Peeta's bakery takes months to complete. As each new element comes to be, his smiles come a little easier. His laughter is freer. When the foundation is poured, we celebrate with rabbit and cider I distilled in the fall. When the frame goes up, we carve our initials in the load-bearing beam across the kitchen ceiling. When the walls go up, we sneak in at night and make love under the stars. Our hearts heal, our bodies collide, our wounds mend, our scars fade.
It happens one night in early summer. I'm lying there in our bed, watching him sleep. My body is wrapped in our sheet and nothing else. The room smells of sweat and love. Peeta's arm is draped across my body, his face nuzzled into my neck. His skin is hot against mine. The pale moonlight traces its way across his sun-kissed back. His breathing is soft and steady. His heart is strong and constant.
"Peeta," I whisper to him.
"Hmmm?" he asks, without opening his eyes. Without waking up, really.
"Peeta… marry me." I don't ask. I just say it.
"Mmhmmm…" he nods, and drifts back out.
"Peeta!" I shake his shoulder and he props himself up.
"Hey, you okay?" He asks as he rubs his eyes. Peeta rests a hand on my face, his forehead etched with quiet concern.
"Marry me," I say again. I don't think it's registered because he's still looking at me with sleepy eyes. "Peeta. Marry me."
Peeta's face transforms. "Are you serious?" he asks, grabbing my hands.
"Of course I'm serious," I say.
"Woo hoo!" he cries out into the night. He's bouncing on the bed now, energy boiling over. I've never thought too deeply about the term overjoyed before, but he has so much joy it is literally impossible to contain. He is overjoyed. His mouth is on mine and he's flattened me against the bed. He's running his lips all over my body. He sits up on his knees, grabs my legs and pulls me into him, pressing our bodies together as he wraps his arms around me. "I will marry you every day for the rest of my life if you want me to." He kisses my shoulder, my collar bone. His lips linger as he trails down my chest. I sigh and fall into him.
"Peeta," I whisper. "I want to get married now. Tonight." His eyes meet mine, and they are full of tears. I bat my eyes and realize mine are as well. This room is emanating joy.
"I'd have married you in kindergarten if you'd let me. I don't want to wait any longer either," he says.
I stand from the bed and wrap the white sheet around my body. It's not much for a wedding dress - ivory, shapeless, and plain, but it smells like us. It trails behind me a little, and I lift the bottom so as not to trip on the stairs. Peeta grabs some pajama pants from his dresser and takes the stairs two at a time. I sit in the living room and start a fire. It's already so hot in the dry, summer night, and soon the fire is roaring. Peeta brings in a slice of bread from the loaf he made this morning. It's filled with nuts and raisins. I recognize this bread from my childhood. It's hearty. It's filling. It's life.
Peeta joins me sitting in front of the fire. It crackles and pops like music. I take everything in. The white sheet billows from my body as a breeze chases its way through our living room. We're finally here, in our home. Peeta has painted motifs on our walls – the lake, the ocean in 4, the Meadow. It feels alive. All around the house, perched on window sills and tucked in corners, are things Prim thought were pretty – a white rock, a dried flower, a bird's feather. And propped in front of the fire is the boy with the bread. We've both grown. Too fast, but not fast enough to reach this moment.
I'm overcome with the emotion of it all. The symbolism. Our home. The bread. The fire. Once again, my life is churning in repetitive circles, but if I could live this moment again and again I would. I close my eyes and see him toss the bread in the rain. I watch him on the train, dunking his bread in his hot cocoa. I copy him and feel the sweet chocolate invade my senses. I watch Cinna set us ablaze. I catch us in the screens, brilliant and burning like a sun. I see him kill that girl in front of the fire. His heart breaking in mercy and pain. I see myself, running from fireballs and feeling the first of many scorches to my body. I hold the bread from District 11, an unprecedented gift of thanks in the Arena, and think back to Peeta telling me about breads across Panem. I kiss Peeta, and feel my body ablaze, a hunger churning inside me. I see him standing in Haymitch's kitchen, cold and guarded, slicing bread for our mentor. I taste the cheese buns he made for me after I hurt my foot. Things move faster then. The parade. The picnic. My dress in flames as I spin. The sea green bread. The Arena walls crumbling in an inferno. Losing him. Hallways and closets and bread that hurt my teeth. My prep team, beaten and starved over a slice of bread. The war. The bombing. Peeta and I kindled in flames.
And then home.
Bread for hello.
Bread for I'm sorry.
Bread for I love you.
Fire for warmth.
Fire for light.
Fire for an oath.
Peeta takes my hand in his. I think he's going to soliloquize his love, but instead he just tears the bread in half and hands me a piece. It's small, laying in the palm of my hand. I hold it to the fire and feel the tips of my fingers complain about the heat. The bread chars. I watch Peeta do the same.
We are quiet and still. We don't need to make promises aloud. We know what we are giving to each other. My soul ignites. I lift the bread to Peeta's mouth and his lips ghost my fingers. He lifts his bread to mine, toasted and warm.
"Peeta," I breathe. He lifts an eyebrow at me. "Stay with me."
He brings his mouth to mine and kisses me like I'm made of porcelain. Delicate. Still.
And he whispers the only promise that's ever mattered. "Always."