The first thing I am aware of is an all-encompassing, blissful feeling of pure peace that simultaneously makes me ecstatic, confused and terrified. I am scared because it is this exact feeling of calm that I had always associated with death. They call it the better place, the place where everything is peaceful. I am too happy to debate this grim spin on the undefined reason for my newfound happiness, however, so I silence my morbid train of thought by burrowing myself even closer to the soft, warm body beside me.

Oh.

My eyes fly open and are instantaneously met by his. Before I can so much as summon a blush, the reason for my inexplicable delight floods back to me. The joy is quickly gone, replaced by a sickening mixture of guilt, confusion and – interestingly – an odd kind of happiness.

Oh.

"Hey," Peeta says. He manages to say it so cautiously that it almost becomes a question.

"Hey." My reply, on the other hand, is almost inaudible. Emboldened by the night I had misplaced my inhibitions, but now they come to welcome me with open arms. I self-consciously tuck the sheet that is draped around us a little higher up my bare chest. Try to suppress a blush when I notice that he is similarly uncovered but that he, in comparison, does not try to conceal himself. It doesn't work.

I remember, now, the thought that had wandered through my mind as I was falling to sleep in Peeta's arms, utterly spent: that I would wake myself early, try not to wake Peeta, and slither back to my own bed to battle with the shame privately. I had woken in the early hours, I remember now, probably prompted by my unease at an unfamiliar bed: but my own bed was cold, and in my half-sleeping daze being safe and warm in Peeta's arms was all that mattered. So I stayed, and damned the consequences.

Now, though, the consequences are far less distant than they were at two am, and as they – labelled in my head as Effie, Haymitch, Gale, Peeta, Snow – rear their obtrusive heads I am panic stricken. I realise for the first time in months that I have no idea what to do or how to get myself out of the mess that I have once again managed to create.

"No nightmares."

Peeta's voice tears me away from my miserable ramblings. I start, confused. What had he said? Something about nightmares. No nightmares. Thinking about it, last night is the first night in a long time that I have not been plagued by nightmares of venomous roses, dying Rues or a squadron of deadly Careers. A dream, half-forgotten, plays at the shore of my subconscious at I dive to save what is left of it before it can be washed away, irretrievable: living in the woods with Peeta, Prim and the others. And a song. A remnant of a song.

In the night, the stormy night, she closed her eyes

In the night, the stormy night, away she'd fly

And dreams of Paradise

I drag myself away from the image of Prim laughing, carefree and unburdened, and teaching Peeta to walk so that he does not scare the game away, and realise that Peeta is waiting for me to respond. I hastily shake my head. "No," I assure him, "no bad dreams." I pause, unsure as to whether I should tell him what I did dream of, but lose my nerve and merely add: "one good one, though."

I am relieved to see him smile at this and when his only response is to lie back down – having been propped up on his elbow to get a better look at me – and pull me to him, I rejoice to think that the worst of the embarrassment is over. That we might not have to talk about last night. That my half-formed justifications, which seem so fragile and ridiculous in the light of day, might not have to be aired at all. I am just settling in to Peeta's embrace, trying not to think of anything but how warm and secure we are here together in our little nest, when he speaks and dashes every single one of my hopes.

"Katniss, about last night - "

And then he is silent, because my lips have found his once again and there is nothing anyone could do to make me break the bond between us.

It turns out when I made this ambitious statement, I had forgotten one key exception.

Effie.

"Peeeeetaaaaa!" she screeches in a way that I think is intended to be motherly but just ends up hurting my ears. She drums on the door to Peeta's room with her talon-like fingernails (painted gold to match her wig, I think, although it changes almost every day). Brrmp-brrmp-brrmp. "Time to get up, Peeeetaaaa!"

Peeta and I freeze. His eyes are so wide it is almost comical and for some reason, my nervousness means I have to stuff my fist into my mouth to stifle a laugh that threatens to burst free. Bathroom, he mouths, and I nod, the laughter gone. "Coming, Effie," Peeta yells through the door. I leap out of bed towards the en suite, taking the sheet with me – but Peeta, it turns out, has had the same idea and when we both attempt to cover ourselves the only result is that we both stop in mid-leap and are pulled back to the bed like a push-me-pull-you. My head hits Peeta's metal leg and before I can stop myself I let out a minute "ow" as I slide off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. This time, I cannot stop the giggles and am doubled over laughing. Peeta, too, tries not to laugh but fails miserably. Our attempts to stifle our laughter as he lies naked on the bed and I cradle my head on the floor just as nude are utterly unsuccessful.

"Katniss?" Effie's tone, always high pitched to the point that it is annoying, raises by at least an octave in surprise. She is opening the door.

She is opening the door.

My laughter, already uncontrollable, becomes flat out manic as Effie totters into the room on her little silver heels, lets out an "ee!" of surprise at our appearances and promptly sits down on the floor as though her legs have given way beneath her. I tell myself it isn't funny.

But then her wig, already precarious, wobbles and rolls away under a sofa.

-HG-

At breakfast, it's hard to remember if anything has ever been funny or ever will be again. Peeta has abandoned me with nothing more than a simple "I'll catch you up in a minute". Haymitch has dropped snide comments about not being able to sleep last night because of the noise. Effie is still sniffling. But it is Cinna's gaze that I try the hardest to avoid. Because he knows me better than anyone at this table, and I am terrified that if I look into his eyes, he'll be able to read my true intentions like a book. And I don't want him to do that. Because he'll hate me when he realises that last night's activities were not the bubbling over of a young girl's passion for her friend but instead the desperate attempt to salvage something minutely romantic from our friendship. An experiment.

And I don't even know it was successful yet or not.

I had hoped that Peeta's reappearance might allow me something to go on – an involuntary smile, a skipped heartbeat, anything – but by the time he takes his seat beside me the only thing I can feel in his presence is a wave of relief at no longer having to face the persecution of my fellow diners alone. Is that what love is, I wonder desperately? I can't tell. All I can tell is that Peeta's hand sends a jolt of electricity upwards as it rests momentarily on my knee, and that when he is finally beside me I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding and begin to tuck into the breakfast I had forgotten about.

"Sorry I'm late," he smiles easily, and it is as if not just me but the entire room has relaxed somehow in his presence. Haymitch starts a discussion with Peeta about the protocol in District Eight, the place we are to visit next (no eye contact with the Mayor's wife, who has a nervous disorder that makes her panic if anybody looks at her for too long, is the only one I can remember). Effie engages an unwilling Cinna in a conversation about District ruins ("they're going to be all the rage this year, you know"). This leaves me to endure my Prep team's debate about what kind of palette they should be working with for the navy blue strapless dress that Cinna has chosen for the next ceremony (Flavius wants to work with "Sapphire Springs" but Octavia is pushing the Willow Creek selection she has recently put together). It's the first time I've sat through more than five minutes of their idle chatter about things that I have never thought about in my life, and I know exactly what is responsible for the alteration in my tolerance levels.

The ghosts of Peeta's hands lovingly brush strands of hair from my face and it is all I can do to stop from smiling as I clasp his real hand tightly between two of mine.

AN: Hello my dearests! Thank you for reading this again. I had almost decided not to continue but after the responses I got from the last chapter I thought hey, why the hell not? So here we are!

As ever please review, I wasn't too sure about this chapter so please let me know what you thought. :)