A/N: So... hi again. Longer chapter this time. I'm still making some adjustments to the next ones so for the meantime here's chapter three. Hope you like it!

Oh, and P.S: feel free to ask and suggest things to me.

For a considerable amount of minutes, we just walked around and around the woods until we found my father's cabin. It was a bit hard to find since we forgot to bring a torch with us, the only thing lighting the way was the moon, which wasn't pretty bad.

Peeta opens the door carefully, like someone might be sleeping inside, then I lead him to settle in front of the hearth. He lights it up instead of me since he's more familiar with fire. Keeping ourselves warm under the blanket, pressed side by side each other, we find comfort and peace.

"When I was a kid," Peeta says. "My father used to bake these cookies frosted with different flowers and leaves and I remember asking him if I could have one because they looked really appetizing. The colors on the frosting were very vibrant. I wanted to taste them so bad. He told me no, though, because those were for the customers. Of course I felt bad, but I understood." He smiles.

"If there was one thing in the world that I understood at that age—I was probably 10 or 11, hell, I didn't even understand why my mom hits us, or probably me, when I make a very small mistake like I forgot to do this or that or I was a few minutes late, she'd hit me, hard. I never understood that—but this, I did understand. Put other people first before you. If I can't help myself, maybe I can help the people around me. Maybe that's why everybody deems me 'too kind' and things."

I'm speechless. What do you reply to that? I ponder, then I joke, "Well, you are too kind sometimes." Like taking a beating for a girl you hardly know?

"Bad habits die hard, you know."

"Yeah," I breathe, guiltily. "I haven't grown out of my own."

"Oh?"

"I'm grumpy, irritable, arrogant, unforgiving, and lethal. Basically, rude."

"You are not."

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, trust me on this," he says. "I wouldn't be here if you were, anyway.

Peeta's comment had a bad ring to it, like he would leave me if I ever turn sour but I don't dwell on it. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way. And besides, I've been as good as dead on some days but he never left. He even took care of me.

"I'm sleepy," he whispers.

I pull the blanket up to our chins and scoot closer to him. The air is turning colder and colder every day. "Then sleep, Peeta."

"Okay," he murmurs. "Goodnight, Katniss."

"Goodnight, Peeta."

In the days following that overnight stay, Peeta and I had gotten even closer. Maybe I don't even have to tell him what I've worked out in my head anymore. Judging by his actions, it's like he knows it anyway. Every day, he brings me a treat from his bakery, most of the time it's "something new" and a cheese bun. It's a miracle I still fit into my clothes. He holds my hand all throughout our walks. I take this opportunity and start doing things for him, too. When I wake up earlier than him, I make him a cup of hot chocolate and leave it on the bedside table.

I… I think I should do more things for him, if I want him to feel… special.

I'm sitting cross-legged on our bed, him lying face down beside me, his one hand on my knee, when he jolts out of his sleep, looks at me, the look of realization on his face, then whispers, "Cake."

I have never laughed so hard in my life.

He shoots me a look of confusion, so I explain, "I'm sorry but you literally woke up so suddenly, like an alarm went off in your head then you whispered 'cake'." He seems to be imagining the scenario because after several seconds he grins, mussed up hair and all.

"I would have laughed at you, too, if you woke up like I did then said 'Squirrels," he teases.

"Oh, shut up," I reach out and place my hand flat on his face. He closes his eyes and scrunches up his nose. Cute.

Oh my God. I just thought he's cute.

I'm still not used to these feelings.

"Oh, by the way, I got an order for a wedding cake yesterday, hence the 'cake' whisper and I'm going to be working on the frosting later, want to help?"

I say yes, partly because of me wanting to do more things for him and also partly because I like watching him work.

After twelve hours and four kilograms of frosting, we're finally on our bed, he's reading a book. I'm just lying around and waiting for sleep to come.

"Hey, Katniss, you awake?" he asks.

"Hm?"

"I have something to tell you." I sit up and face him. "Don't be mad at me." He gulps, clenches his jaw.

I think I know where this is going. I'm not sure what I feel about this. He must have seen the fear etched on my face because he tells me that he could tell me this another time. He says goodnight, turns the lamp off, and lies with his back at me. I didn't want to stop him; I was afraid we'd have this conversation again soon but I never wanted to stop him from telling me how he feels, because I was half-expecting that I'd know the answers to the questions I have left on my mind. Maybe once I'm certain, once he had confirmed everything, it would confirm everything in me, too.

All I have are questions. He has answers.

"Peeta?" I inch closer. It's either he's genuinely asleep or he's a great actor. I prefer the former than the latter. "Peeta?" I try again. He doesn't budge. He rarely gets upset so I'm not sure how to deal with his side of him.

What does he do when I'm upset?

I can feel a headache coming from trying to remember. He's better at this. I'm the one who sulks, he's the one who comforts.

Yes, comfort.

I wrap my arm around his torso and press myself to his back. He does this when I'm upset. Now what does he tell me?

Screw this. I'm not Peeta. I'm entitled to my own thoughts. But I still don't know what to say. Maybe I could tell him what I think? Or what I feel? I tick off every feeling I felt.

1. I was scared. But I won't ever be not scared when it comes to these things. Emotions and I don't really get along well.

2. I don't think I'm ready.

3. I'm afraid I'd disappoint him. But I'm always afraid to disappoint him.

4. When he turned his back on me I felt bad. I never wanted to upset him.

5. I—

Yes. "I never wanted to upset you." I say. "I'm sorry. Goodnight, Peeta."

I don't want to keep him from telling me how he feels. I need them to clear my mind. At the last minute I press a kiss on the base of his neck.

When I wake up, I'm snuggled against his chest. His arm is draped over me, his breath tickling my forehead. I pull back a few inches and see that he's already awake. "Hi," I say.

"Hey," he gives me one of those contagious shy smiles. "I'm sorry about last night."

"That's okay, I do that all the time," I laugh guiltily. "I never thought it was that hard to deal with an upset person."

"You know, we have a very bad habit of apologizing to one another."

"Yeah. I guess I'm sorry?"

This brings out a laugh from him, a deep reverberating sound that I believe could stop civil wars. "Well, I'm sorry, too."

The phone rings somewhere downstairs and bursts our little bubble of peace. "I'll get it," he says.

Peeta attaches his prosthetic, stands, then leaves. I'm left on my own, sitting on our bed entangled in the sheets. He comes up a bit later, his mouth slightly opened. It does that whenever he senses or knows something awful is coming.

"I have some news," he starts.

I feign innocence and raise my eyebrows. "What is it?"

He opens his mouth and it stays there for a second. "I need to go to the Capitol."

No.

He can't go back to the Capitol. They might try and take him away from me again. We've come so far! He's almost there, he can't-

"It's just for checkup, don't worry! They just need do some tests to see if my brain's holding up nicely and if they need to adjust my meds." Once again, I'm surprised by how Peeta can predict my thoughts. Times like this mess with my brain, tricks me into thinking that nothing has changed, that Peeta never got hijacked, that I never lost him. But usually after a certain amount of time, the world always makes it a point that I don't forget what Snow did to Peeta.

I'm still anxious. I can't go with him, I'm banished to stay here in Twelve until they tell me otherwise. "When are you leaving?"

He sighs, takes my hand and says, "Tomorrow."

I help him pack his things after we've eaten our brunch. Today's Wednesday, our joint day off. Instead of going out or doing something enjoyable, we're obliged to spend our afternoon reluctantly packing his things into two of Peeta's leather briefcases.

Once we're done, he asks me to help him bake some loaves for our dinner. We do this silently, the weight of being separated, of spending nights alone, of spending hours worrying about the other's safety, pinning our moods down. We eat silently, and go to bed without another word, too.

Peeta's train is set to leave at 8 in the morning, so we get up at around past 6 for preparations. I make sure he has everything he needs, that he can bring, with him, in those bags we packed together.

Hand in hand, we trudge up the path to the train station. People from town greet us happily, too happily for they don't know what's going on at this moment, but we manage to give them some smiles.

"Train from District 12 bound for the Capitol is now boarding. Please prepare your train tickets to avoid delays. Thank you." The announcer booms. Passengers fall in line by the side of the train. I join Peeta.

"I guess this is goodbye," he says to me while the line moves.

"For now," I add.

He smiles, "Yes, for now." He opens his mouth to say something but the man in charge of the tickets interrupts him. "Your ticket, sir."

He hands it to him, turns to me, and touches my cheek lightly, his eyes sad, before disappearing into the train. I see him again though, peering out a window, probably searching for me. I walk over to his window and he sees me too. I place my palm flat on my side of the glass and he places his on top of mine on the other side of the glass. I smile at the sight of our hands against each other, the obvious differences, how his skin is lighter, and his hand bigger, but just as scarred. The train horn sounds, and after one, two, three heartbeats, I'm left to the sound of my own.

I walk back to our house and do nothing all day. My thoughts are all… Peeta. Where he is, what he's eating, what he's doing, is he safe, is he thinking of me, too. When I've shaken myself out of my thoughts, the sun is already sinking. Probably 5 in the afternoon, judging by the shadows. I decide to skip dinner since I don't have the appetite and go straight to bed. I'm scared for what my nightmares would bring tonight. I debate on sleeping or not sleeping, but convince myself that waiting up all night would be longer than drifting off to sleep.

At midnight, I'm up again. My throat hoarse from all the screaming an hour ago. I can't exactly call Peeta because he's probably still on the train and is probably asleep. I wish he isn't. A part of me wishes he's awake, too.

The tea I made for myself has cooled down and I drain it on the sink. So much for trying to find alternatives. I clean the house, hoping I could get my mind off of him even just for some hours. After I've swept every inch of floor space this house has, I plunk down the couch in our living room. The clock reads 6 in the morning.

A day off of your countdown, I think to myself.

God, is this even healthy?

I'm stuck pondering on that question for almost an hour. I'm afraid this answers the questions buried at the back of my mind. But how can I be sure?

I can't talk about love with Haymitch. He'd probably just offer me liquor to drink. Effie would read too much into it. I have no other friends here in Twelve.

Prim's gone.

I've only known three persons in my life who I'm sure have sincerely felt love, two of them gone forever, the other miles away from me, taking care of everybody else except her daughter.

Maybe it's not too late to rebuild our relationship. As much as I hated her in the past, I miss her too much in the present. This is one of the things I'm certain I could only ask for advice from her.

I dial the number she sent to me months back, in her first and last letter to me since she moved to District Four. After a couple of rings, someone picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, mom."

"Katniss," she breathes out. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I- I- didn't want to leave you. It's just- it's too painful for me there in Twelve." Her voice is livelier in a way that it carries more emotion now. Maybe her moving to settle in another district has helped her.

"It's okay, I understand." I tell her, because I do. Remember what I told you about crying for hours when I first entered the cabin near the lake?

"You do?" she asks, her tone a mix of disbelief and astonishment.

"Yeah."

"Thank you," she says shyly. "Why did you call anyway, dear? Do you want me to get Annie?"

"Actually, mom, I wanted to ask you some things."

"You need my help?"

"Yes," I admit. I can almost imagine her smile at my admission.

"What is it you want to ask?"

A beat passes. "… How do you know you love someone?" I hope she doesn't pry.

"Oh," she inhales. I imagine her pursing her lips, like she used to do when she's thinking. "First, you have to understand that there are different kinds of love.

"There's the love that bonds a parent to his child. That love could outlast anything. Because no matter what happens, a mother and a father would always love his or her child.

"Then there's the love a sibling has for another sibling. Most people say that's subjective, whether it lasts or not. But I think it isn't. No matter what happens, you'll always be bonded to your sibling, and that forces you to love him or her for whoever he or she is.

"There's for friends, even for pets and others but I think I know what you're talking about. The one that involves a woman and a man?"

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly. "Mom… how and when did you know you loved dad?"

"For us, it was like we just knew, you know?" Her voice cracks a little at the end. "When I was younger, I always sought for my parents' approval. I never wanted to disappoint them, I was the perfect daughter, much like you and Prim. And I never did disappoint them, not until I fell in love with your father. You could guess they didn't approve of that. But whenever your father and I would meet up, I forget about my parents. It's all about him and me. He makes me happy." I hear her sniff. "He made me happy, Katniss. He— he made me experience a joy I never saw in my parents. I guess that's when I knew I really loved him."

I've forgotten that my mom left everything behind for my father— for us. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Did you love the baker?"

My mom's answer came quicker than I expected. "Yes, I did. But as I've told you before, there are different kinds of love. I loved him in a different way."

"Mom?" I say again.

"What is it?"

"I'm— I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been that angry at you after…"

"Oh, don't be sorry, Katniss. You had every reason to be angry. I wasn't the mother I was supposed to be, especially when you needed me. It was my fault."

"Well… I guess let's just say I'm not mad at you anymore."

She sighs, "Thank you, dear. For forgiving me."

We're silent for a while, then she speaks, "Is this about you and Peeta?"

My eyes widen and I get the urge to deny it, but it's obvious, isn't it? Who else is there that I could have started to fall for? "Yeah."

I know she's smiling. "Fill me up then. Maybe I could help you decipher what you're feeling… if you want to, of course."

I think about it, then proceed to do so because this is my mom, after all. If we both want to try and fix our relationship then maybe we could start here. I tell her about him, where he is right now, and what I've been doing for the past day, which is mostly worrying about him. I tell her about how close we've gotten, where it started, how it progressed. For once in my life I decide to let her know everything about something. When I've finished, she's silent. Probably piecing up ideas and weaving conclusions.

"Katniss, you're an adult now. I'm not going to put ideas in your head, it might confuse you. But here's what I can tell you. Or actually, what I want to ask you: if Peeta never comes back, what would you do?"

My mind automatically fills up with images from my nightmares, Peeta dies a thousand times and a thousand ways in my head. Suddenly I want to cry, I feel my throat and lungs tightening, my heart trying to pound its way out, my head spinning—

"Katniss? Are you okay? Are you there?"

Mom. On the phone. Calm down, Katniss. Peeta's fine. "Sorry about that. I guess I got overwhelmed." I take deep breaths.

"Dear?"

"I…" I trail off. I would kill myself. Or be as good as dead. I'd probably spend the rest of my life trying to think my way out of this world. Days spent staring at the wall, wishing for him to come back. Nights spent screaming his name, for him to run for his life. "I would die, too."

"I knew you'd say that," she says calmly. "To be completely honest, dear, I don't think you're confused. You're just afraid." I imagine her pursing her lips again. "But that's okay. It's always okay to be afraid."

A/N: Just in case it wasn't clear, I do not own The Hunger Games and any of its characters. They're Suzanne Collins', though I hope someday I could create a story that could affect and inspire people the way her story did.

Reviews, follows and favorites are highly appreciated! Thanks to the first couple of readers who did!