There is a quiet thump, a hushed laugh, the gentle tug of fingers running through my hair, soft hands smoothing wayward strands down behind my ears.

Then there is swift pain as a tiny fist explodes against my nose, and the dark canvases of my eyelids shatter into flaring arcs of stars as I yelp in pain, as tears squeeze out and streak false warmth down my cheeks.

When I can finally see through the meager light filtering in through the window above the kitchen sink, I can make out a pair of blue eyes looking at me innocently, dark hair framing chubby cheeks and the perfect rosebud of a mouth that is a gift from her father.

"Willow!" I shout in exasperation, and she gives me an exquisitely beautiful smile.

"Momma woke up," she exclaims in faux surprise, and I drag a hand across my aching nose and swing my legs over the edge of the kitchen table.

"Momma woke up," I agree with her dryly, and then it all hits me. Flowers in the sink. The soft crease of well-worn paper.

Not you-

But her-

and I look around for Peeta.

"Where's daddy?" I ask her quietly, and she points to the chair behind me.

"Night night" she confides, and I crane my head to look at him, find him with his head pillowed onto one arm, the other stretched out across the heavy wood. The skin beneath his eyes is stained with a pair of black creases and his cheeks are pale, so pale.

"Go play in your room," I whisper to her, and she thinks about this for a long moment, her mouth twisting as she decides whether or not it is worth putting up a fuss this early in the morning.

"I'll let you paint on the walls," I promise her coaxingly, and she studies me with a manipulative eye far too sharp for her three years.

"On Graymush's walls," she counters, and at my acquiescent shrug she laughs to herself and lopes away, leaving the kitchen quiet as I slide off of the table and make my way around to Peeta.

His eyes are racing behind the lids and one foot is drumming against the wood when I bend down and touch his shoulder, and he goes from asleep to awake in less than a second, his eyes flashing steely blue as the pupils dilate and shrink and dilate, as he sucks in a harsh rattling breath, as I take a learned step backwards and make sure my face is in the light.

"It's Katniss," I say soothingly, as if I'm trying to calm a furious animal. "I'm Katniss, Peeta. It's okay."

Wariness drops over his face like a curtain and a pale hand covers his eyes and rubs at the skin at the top of his nose. Against the stark white of his fingers, I suddenly realize that his hair is no longer golden; that the long strands threading through his fingers are gray.

"Katniss," he mutters, and I take a step forward and brush back some of the hair that is almost colorless in the weak morning sun, then lean down so that my lips are against his ear.

"If you want to live through the morning," I whisper, "you better explain what that letter is about."

His shoulders lock and breath whistles through his mouth.

"Where's Willow?" he asks, and I stand just long enough to drop into the seat beside him.

"She went to Haymitch's," I say, and Peeta looks at me, incredulous.

"What?" he asks, and I shrug.

"Where else is there for her to go?" I say reasonably. "She'll wake him up and they'll go yell at the goose. It's fine."

Peeta covers his eyes again.

"Tell me about the letter," I say again. "Now, Peeta. Or Willow won't be the only one leaving the house this morning."

"It's not what you think," he mumbles miserably. "It's not about Willow."

I haven't realized how heavy this fear is until it is off of my shoulders, but the weight that leaves me seems to settle on Peeta as his body droops and the hand that leaves his face reaches to me, reconsiders, settles on his thigh.

"Gale knew," he says simply. "He knew what they were planning at the Capitol. But I didn't – Katniss I didn't know that when I took it. I thought it was some grand love letter that was destined to sweep you off your feet and take you away from me just when I was finally making some progress. When we were making progress. I took it when I- when I took the nightlock."

I can see my heartbeat in the air, a giant black spot that clouds my vision and pulses quicker and quicker and quicker until I can barely hear, until I can barely see Peeta at all.

"He knew," is all I can say. "He knew and I could have saved Prim. He warned me. He – and you – and then he covered for you? He told me he didn't know just because he what? What? Why?"

I shove away from the table, sending the chair clattering to the floor behind me, and stalk over to the back door, opening it to the morning breeze that is much warmer than my flushed cheeks require.

"He loved you," Peeta says quietly behind me. "He loved you enough to know that he wasn't the best choice for you. He covered for me because I was."

"But you-" I whirl around to face him, find him watching me with his eyes curiously blank. "You didn't even give me a choice. You stole the letter and he covered for you, and what I if wanted him?"

Peeta reels back as if I've punched him, and part of me is screaming to cross the distance in between us, to cradle his whitewashed cheeks in my hands and promise him that I'll forgive him anything.

But it's not enough. It's not enough to silence the part of me that is aching anew for Prim's blond hair nestled against mine in the early morning and her pale blue eyes crinkling at me mischievously and the sweet scent of lilac and spun sugar that trailed her like the train of a bridal gown.

Not enough to fight the remembrance of Gale's rough hand on my own when he was leading me into something I couldn't have conquered on my own; the way he would bite his cheek to hide a laugh when I would make fun of the girls who tried to catch his eye at school; the warmth of his gaze when we were standing in the forest together and making plans we'd never follow through on but that we'd never have the courage to make alone.

I couldn't live without Peeta but I never could have survived without Gale, and now he's telling me that I had a choice.

"Do you want me to leave?" Peeta asks dully. "I'm sure he'd come running if you called."

He is resigned in the chair he slept in all night so that I wouldn't have to be alone, and I can barely look at him.

"I think that's best," I tell him, and turn back to look at the sun that is barely filtering out between the clouds. "Yes. Yes, go."