I close the door gently behind me and step out into the cool, rainy night, wearing just my dirty mid-thigh length light-pink dress with long sleeves (which I cuffed), brown, leather peasant oxfords, and my long white jacket. As I run silently and quickly to no direction in particular, I begin to hate myself fervently for what I've just done.

"Will you marry me?" was the question Marvel had asked me before I had simply left him kneeling on the rough wooden floor. He had called out to me, "Wait!" before I simply just left.

What a horrible person I am! Marvel promised to protect me in the arena; he had suffered in the hands of President Snow at my cost. He had provided for me after the Games, risking his health and sanity for me. And here I am doing him the ultimate disrespect; I leave him when he gives me his whole heart and soul.

If I were him, I would leave me.

Better yet, I would expose me.

This black-blue night is eerily silent, which I remark when I slow my run down to a brisk walk. The rain has gotten even heavier, drenching my thick hair so that it virtually offers no warmth. Rubbing my hands together in order to warm them, I find myself miles away from home and in Victor's Village. I have no idea how I got here. I look around at the dozens of houses made for the many victors that never existed. Except for three homes that are brightly lit from the inside, illuminating their perfectly manicured lawns kept by the groundskeepers. I slow my pace to stroll casually and slowly in order to peer through some of the windows of the identical homes.

In the first house, I only see the light of about two lanterns in the living room. I assume that house must belong to the drunkard of a man Haymitch Abernathy, the mentor to Katniss and Peeta during the 74th Games.

I stroll past the second home, seeing a little girl with blond pigtails carrying a mug of something, wearing a neat blue nightgown and fuzzy slippers. That must be Katniss's little sister, I think, walking onto the next home.

The next home is the most brightly lit house, and as I look up I can see a room with painting easels all over the place. I can't really get a glimpse at the paintings; all I can see is that they are of vivid colors so lifelike that they evoke goosebumps on my skin. Or is that just the rain?

Something in the corner of that room catches my eye. A flash of blond hair. A glimpse of red, plaid flannel pajama pants. A masculine hand grabbing a long, thin paintbrush from its cup of water. A flash of hope crosses my mind. I do the second stupidest thing I've done today and decide to go to the house. Instead of ringing the doorbell in the conventional fashion most people would've chosen, I knock heavily on the dark, smooth wooden door. Hurried footsteps thud down the stairs as I relentlessly bang on the door.

Disgruntled mumbling comes from just the other side of the door and when it opens, surprise smacks me in the face (even though I had expected this in the first place). Arms crossed, Peeta stands staring at me. He is shirtless, and I see how well he has recovered since the Games. That is, except for that prosthetic leg. I note that he still needs work on standing with that, seeing how his stance wavers back and forth ever-so-slightly. "Bree?" he asks earnestly, eyebrows raised in extreme surprise and, simultaneously, elation.

I open my mouth to speak, but my voice produces nothing. Instead, I just stand there looking dumb, wet, and cold.

"A-are you okay? You look cold. Here," he says, taking my icy hand in his own warm, dry one. "Come inside."

I walk inside and take in the magnificence of the home. The house has some blue accents here and there, like the curtains and the couch. A tiered chandelier hangs in the receiving parlor, where I stand now. Large portraits of noteworthy presidents (only two, might I add) and mayors of District 12 hang. Peeta leads me further into the open kitchen and living room, where he grabs a quilt and kindly—but carefully—wraps it around my shoulders. He rests his hand upon my upper back as he leads me into the kitchen, where I sit on a barstool at the counter.

Peeta silently fixes me a cup of some sort of hot, sweet, chocolate-smelling concoction with whipped cream on top. As he sets it in front of me, I know he sees my skeptical expression because he says, "It's called hot chocolate. I had it in the Capitol. It's awesome."

I take a small sip of the stuff, and instantly, a sweet, swirly flavor fills my mouth. I can't help but moan in pleasure. "This…this is…wow. Just wow," I say, an uncontrollable smile spreading across my face. This is one of the most genuine smiles I have had since before the Games.

Peeta laughs heartily and wipes the frothy white mustache from my upper lip with his thumb. "I knew you'd like it," he says quietly. Then, the smiles are gone, and it's just us; me staring at my cup of hot chocolate, and him staring at me. He then breaks the silence. "Why did you come here?"

Oh boy. "I…Well, it's a long story."

I look up and see him stares at me intensely. I had forgotten how beautiful his almost unnaturally blue eyes were. He raises an eyebrow. "I have time."

"Well," I begin, looking down again. "Marvel asked me to marry him."

The silence overcomes us again, leaving my statement hanging ominously in the air. Peeta breaks the silence once more. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Bree. You had to have had some sort of verbal reaction to that. You just don't get asked to marry someone and then not have something to say," he says impatiently.

I set down my mug of hot chocolate and look him directly in his hardened eyes. "No, Peeta. I literally said nothing. I just walked out of the house and left him kneeling there. I didn't know what to do. I just found myself here."

I think he's realized the coldness of what I've done to Marvel. Peeta softens and grips the countertop gently. "Wow. That's…not really the best approach to take, honey. Do you want to marry him?"

"I—I don't know."

"But you love him…?" he asks. "Don't think I haven't seen the replay of the Games. You told him you loved him."

"I do love him," I say, once again lowering my eyes in shame.

"Then why not say yes?"

"Because," I whisper as I my hand on top of his. "Because there are other…conflicts."

He gets what I am hinting at, because he moves his hand away from mine and walks to the window in front of the sink. His back facing me, he speaks. "I…I have been quite lonely in these past few months."

I can't believe that. "You? Everyone loves you, Peeta."

"Yeah, everyone except for the people I love most."

"Which would be?"

Peeta whips his head around. "My parents…My brothers…Katniss," he hesitates. "You."

"How can you say that? Here I am in front of you, in your house!" I cry angrily.

"Bree, I thought you were dead! But you've been alive and in District 12 all this time, and you never had the decency to come and visit me so that I could know you're okay? So that I wouldn't have horribly vivid nightmares every night about Cato stabbing you over and over and over again? So that I wouldn't cry almost every night, feeling guilty that I had allowed you to leave Katniss and me alone in that cave as you went off and died?" He is bright red in rage now, and I grow afraid because I've never seen him this way. "So yes," he continues. "I suppose you could understand why I would be upset with you!"

This is enough to throw me off the edge, so I start crying like a blubbering buffoon. "I just…"

"You didn't think!" he cries, but when he realizes how his tone has affected my already crappy mood, he softens his tone slightly. "You don't think, just like how you didn't think when Marvel asked you to marry him."

"Thanks, Peeta," I sob. "Thanks for making me feel even worse about myself." I get up to leave, but he grabs my hand gently.

Desperation is clearly in his voice. "Bree, wait," he pleads. "I'm so sorry; I've just been on edge lately. Stay the night, so I at least know you have somewhere to sleep."

I stop sniveling and wipe my nose on my sleeve. "Okay."

"I don't really have any girl clothes for you to sleep in," he says lightly, making me laugh a little. "You can borrow some of mine."

I follow him upstairs to his huge room, where he grabs a pair of flannel pajama pants that are identical to his (except these ones are blue) and an oversized, v-neck white t-shirt. "Think this'll do? They'll probably be ginormous on you," he points out.

"Yeah, they're fine," I say quickly. "Where are your parents and brothers?"

"Asleep. They all sleep like sloths."

I slide on the nightclothes right in front of him; it's not like he hasn't seen me in my underwear before. "A perfect fit," I joke, seeing that both of the garments hang as though they are about to fall off of my body.

Peeta plays along, lightening the mood like always. "That's a good look on you, girl!" He smiles broadly, and I think that his smile might just be the best thing I've ever seen.

We sit on his bed, and begin to talk. I tell him all about what happened to Marvel and I at the Capitol, and tell him why I was so afraid to visit him after the Games. "What about you, Peeta? What happened to you and Katniss after the Hunger Games?"

His face grows serious, which makes him see, decades older, even though he is only a year and a half older than me. "Well, she told me that she didn't really love me. That basically everything that happened in the cave was a front so that we could survive," he shakes his head wistfully. "And to think she actually had me fooled that she loved me back."

I feel so sorry for him. At least I got somewhat of a shot at happily ever after with the boy I love, but Peeta got nothing. Nobody, not even his family, wanted to be bothered with him. I let him rest his head on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Peeta."

"You're here, though, Bree, and that's a consolation to me in the least."

"But you love Katniss more…"

"Correction," he declares, resting his hand on my thigh. "I've loved her longer."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if I had a choice in the matter right now," he articulates carefully. "I would choose you. And I told you that in the cave."

I stroke his head in smooth strokes. "Why don't you have that choice?"

Peeta sighs in frustration. "It's complicated. My love for her kind of overshadows almost everything that is important to me. In addition to that, though, you have to add in the factor that we are supposed to be madly in love, so I can't choose what I want anymore. Even though I do want Katniss."

"You make no sense."

He sits up now, staring me down. "I know."

And we just sit there, watching each other for a while, until he says, "You look like an angel, Bree."

"What?"

"You look like an angel. You're so beautiful, especially here, illuminated with nothing but the moonlight."

"You know," I start. "I was just thinking the exact same thing about you."

"Not me. But certainly you."

I crawl over to him, and he kisses my forehead gently. "Get some sleep," he says, picking me up suddenly and tucking me into his bed.

A surprisingly childish tone takes over me voice. "Stay here, with me."

He looks at me for a long moment, and then curls up under the covers, arms wrapped around me securely. It is in this exact moment when I realize that no other moment could be this perfect. Not being with Marvel. Not being in "heaven" when I died. I am meant to be here simply and innocently with Peeta. It's just him and me in our own angelic little world, and nothing else matters.