Marry him? Marry him?

Peeta apparently loves springing things on me as I'm about to fall asleep, as this is strangely reminiscent of the first time he told me he loved me. This is when both of our guards are down - well, mostly mine, as his is rarely up at all - and our inhibitions are all but erased.

He wants to marry me. There was once a time, not that long ago, when I was dead set on thinking that I would never marry. I didn't want a partner; I was determined to go through life alone. Because what was one more person to take care of? One more person to worry about? And forget the thought of having children. The last thing 16-year-old me wanted was to supply the Capitol with more people to murder.

But now, the Games are no longer and Peeta wants to marry me.

He must assume I'm already asleep and I know better to think that he expects a quick answer. He always lets me move on my own time, and that's something I don't take for granted. I've never done well with being rushed. If anything, it makes me dig my heels in deeper, and Peeta has learned that by now.

I'm wound tight, wired, and my mind is spinning beyond belief. Yet Peeta, who just broached what might be the most life-changing question I've ever heard, has begun to snore softly.

How can he fall asleep?! Is he so confident in my answer that he can just drift off without a care in the world?

I envy him so badly sometimes.

Marriage. Maybe it's not so strange that I never dwelled on it, as I was doing my best to stay alive and keep my loved ones safe as we went through a war. Of course, I wasn't thinking about marriage then. But in the time that we've been home, even as Peeta and I have lived in the same house, the word hasn't so much as crossed my mind.

I wonder if I'm selfish for that. I wonder how long Peeta has been pondering it.

I haven't been purposefully avoiding it. It doesn't lurk in the corners like the guilt that I still have and always will have over Rue, my sister, Cinna, and so many others. It hasn't shown up at all, and I think that might be because what Peeta and I are doing feels so much like marriage already.

They'll break ground on the bakery any day now. Our bakery, he makes sure to emphasize. And what is that, if not marriage? Creating something out of nothing and watching it bloom into a whole new being.

That pushes my mind down another avenue entirely, one I'm not ready for and will not consider. I have to stay on track; I'm focused on contemplating marriage now, not anything that it might entail.

I don't have many instances of marriage to take examples from, but the bond that my mother and father shared outshines everything else, anyway. When I was small, long before Prim was born, I remember them dancing in front of the fireplace. He would twirl her, then pick me up from the couch to twirl me, too. Even so many years later, I can still see my small socked feet placed on top of his much larger ones. He carried us both in different ways - he was my mother's strength, her happiness, her everything, I think.

I turn onto my side and face the sleeping boy beside me, the one who I tuck myself close to every night. Is he my everything, too? He must be. I can think of no other word that encompasses what he is to me. It makes sense that he should be my husband, and I should be his wife.

Something warm trickles throughout my chest as I think those words - words that, before now, never held much weight to me. I heard my mother and father call each other by those monikers many times, but they never stuck in my head. And now, after using them to reference myself and Peeta, I can't get them out.

I remember an old photo that used to sit on my mother's nightstand, long lost to time, of the toasting between her and my father. I don't know who took it, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is the way he's looking at her and how she's looking at him - it seemed like they couldn't see a single other person in the world and had no desire to try.

I wrap an arm around Peeta's waist and breathe him in, something I do often. We've quickly become each other's worlds in this odd little family we've made - the two of us, Haymitch, and our menagerie of animals. Our coupling is a lot like my mother and father's, I've come to realize.

After the long days that my father worked in the mines, he'd come home and you'd expect him to be low-energy and in a foul mood, but he never was. Maybe he felt that way on the walk home, I'm not sure, but he lit up when he walked through the door and saw my mother in the kitchen. And the tone of voice she used to greet him was unlike anything she used for anyone else.

I wonder to myself if I have a specific tone of voice for Peeta. I don't have to wonder long - I know that I do. I can hear myself using it when I bring him home fresh berries, when I claim I hadn't been falling asleep while knitting, when I whisper that I love him in the dead of night. I have one; of course, I do.

We have our special routines, our slow mornings and simple nights. He's who I want to spend rainy days with and who I want to swim with on summer afternoons. I want to cook beside him forever, I want to always knit him sweaters, and I want to be the one who takes care of him when he needs it. And I never, ever want someone other than Peeta taking care of me.

In my head, we're already married. But for him, I'll make it official.

For me, too, I will.

…

In the morning, the goats bleating outside wakes me up - but judging by the position of the sun, I should've been up hours ago. Peeta is still asleep beside me, his head resting in the crook of my neck as he inhales and exhales slowly. I don't get up right away - I allow myself a few minutes to lie with him, listen to his breath, and feel his heart thumping against my rib cage. I card my fingers through his hair, parsing it away from his face, and give him a lingering kiss on the forehead before slipping out of his loose grip. He doesn't stir when I rise, which means I can successfully sneak out of the house and make it to the backyard while he continues to sleep.

I head to the goats' pen and while I'm scooping their morning grain, I hear a medley of honks and curse words coming closer by the second. I look up after Hopscotch and Marigold dig in to see Haymitch tromping through the side yard, the geese on his heels as usual, shoulders hunched by his ears.

"Cold as all hell out here," he grumbles, then regards the geese. "These things woke me up at damn 4am. The grass had frost on it and they didn't know what the hell to think." Honk bites the leg of Haymitch's pants, which makes me laugh. Haymitch nudges him away with his foot, but Whiskey just comes at him from the other side. "Goddamn it!" he spits, shaking his head.

"Oh, leave him alone," I say to the geese, while absently scratching Marigold behind the ears. "You stole his beauty sleep."

"Ha," Haymitch grumbles. "You're chipper this morning."

The news is bubbling inside me - and who is there to tell but Haymitch? My mother, I guess, but Haymitch is who I see every day, who sees me and Peeta every day, the one who should know first.

Giddiness is a feeling I don't experience often, but right now I might be close to it.

I have a hard time looking at him when I say it, so I busy myself with picking straw out of the goats' fur. Pretty soon, my stomach is jumping too much for me to hold back any longer - I have to get it out.

"Peeta asked me to marry him," I say, and the words spill from me like I sprung a leak.

Haymitch freezes where he stands, but only for a moment. When I glance up, I see that there's a smile growing on his face - starting with the twinkle in his eyes. Then, he says, "Finally."

"What?" I say, abandoning the goats to cross my arms.

"He told me he was gonna do it weeks ago," Haymitch says. "Took him long enough."

So, I was right. It wasn't a spur of the moment deal - Peeta had been turning over the thought in his mind for a while. Of course he was - that's who he is. He never does anything impulsively, without thinking it over in every single way.

"Well…" I say, pulling on the end of my braid that rests on my shoulder. "I'm going to tell him yes."

Haymitch's head turns so fast that it makes both geese flutter in surprise. "You haven't answered the boy yet?" he crows.

"Well, I was almost asleep and then he was asleep and then… well… I… no," I say.

"Go on, then!" he says, shooing me towards the house. "Go on and do it. I'll finish up here."

With a giggle that's so unlike me, I trot away from Haymitch, the geese, and the goats, and hurry towards the house. Before I reach the porch, though, Haymitch calls my name one last time.

"Oh, and sweetheart?"

I turn to face him, expectant.

"For the sake of us all, shut your damn windows after he gives you that ring."

…

I let Peeta sleep for a while longer just because he looks so peaceful. I use the extra time to take a shower and freshen up - it's been a few days since I really scrubbed - and I leave my hair down and fragrant around my shoulders to air dry. He always tells me how much he likes my hair down.

When I come back downstairs, Peeta is still unconscious. His face is soft and serene - no nightmares - but I can't wait much longer. I push him a bit closer to wakefulness by choosing this moment to change the bandage on his foot. I don't use the alcohol on it, as it's already clean, but I put a new dressing on and make sure it's tight but not too tight.

Then, I run out of patience. I pull back the white knitted blanket that I had laid over Peeta and crawl under it with him, twining my limbs around his body in hopes to wake him. It works, too. His eyelashes, those insanely long eyelashes, flutter and then his blue eyes meet mine and instantly crinkle with a smile.

Before he can speak, I answer his question. With my arms around his waist and our hearts beating almost directly on top of each other, I whisper the word, "Yes."

It takes a moment to register - he did just wake up, after all - but when it does, the smile that erupts on his face nearly blinds me. "You will?" he says, his voice low and raspy like it always is in the morning.

I nod, running my fingers through the soft curls above his ear. "Yes," I say.

He kisses me, strong and sure, and cups the back of my head in one sturdy hand. When he pulls away, he says, "Hold on."

He slips a hand behind his back and roots around for a moment before emerging again, this time holding a small, dark blue box coated in velvet. He opens it to reveal a ring nestled on a plush little pillow - and not just any ring. It's a dainty silver thing, but with no diamond or other expected jewel in the middle. Instead, what sits in the center is my pearl, his pearl, the one he gave to me that kept me grounded when I most needed it.

"Katniss," he says, his voice so quiet that if we weren't centimeters away from each other, I might miss it. "Will you marry me?"

As I give him my hand in every sense, he slips the ring on my finger and it fits just perfectly. I look between the pearl and his sparkling eyes and say it again for good measure.

"Yes."

He kisses me, and as we smile against each other's mouths, he pulls me in close. We break apart and our smiles don't fade - there's no way they could.

With his hands mapping my back and his mouth on my neck, there's no denying that I want him - but getting him might prove to be a little difficult with his only foot being injured.

We communicate how to maneuver in less words than actions and I end up on top of him for the first time, both of us entirely naked as we celebrate the new union that we've promised to each other. It feels good - better than good, better than I knew connection could feel - to be with him like this.

With part of his body inside mine, he belongs to me and I belong to him. And all I can think of is something that I've known, in some capacity, for a while now. For us to find peace - the peace that we catch brighter glimpses of every day - we need to be together. Always. The war was hard fought and sorely won - and while there may be no true victors, the only way to heal is to heal together.

…

As Peeta's foot heals, he stays on the couch but is soon able to sit up. From there, we discuss wedding plans and there's a light behind his eyes that I hadn't realized was missing until it showed up.

Haymitch's words ring through my head: He wanted it to be real.

And now, it is.

"I don't want a big production," I say. I've just come in from outside, where I left Haymitch in the yard to supervise Honk and Whiskey's trimming of our lawn. "I've had enough of those for a lifetime."

I lay my head on Peeta's shoulder and he wraps an arm around me, tapping his toes on the wooden floor. Just yesterday, he was able to bear some weight on his foot to the kitchen and back - I've had to change his bandage less and less as the skin patches itself up. "No wedding dresses that weigh more than you do?" he asks.

I shake my head and run the pads of my fingers over what he's sketching which, if I'm not mistaken, is an intricately braided loaf of bread.

Changing the subject to what I'm looking at, I say, "You'll be able to get back to the kitchen soon, honey."

The term of endearment slips from my mouth without permission - it comes naturally, without judgment or calculation, but I still can't help but feel self-conscious after I hear myself say it.

"In your tea? Honey?" I say, clearing my throat and blinking hard to avoid his amused blue stare. "I'm making tea."

"Really?" he says. "We weren't talking about tea."

"Well, I feel like tea," I say, shooting him a look. We both know what I said and why I said it, but he's kind enough to let me get away with this. For now.

"I'm alright. Thank you, though," he says, and gently pulls me back to his side. "As you were saying, no big productions?"

"No," I say, shaking my head.

I'm relieved to be back on track with our conversation; this is something I can handle. I roll my eyes at myself, just slightly, because of how little sense I make. Even to myself. I'm talking about my plans to marry Peeta, my very real plans with very genuine feelings, yet I can't own up to calling him 'honey?' It's silly.

"It would just attract cameras," I grumble. "And I really don't need to hear how they think the girl on fire has let herself go or how the baker's boy could do so much better."

Peeta scoffs and says, "Stop it."

"I want to do a toasting," I say, tipping my chin to look up at him. "That's all."

He lifts it higher with his first knuckle, then practically debilitates me with how sweetly and softly he kisses me. "I do, too," he says.

"Just us. No guests, not my mother, not even Haymitch," I say. "Just me and you."

Anything else would feel like a show. I want a toasting, the two of us in front of the fire that we've come to know so well, sharing bread. In my mind, no other ceremony in the world could marry us.

"I like that," Peeta says. "I'll get to work on my vows."

I press a flat hand to his chest and say, "You'll show me up."

"With words, haven't I always?" he teases, and I scowl at him in return.

Even though there won't be an event for her to attend, there's a plan to tell my mother that Peeta and I are engaged over the phone - through a call that's not entirely of my own volition. I get the idea and Peeta encourages me to follow through, building me up for a few days until I finally pick up the phone on a Saturday when the sun streams in through the sheer curtains and Peeta is testing out his mobility with a crutch.

"Hi, Mom," I say, leaning against the wall while I watch Peeta hobble in slow circles around the kitchen island. His crutch makes a jarring hollow sound against the floor, but it's nice to see him moving.

"Katniss," she says, sounding surprised. "You never call. Is everything okay?"

She's right. The last time I called her out of the blue without a plan in place was to ask for the pregnancy prevention pills, then before that it was to tell her how bad Peeta had gotten. I don't typically call without occasion. But this is an occasion in itself.

"Yes, it's all fine." Then Peeta catches my eye - and he's smirking. "More than fine," I say. "I have news that I want to tell you."

"Okay," she says, cautious and curious.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She's the only one I plan on telling like this - Haymitch knew before Peeta ever asked me, and the rest of 12 doesn't need an announcement. But I suppose I owe my mother this grace. Even if we don't share much, it would feel wrong to keep this milestone from her.

I can think of someone else, someone small and blonde, who would have loved to hear it. I can imagine her jumping up and down, squealing, racing through the house to run her energy out. She'd ask a million questions and even though I probably wouldn't have answers, she'd bubble over with excitement.

But she's not here to share the engagement with. Peeta told me one night last week, as I let myself grow heavy with the somber weight of my sister, that she already knows - wherever she is. I'm not sure if I believe him, but I'm trying.

"Peeta asked me to marry him," I say. I feel his arms twine around my waist, then his hands clasp together across my stomach. He kisses the back of my shoulder and even I can hear the smile in my voice. "And I told him yes."

I'm not sure exactly what I expected from my mother, but her reaction surprises me. She's happy. She says that he's wonderful, that she hoped this would happen, that she loves me. And for the first time in a long time, not only do I listen to her, but I reciprocate. I tell her that I love her, too.

…

Peeta gets a leg replacement as summer fades and fall descends completely. He claims that it fits him perfectly and puts the old one to shame. I can't help but wonder what someone might think in a hundred years, or two hundred, or three, when the lake dries up and they find a metal leg at the bottom. It's an eerie, morose image at first, but when I tell Peeta about it - as I've gotten better at doing - he makes me laugh by saying that at least they'll find just one leg and not two.

It's October when Peeta takes me and Haymitch to see the progress being made on the bakery. He's especially proud of how it's coming along - the last time I came into town, all there was to see was bare bones and a lot of dirt. He promises us now that there's more - that we'll be able to see his vision coming to life.

We walk hand-in-hand along the dirt path that leads us there. Haymitch, unaccompanied by the geese for the first time in a while, lags a bit behind. The district is still in a state of disrepair, still gray in most places, but small improvements get made each day. At least, that's what Peeta tells me when he comes home every evening. His updates are what I look forward to; they're a piece of our routine that I can always count on. He finds something new to share every day.

It's still overwhelming for me to come into town on my own. But, as evidenced by today, I can be persuaded to come with him once in a while.

"Close your eyes," he tells me before we round that corner that will lead us there.

"I'll hit something," I retort.

He winds an arm around me from the side and keeps a good hold on my hip. "I won't let you," he says, then takes a step to urge me forward. "I'll tell you when you can open them."

We walk a few steps and he helps me turn the corner, then we come to a stop. The absence of footsteps lets me know that Haymitch has stopped, too - I wonder if his eyes are closed, then I remember who he is. His eyes are most definitely open.

"Okay…" Peeta says, swiping the braid off my shoulder. "Look."

I open my eyes to something I hadn't expected. A one story building, built solidly, with the outline of MELLARK'S BAKERY painted above the muted orange awning. I can only guess that Peeta will be the one to fill it in later. The storefront is lined with windows, through which I can imagine all the sweets he'll put on display. There's nothing inside now - not yet - but one day soon, there will be.

"Oh, Peeta," I say, still taking it all in. "Wow."

"You did good, boy," Haymitch says, then scoots past us to make his way inside.

"Come on," Peeta says, nodding towards the entrance. "I'll show you around."

I follow him inside with Haymitch leading the way, and we stop in the main area as Haymitch explores the nooks and crannies.

"The ovens will go here," Peeta says, pointing to a large empty space along the wall. "And I still have to order the counters and display cases and all of that." He looks around proudly, beaming at his sketches made real. "What do you think?"

"I think…" I say, following his eyes and examining the homey area myself. "It's perfect. It's just what you drew."

"Yeah," he says, then takes my hand and kisses it.

As we stand together in the still-empty bakery and Peeta talks excitedly about the jobs he's hoping to bring to 12 with this place, I disappear into my head - but not in a bad way. I remember the mental image I created months ago that involved a curly-haired little blonde boy with his father, and it comes back easily. But this time, along with that child comes a willowy little girl - not too tall, but with graceful legs that dance around the display cases that have yet to be installed in real time. But inside my head, they're there - and they act as her audience as she dances with her reflection in the glass.

The image is fleeting, lovely, and terrifying. When I come back to the present, Peeta is looking at me expectantly like he just asked a question and is waiting for my answer.

I say his name and it comes out like a tenuous prayer. "Peeta," I say.

He watches me and waits for me to speak, but I don't know what to say. I don't know how to explain what I saw - how badly I want it, and how badly the thought of them coming to life makes me want to run and run and never stop.

"Nothing," I say with a smile, and he smiles back.

Then, Haymitch joins us again and says, "Alright, both of you outside."

"What for?" Peeta asks.

He pulls something out of the deep pocket of the coat he always wears and wags it in the air - a camera. "Gonna get your picture. Since you two want to be so private with your nuptials, it's the least you can do for your old mentor. I'll even give you a copy of it." Peeta seems eager, but I hesitate. Haymitch groans and rolls his eyes. "Effie won't get off my ass," he grumbles. "If you value my sanity, you'll get outside and pose."

I smile - I can't help it. I can only imagine Effie nagging Haymitch day after day, over the phone, through the mail, to get him to send her a photo of us. It's probably killing her that we chose to forego a traditional wedding, so Haymitch is right. This is the least we can do. Effie was always kind to us, in her way. This is how we can return that kindness, and she did always value manners.

"Okay," I concede, and pull Peeta through the door.

We stay on the porch and Haymitch takes a few steps down the path in order to get the building in the shot, too. He puts the camera up to his eye, frames the shot, but he doesn't press the button. Instead, he lowers the camera and looks at us for a long moment, a strangely serene look on his face when he says the word: "Smile."

And we do.

…

Our copy of the photo sits in a silver frame on the mantel, along with the group of other photos and drawings we've accrued over the past however-long, and it fits right in. In the right light and with a little imagination, it reminds me of the photo of my mother and father that I remember so well.

On the night of mine and Peeta's toasting on the first page of winter, I feel how they felt in that photo. It's only a guess, of course, but it wasn't just any emotion in their eyes as they gazed at each other.

We wanted to wait until winter because this is when the fireplace feels the most apt. It might have been silly to wait, but it felt right and we both agreed - so now, tonight, we're getting ready in separate rooms and we'll meet in the hall once we're finished.

I haven't worn a dress for over a year, but it's nothing torturous when I slip the ivory linen over my head - this was Effie's wedding gift. She begged me to let her send something and I finally acquiesced on one condition: That she keep it simple. And she followed through with that promise. The dress has long sleeves, a high collar, and a trimmed waist. It's fitted but not tight, and reaches my ankles. I'm comfortable, I feel pretty, but most importantly - I look like myself.

I braid my hair in the intricate way that my mother used to. She taught me how to do it over the phone, as I'd never done it myself, and it took some practice but I'm not too bad. The end result looks nothing like what she's capable of, but the idea is there. And it's good enough for me. I'm sure it will be good enough for Peeta, too.

I touch my thumb to the pearl ring on my finger, relishing the coolness that it never lost and never will. As I spin the band around, I look in the mirror and meet my eyes for a long moment, then decide that I'm ready.

I open the door and Peeta opens his at the same time. We lock eyes and stop in our tracks, startled, then break out in bashful grins.

"This is silly," he says, stepping towards me. He looks handsome, dressed in pressed pants and a pale blue button-up shirt. "We see each other every day, but you…" His eyes travel up and down my body before landing on my face again. "I don't know," he breathes.

I take his hand reassuringly and squeeze it once. "Let's go," I say, then walk down the stairs beside him.

I've made plenty of fires for Peeta and he's made plenty of fires for me, but this is the first that we'll kindle together - and it will signify so much. My stomach is alive with nerves and my palm sweats inside his, but he steadies me as we kneel on the hearth together and gather our supplies.

Peeta arranges the logs and I make the spark, which seems only fitting. When the first embers light, the flames play over his skin and remind me of the scars that we've gathered to make it to this place. But tonight, I won't linger on our scars and neither will he.

As the fire grows, Peeta picks up the loaf of bread that we baked earlier this afternoon, breaks the end off, then splits it. The inside is soft and fragrant, and I don't resist the urge to press it to my nose and breathe in. He smiles at me and nods towards the fire, and I follow his lead. We toast the bread together and when it's finished, we hold the halves in our hands and he starts talking.

"You already know that it started the moment I saw you," he says. His voice is quiet, meant just for me. "But that infatuation, that crush, was nothing compared to what I feel now. What I have for you that grows every day. I fall in love with you deeper when you let the goats chase you, when you laugh with Haymitch, when you scowl as you knit." I smile a little at that. "I fall for you deeper when you pull me out of nightmares, when you watch me paint, when you remind me that I'm not alone. I fall in love with you a little more every day," he says. "And for as long as we both live, that won't change."

My breath catches in my throat when he finishes, then I realize that it's my turn. I don't know how he can expect me to speak as I'm busy soaking up his beautiful words; it's lucky that I thought to write my own vows down.

I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket, then smooth it out on my thigh before reading what I've been trying to piece together correctly for weeks. It's not very long, but it's the closest I've been able to come to what I want to say.

"Peeta, you saved me with burnt bread once," I say, looking between the bread we hold in our hands and his eyes. "And now, with it, we'll save each other."

With a soft smile that tells me he understands exactly what I'm saying, he offers his half of the bread to me. "For my wife," he says.

I do the same for him. I offer mine and say, "For my husband."