cheeks bulge with tension. I try to stay calm; one of us needs to be calm in this situation. It's me who has to see him through this. And I will.

"Almost there," I say. His steps are robotic and slow, unsteady as he jolts from foot to foot. I wrap my arms around his waist to keep him balanced and upright, as I'm not sure where we'd be if he fell.

I get him to the fireplace and encourage him to sit. He eventually does, even as his muscles stay engaged, and I get him as close to the fire as what's safe. I throw a thick blanket over his shoulders and then another one, but it still doesn't seem like enough. I take off the socks on my feet and place them over his hands, tugging them up until they're past his wrists. I take off my shirt in a last-ditch move and wrap it around his neck like a scarf, covering the scarred and vulnerable skin there, not caring one ounce that doing so leaves me in only my cotton bra.

Every inch of him is covered, but his eyes are still foggy. He's still not here with me. So, I do the only thing I can think of that's left.

I take Peeta's face in my hands and turn his head towards me. I look into his cloudy blue eyes and take a deep breath, then close the distance between us and kiss him.

At first, it's like kissing stone. His lips are cool to the touch and he doesn't respond to me at all. But after a few tense moments where I truly wonder if I've lost him, he inhales deeply through his nose and comes back to himself. He comes back to me.

He holds my head much in the way I'm holding his. Not too tight but not loose, either. He presses his lips to mine and they warm up like life has come back to them, and I know he's here. He's back from wherever he went.

Tears stream down my face and I let them. I don't even bother wiping them away. When we pull away to take a breath, I don't let the distance stay for long before closing it for a few shorter kisses, my eyes still closed and my hands still in place. The last thing I want now is to let him go.

"Katniss," he says, and hearing his voice makes another wave of relief wash over me. "I'm okay."

I collapse against him, going boneless and weak as I tuck my face into his neck. He wraps his strong arms around my lower back and presses his lips to my hair, holding me for a while as I cry.

When I sit up and wipe my face, his eyes are clear again. Exhausted, but clear. He manages a smile while raising his sock-covered hands and asks me, "What am I wearing?"

Amidst my blubbery tears, a laugh sneaks through. And I kiss him again, and again, and again.