A/N: edited 03/01/15

Chapter 24: Sweet Dreams

Katniss

Peeta and I spend the rest of the afternoon moving furniture. My fiancé, ever concerned that me lifting as much as a chair will hurt me or the baby, tries to move everything by himself, resulting in plenty of fingers and toes getting squished, and a glittering rainbow of colourful language filling the house.

"Peeta!" I shout up the stairs after there's a loud crash followed by a string of cursing. "What the fuck is going on?" When I receive no answer, I climb the staircase and find a wardrobe wedged in the doorway of what is going to our bedroom.

A shiver shoots down my spine at the thought of us two sharing a bed together. I wonder if it'll be awkward lying beside him, especially since it's his bed that's been moved here, and we all know what happened the last time Peeta and I shared a bed. At least I can't get pregnant for the next few months…

"Are you behind the wardrobe?" I ask, stifling a laugh.

"Yes," his voice drifts towards me. He sounds annoyed, and it does nothing to stop me from laughing out loud. "I can't get it through by myself. I should've moved this when my Dad and brothers were- Hey! Are... are you laughing at me?" I can almost hear Peeta placing his hands in his hips.

"No!" I exclaim, attempting to keep my face indifferent, even though he can't actually see me. "I would never laugh at you!"

"This isn't funny, I've really messed up my foot."

"It's your fault for dropping it on it."

"It wasn't on purpose!"

"It is when you refuse to let me help."

"Katniss..." Peeta sighs. "I don't want you or the baby getting hurt because you're moving heavy stuff."

"Jesus, Peeta. It's just a wardrobe."

"Can you please go and get Fen or Dad to help?"

"I can do it!" I insist.

"I'm not doubting you, but just go get someone," he pleads.

"Look, who's got the advantage in this situation? Me, or you?" I ask. Peeta groans. "Because I'd like to see you trying to scale the gutter to get out of there."

"Katniss..."

"Peeta..." I say, mimicking his whining tone. "I've fought wild dogs and carried deer for miles. A wardrobe that is empty isn't exactly the biggest threat I've had to face."

"You weren't pregnant when you fought wild dogs and carried dear, though. Were you?"

"You're the one who knocked me up in the first place," I say. Peeta snorts, but doesn't say anything. I sigh and lean my head against the side of the cupboard, the wood panel cool against my skin. "Let me try to lift it, Peeta. And if I can't, I'll go get some help."

"Fine."

"Don't throw a tantrum." I roll my eyes and grab the edges of the wardrobe.

"Don't strain yourself!"

"I won't," I promise, rolling my eyes. I know he means well, but he's going to suffocate me if he keeps trying to cushion every blow, and we've only officially been here for less than a day.

"Just try and push it through the doorway. It should fit. I've got it this far." Peeta says. I push on the cupboard and it groans.

"Is this thing safe?"

"Probably."

"Good enough." I shrug, continuing to heave the pieces of furniture forward.

"Whoa, wait a second!" Peeta says, and hear the sound of something being moved out of the way. "Alright, carry on." After a few minutes of giving each other instructions and pushing and wiggling the piece of furniture though the doorway (which seems to get smaller every time we try to move the wardrobe a few inches forward), we manage to push the heavy item up against the wall.

"I'm never moving that again," I grumble, rubbing the small of my back. Okay, maybe that wasn't a good idea. If my back hurts now, how is it going to be in a few months time? I grimace at the thought, and image of me waddling around as if I have a melon stuck under my shirt.

"I told you to get my Dad and now look what's happened," Peeta says softly. I roll my eyes.

"I know you did…"

"What hurts?"

"Nothing hurts. I'm okay Peeta, don't worry," I tell him, making my way back towards the stairs to continue arranging the kitchen.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he persists, grasping my wrist and pulling me back slightly. I'm about to roll my eyes yet again and go off on a tangent about how I don't need looking after, but the expression on Peeta's face stops me. His eyes are bright blue, gazing intently at me with a look of concern, but it's clear he's tired, the shadows beneath his eyes marring his pale skin.

Immediately I soften, and step forward to gently rub the shadows with the pad of my thumb, my brow wrinkling with concern. "Why are you looking so tired?"

"I'm not tired," he says quietly, moving away from my touch.

"So why do you look tired?" I question. "You need to get some sleep."

"I've just been worried."

"Well I definitely know how that feels," I say with a smile. "But we're here now, and nothing has gone wrong so far."

He sighs, closing his eyes momentarily. "How many things do we need to sort out?"

"About a million and one things," I say, stepping closer to him. "And that wardrobe was that one thing."

"So now we only have a million things left over?" Peeta laughs, and I laugh along with him, feeling the atmosphere grow lighter.

"I'll start something for dinner," I say. "You want to have some stew?" I tap my fingers against the doorframe, and the white paint covering the wood flakes away under my touch. "I don't think this is a new house at all!" I say, watching the flakes fall onto the floorboards beneath me.

"Nothing's new in District 12," he says, batting my hand away from the doorframe when I begin picking at the paint even more.

"Is it a yes to stew?"

He nods. "I'll just finish rearranging this lot and then I'll come and help you." I nod in response and move out of the room, down the creaky (this definitely isn't a new house) staircase and into the kitchen. As I set about dicing some rabbit into uneven chunks, I listen to the sounds of the house, or lack of. I'm used to hearing Prim chatting with Mom or Buttercup or Lady, the sound of the machinery that's hundreds of feet below me churning away at the rock, or the sound of Mom humming softly to herself. Prim giggling, Mom scolding and the sound of trees rustling.

Seam sounds. I miss them already.

The Merchant Quarters are quiet even though it's early in the evening; the sun is just beginning to set, bathing the district in oranges and golds and dusky pinks. The shops are beginning to close up for the day. My mind flicks to the bakery. Should Peeta be working there, instead of being here? Surely his family needs the help. I can imagine Fen and Rye grumbling as they do whatever Peeta would normally do to help close the shop. The icy cobbled streets are deserted except for the occasional person wrapped up warm against the wind, or a scrawny stray dog.

I wonder how Mom and Prim are getting on. Are they warm? Are they eating? Do they miss me? I miss them, that's for sure and it's only my first night of living with my fiancé. In the morning I'll have to go hunting and get more meat. I'll split it between my old family and my new one. Wait. What?

My new family?

I shake my head, trying to deny the idea. Despite the fact that Peeta and I sort of have to be a family now, it just doesn't feel right. This house feels too empty. The emotion doesn't feel like family love. It feels like something is missing. And the idea that this my 'new' family makes me feel like I'm replacing Prim and my mother, leaving them behind for a newer, better version. I'm not. I'm still an Everdeen. Even when I'm made the legal property of Peeta, I'll still be Katniss Everdeen, daughter of Dahlia and Lowell Everdeen, born of the Seam, in my soul. You can remove the girl from the Seam, but you can't remove the Seam from the girl, I suppose. Mrs Mellark is going to love that.

I can only hope that, over time, I will be able to feel like Peeta Mellark's wife, and not just the girl he knocked up. My feelings for him have changed, but I can't feel anything like true love for him. Love is still one of the things that has me stumped. All the kisses we have shared are ever-present in my mind, and I try to think rationally. Friends don't kiss. Especially like that. Peeta is usually the one to initiate the kisses, like the one at the Winter Ball and the one in the bathroom. I've only started one or two kisses over the fear of being rejected and looking like a fool, but I'm going to refuse the notion of us becoming anything more until I'm one hundred percent sure. Peeta is so good and pure, inside and out, and I can't help but be happy around him. He radiates happiness like he radiates the smell of fresh bakery bread. I hope that our marriage will be a happy one.

After finding a pan and some cutlery, I light the burner with a match and set a pan down and add the rabbit, before setting about cutting up some potatoes. I stiffen, listening for the sound of Peeta moving around upstairs, and silence greets me. I frown. Surely I should be able to hear him moving the heavy furniture?

I narrow my eyes, staring at the chopping board. "Peeta?" I call, stilling my movements and listening intently.

My heart leaps out of my chest. "Yeah?" His breath is hot against the shell of my ear and I jump, spinning around to face him. He's grinning like an idiot.

"How did you sneak up on me like that?!" I exclaim, my eyes wide.

"You must have been in very deep thought," he says with a smirk. I sigh and place a hand on my chest.

"You scared me!"

"And you nearly sliced me open with that knife," he says, his eyes flickering down to the knife I have in my hand, the sharp blade pointed in his direction. I hastily move the offending item away from him. He moves to stand beside me, and starts to slice up carrots alongside me, his hip playfully bumping into mine as we work. The sound of the knives hitting the countertop is soothing and I find myself humming softly as we work, moving around the kitchen in companionable silence.

Streaming through the window, the dying sunlight lights up Peeta from the left, casting shadows over his features. I sneak glances up to him and notice how long his eyelashes are. Usually invisible, I'm intrigued as to why they don't get tangled up every time he blinks. His nose has a slight bump in the middle, and his lips are perfectly pink, perfectly soft. I wonder how he can stand to press his lips to my chapped ones and not turn away in disgust.

"You suit the sunset," he muses. I blink, brought out of my thoughts to find him gazing at me. "I thought you looked beautiful by the bonfire, but I like the sunset on you too. It makes your freckles stand out."

"Ugh," I wrinkle my nose, rubbing my hand over my cheeks. "I hate my freckles."

"They're cute."

"Kittens are cute."

"You're Katniss the kitten, then," he laughs. I raise an eyebrow. "Katniss the panther?" he offers, and I scowl at him as he laughs harder. We fall into silence again, and I feel a strange warmth fizzling through my chest, right to the tips of my fingers and toes. Suddenly I feel something poking at my arm, and turn to see Peeta nudging me with his elbow.

"What?"

"Meow" he says, trying his best to keep a straight face, but his lips are twitching, turning into a smirk.

"Fuck you." I say, narrowing my eyes. Peeta chuckles and meows again, bumping his hip against mine, more deliberately than before.

"Come on, Katniss. Meow."

"No."

"Meow."

"Peeta this is silly."

He's unrelenting and does it again. "Meow."

"Peeta!"

"Meow!"

"Meow!" I cry, giving in. Peeta exhales, laughing softly as he begins to slice some bread. "Don't you dare start calling me Kat." I warn.

"I thought we already agreed that it was better than Kitty," he chuckles. I groan, bringing my palm up to my forehead.

"Peet?" I say sarcastically.

"Peet and Kat. I like it."

"Uh, I hate to burst your bubble, but it sounds better as Kat and Peet." I remind him.

"It's Mr and Mrs, though. Not Mrs and Mr. That sounds weird."

"It's weird standing here and meowing at each other!"

"Touché." Peeta shakes his head.

"I'm going to be Katniss Mellark," I breathe, the name foreign on my tongue. "Not Katniss Everdeen, Katniss Mellark."

He puts his knife down and turns to me. "You don't have to change it. You can keep it as Everdeen if you want. Or go all fancy and change it to Katniss Everdeen-Mellark," he says. "No-one can force you to change it."

"I'm not upset. It's just a weird thought."

"I suppose you always thought you'd be Katniss Hawthorne. No wonder he's pissed," Peeta comments absentmindedly. I freeze, my jaw tightening.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, my words harsher than I intended.

"No, no…" Peeta backtracks. "I just- everyone thought… well, assumed, actually…that you would marry Gale. Most thought you weren't just hunting in the woods."

"We've never been anything but friends," I state. I don't know why, but Peeta's unintentional assertion has rubbed me the wrong way. "I've already told you that."

"He doesn't think that…" Peeta says under his breath. I don't think I was intended to hear it.

"What do you mean, he doesn't think that?"

"Gale likes you Katniss," Peeta says shakily, not meeting my gaze. Something flickers in his eyes, but it's too swift for me to decipher.

"I know. He's my best friend."

"You should really talk to him, Kat," Peeta says. "I've already said too much."

"No, you tell me what it is." I demand.

"Ask him yourself."

"Don't be a jerk." I snap, officially turning the conversation sour.

"I'm not being a jerk," Peeta sighs heavily. "But Gale is the one who should tell you, not me. Particularly since I don't think he knows that I know."

"For fuck's sake, Peeta. Just tell me!"

"No!"

"Why not?!"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he asks. "It isn't my place to tell."

"Tell me what?" I exclaim loudly, slamming the cupboard door and turning to Peeta, my eyes blazing. Great, our first argument, and we've just moved in with each other. Fantastic start as always.

"That he's in love with you!" he yells, losing his temper. I stare at him.

"W-what?" I ask. I knew Gale liked me more than I did, but I wasn't aware that it was love.

"You know what, this is nothing to do with me," Peeta says, abandoning the countertop and making for the door. I pick up my knife and fling it towards him – a stupid and unnecessary action, I know – stopping him in his tracks leaping back from the blade now wedged in the wall less than a foot from his face.

"This has everything to with you, since you knew that my best friend is apparently in love with me!" I say, marching forward and yanking the knife from the wall.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers.

"Peeta!"

"What?"

"Gale is not in love with me."

"Don't tell me that you never noticed the way that he looks at you? When he tugs on your braid? When he holds your waist to move you out of the way?" Peeta asks, his blue eyes glimmering, his chest rising and falling dramatically.

"You tug on my braid as well," I point out. He falters, his hands balling into fists and then relaxing.

"This isn't about me. This is about Gale."

I bite my bottom lip, drawing it in between my teeth as I think. "They don't mean anything. It's just a habit of his," I shrug, acting nonchalant, even though inside I'm processing everything he is saying.

Have I really been too naive, all this time? Were the touches from Gale that I considered friendly actually meant in a different way entirely? I squeeze my eyes shut. No. Surely I would've guessed if Gale had feelings for me by now? He's a determined, stubborn individual and knows what he wants. If he really liked me, he would've made a move. He's had at least five years to make a move, and he never has. Yet again, the irritating voice inside my head reminds me of all the times in which Gale has talked about the futures with me, and how I just thought he was, well, talking.

"Do you want to have kids, Catnip?" Gale asks softly as we lay back in the long grass on the hill that overlooks the valley and the towering mountains. I don't even pause to answer.

"No. Not in this world." Gale is silent, mulling over my answer. I pluck another strand of the tall golden grass around me and chew it thoughtfully, listening to the sound of crickets and enjoying the sun on my skin.

Today is an uncharacteristically hot day in May, which is when it should be milder and greener and kinder. Gale and I have spent the day swimming and rooting up Katniss roots from the muddy riverbed with our feet. They're delicious baked, so we cooked them on a scrap of warped metal, heated by the sun, and have spent the rest of our afternoon laying back and drying out our clothes. Gale is wearing nothing but his briefs, and I'm wearing a vest and a pair of shorts. Our clothes are spread out around us as we stare up at the clouds. It's a lazy day, where we have little pressure to hunt after such a successful hunt the day before.

Any sense of modesty has been thrown of the metaphorical window, but I've noticed how Gale's piercing grey eyes skim over my body. I'm skinny, horribly so, and my hips and ribs jaunt out in a way they really shouldn't. I don't know why he keeps looking. My body is calloused and bony and scarred, nothing a fourteen year old should be proud of.

Gale is skinny as well, but has a layer of muscles, evidence of all the time he's spent hunting. I have muscles too, but they are barely anything. Winter was hard on my family, and we've wasted away. At sixteen, the soft (kind of disgusting) peach fuzz that used to grow upon his skin has turned into actual hair. A beard that he now has to shave most mornings, arm hair and a ribbon of hair just below his belly button. Hazelle keeps begging him to stop growing up so fast, that she misses her hair-free, high-voiced Gale who was shorter than her and much sweeter.

It's weird seeing Gale physically turning into a man. He's had to grow up fast and take on responsibilities a grown man usually would, but his body has been long and gangly for as long as I remember, as he navigates his teenage years. Pretty soon he'll be over a foot taller than me. I can only hope that I'm going to have a growth spurt. I don't want to be a midget forever.

"District 12 isn't that bad. We've turned out sane enough to function, haven't we?" Gale talks into the sky, nudging his foot against mine.

"Sae says you have to crazy to survive here," I tell him. "I don't want children who have to survive. If I had kids, I'd want them to live."

"Sae doesn't know what she's doing, so you can't listen to her."

"I'll tell her that next time you want soup," I retort. He chuckles, and glances at me again. I wrinkle my nose and stretch like a cat, enjoying the popping sound my neck makes. Gale makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, before glancing at me again. I frown. What is his problem?

"I know I'm skinny, Gale. You don't have to keep looking at me," I say airily. He begins coughing violently, and I turn my head to see that his face has gone bright red, his eyes wide. He sits upright in the grass, trying to curb his sudden coughing fit.

"Uh, yeah," he says once he's recovered, looking away hastily. "Sorry. Winter was hard on us too."

"Do you want a glass of water or something?"

He scrubs his face with his hands and lays back again, staring resolutely at the sky. "No, Catnip. I'm good."

Blinking rapidly, I come out of my head with a frown. Despite the harsh winter, I was beginning to fill out around that age. And all I was wearing was a pair of shorts and a tank top. No wonder Gale was staring at me. He was a hormonal guy and his best friend lying practically naked next to him mustn't have helped.

"I've never thought like that," I mumble. "Not really." Peeta arches his eyebrow.

"Not really? So you must have noticed something." I spin the knife between my fingers, a well-practiced action, and grit my teeth, hanging stubbornly onto the idea that Gale is my friend, and my friend only.

"He's not interested in me like that, Peeta," I conclude quietly, walking away. Peeta scrubs his face with his hands and groans in exasperation, like I'm a child he just can't communicate with. I finish making dinner, turning down the heat on the oven so that the stew doesn't overcook.

A small light flickers on above me when Peeta flicks the switch on the wall, filling the room with a bright glow that takes a few seconds to adjust to. I'm used to candles or lanterns or dim yellow bulbs to light my home, not these garish things. I'll have to scrounge some softer bulbs from the Hob or the market.

The Hob was your old home, my conscious reminds me. I grip the spoon I'm using to stir Peeta and mine's meal tightly, my knuckles turning white. Yes, the Hob was part of my old life. Now I am in a house that needs to be made into a home. I can do that. It can't be that difficult.

Poor little Katniss, unable to do this simple thing. I purse my lips. You can't let down the barricades protecting your heart and make a house a home.

I have let the barricades down. Peeta brought them down.

He must be something pretty special to be able to do that.

He's the father of my child, asshole. And my fiancé.

Something more material than physical.

Fuck off.

I set about laying cutlery and bowls on the table, my cheeks flushing involuntarily when I realise that's I've just had an argument with my own mind. The first sign of madness, Sae always said. Talking to yourself out loud. What she'd make of me talking to myself in my thoughts, I'll never know.

Peeta hasn't moved from his position by the doorway. I know that I should tell him to sit down. Tell him I'm sorry for yelling with no good reason. Apologise for chucking a blade at his head. He beats me to it, ever the pacifier in the situation, waving the white flag of surrender.

"I'm sorry, Katniss. For yelling. For all of this," he says. I turn to him and sigh. He's wrong.

"I shouldn't have forced you to tell me. If Gale wanted to say anything, he should've been the one to say it."

"Katniss..."

"And I shouldn't have shouted or, you know, flung a knife at you," I smile ruefully, waving the knife in the air.

"You've got great aim."

"I'm just glad it didn't hit you."

"Not as glad as I am," he chuckles. I can feel the tension leaving the room, and my shoulders begin to loosen.

"How would I have explained that to the Peacekeepers?"

"Mom would have a field day." Peeta laughs.

I look away nervously. "Are we alright?"

"Of course we are," he says gently, walking forward and enveloping me into his arms. I place the knife onto the counter and inhale his scent, filling my lungs. My stomach gets in the way, and I end up sticking my butt out against the countertop to accommodate.

"We've got until April." I whisper, once the kitchen has fallen silent again.

"Shit." Peeta says, and the laugh that follows, rumbling through his chest, makes me smile, knowing that we'll be all right. I can't allow myself to think that it will be the end when we hit a little speed bump.

Peeta

Mom never let us wear just our socks or go barefoot in the bakery, for two reasons. Firstly, because she considered it unhygienic (I agreed), and secondly, because she didn't want flour to be traipsed upstairs onto her carpets.

I received my first pair of big black boots on my fourth birthday. I can remember Dad taking me to the cobbler to get fitted, and coming home with my old, soft, fabric shoes in hand, and my feet rammed into a pair of unforgiving, leather monstrosities that made my feet bend in a funny way. They clunked loudly against the bumpy ground underfoot and I kept tripping over because my feet were suddenly twice as big and got in the way.

After weeks of blisters and crying and galloping like a horse up and down the back streets, I got used to the fact that these were what the Mellark boys wore. Mom could wear her pointy shoes with a little heel, but we had to wear shoes that were tough enough to withstand the daily grind and didn't need to be constantly replaced. I learnt to wear extra socks to prevent rubbing, or to just man up and deal with it until my feet became accustomed to boots.

So the feeling of cold stone beneath my feet is alien, yet comforting. Katniss keeps pushing up the bottom of my pants and placing her icy toes against my warm skin, making me shudder each time. She just smiles into her cup of water. I don't mind it, not really.

We make small talk over dinner, the scraping of cutlery against dishes causing the most noise, rather than our voices. Katniss tells me about the time Lady kicked her into a water trough, and I tell her about the time that Rye fell into the pigpen. After we've finished eating, Katniss tells me in her own affectionate way to 'fuck off and let me do the dishes'. I hang around for a while, offering to help, but my fiancé ignores me, pretending that I'm not there. Eventually I give up, and go outside to attatch a hook to the wall at the back of the house to hang up my punching bag. In the winter months it normally goes unused, but it's useful when I need to get my anger out. Or release my stress somewhere that isn't going to hurt me.

Once the hook is securely into the bricks, I hang the bag up and stand back. As I punch the bag with my bare fist, I can practically hear Dad scolding me for not wrapping up my knuckles. But the feeling of my bare fingers against the tough leather is pleasant, so I carry on, feeling beads of sweat sliding down my neck as time passes.

"It's freezing out here," Katniss says from the backdoor. I turn, grabbing the bag to stop it from swinging. I didn't even hear her coming. "Why are you outside so willingly?"

This makes me chuckle, and I flex my arms in front of me, inspecting for goose bumps. "It's not that cold," I say with a shrug.

She steps out into the cold, pulling a blanket around her hunched shoulders, tying it at the front and stepping further onto the path. "I didn't know you could box."

"Mom insisted. Wanted my brothers and I to stay in shape for wrestling matches."

"But it looks painful. Whacking your fists repeatedly against a bag? Come on, really?"

"It isn't that bad."

"I swear you're meant to wear gloves... or at least wrap your hands up?" she walks closer to me. I look down at my hands. She's right, and so was Dad. My hands are throbbing now, and the skin is turning red.

"Uh, yeah. I am." Katniss rolls her eyes and steps in front of me.

"So, how do you do this?" She asks, pushing the punching bag gently. "Damn, this is heavier than I thought."

"It's filled with sand," I tell her, taking her hands and curling them into fists. "Step back a little. Katniss steps back, right into me, and her ass presses up against my groin.

"Like this?"

"Yup, like this," I nod my head, swallowing hard and ignoring how close she is to me. "And then loosen your shoulders a little, and bring your hands up to your face."

"And then just… hit it?"

"Pretty much," I grin. "It isn't rocket science." I go to stand behind the bag and hold it still as Katniss brings her fist around to hit it. Compared to the blows of my brothers, Katniss' are pathetic. The bag barely moves.

"I don't like it." She says stubbornly.

"Why not?"

"Because when other people have done it the bag actually moves." I stick my head around the bag and look at her.

"They've probably practiced, and most likely stron-" I shake my head, stopping myself from continuing.

"What were you going to say, Peeta?" she asks, narrowing her eyes, dropping her hands to her sides and approaching me.

"Nothing." I smirk.

Her voice increases in pitch. "Were you about to say that they're stronger than me?"

"No!" I feign hurt. "I would never!"

"If I wanted to, I could beat you, Rye and Fen at wrestling. Any day."

I wouldn't mind wrestling you, I think, and my cheeks flame at the thought.

"Is that so?" I ask. She nods. "All three of us at once? You versus the wrestling champions of the district?"

"Not all at once. That would stupid."

"I bet you couldn't."

"Well not anymore, since I'm pregnant."

"And whose fault is that?" I ask, pulling her to me. She punches my chest, but it doesn't do any damage. I wrap my arms around her and she wriggles around until let her go.

"Come in. I'm cold." She demands, rubbing her arms and heading for the back door and retreating inside. I pick up the waterproof sleeve for the bag from the floor and cover it up, securing the top, and then go inside, my skin tingling at the change in temperature.

I lock the door back door securely and walk into an empty kitchen. I head into the furniture-less living room. She isn't there either. I climb the stairs. Light is spilling out into the hallway from under the closed bathroom door. I can't decide if putting a door there was a good idea or not. In my creepiest move yet, I press my ear to the door, only to be greeted with the sound of Katniss singing. I listen for a few moments, her gentle voice soothing me, before knocking on the door.

"Katniss?" I ask, and her singing quickly cuts off.

"How do I work the shower?" I try the handle.

"Unlock the door and I'll show you," I say. Katniss slides the lock and opens the door.

Jesus Christ. Standing on the tile floor is Katniss, wearing nothing but a towel. Her legs seem impossibly long; her hair is done from its braid and rippling around her shoulders. She bends down to move her clothes out of the way so I can reach the shower cubicle and the towel slips slightly. I tear my eyes away, but not before I see a flash of her chest. She clears her throat and pulls it back up, her cheeks turning pink.

"We, uh, don't have a shower back home."

"Ours was crappy," I say, remembering days of dodging the jet of water as it abruptly changed from scalding hot to freezing cold. I lean over to turn the dial stuck to the wall, and – thankfully – warm water rains down. Katniss moves forward to hold her hand under the stream. "Alright, so this is how you turn it on," I explain, turning the knob again so the water shuts off. "And to change the temperature you turn this one."

"Awesome," she grins from beside me. Swallowing deeply, I try to ignore the feeling of her almost naked body pressing against my side. This is like outside, teaching her how to punch correctly, but worse.

"You got it?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"Yes, I think so," she nods. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," I say, straightening up.

"I'll be quick so you can wash up. You're all yucky and sweaty," se wrinkles her nose and backs away from me. I stretch my arms up and out.

"What do you mean?" I ask, offended. She steps back even more. "I am not sweaty."

"So you're telling me that 'sweaty' is your natural masculine scent?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm, gripping the towel lightly with one hand and edging away from me.

"Sweaty? I don't think so."

"Don't come near me."

"There aren't any knives in here Katniss," I smirk.

"There's still… err, whatever this shit is." Katniss says, grabbing a hairbrush.

"Ooo. Scary," I mock her.

"I could do some real damage if I wanted," she scowls, raising her eyebrows in a challenge.

Showered, clean and smelling fresh, I flop down face-first onto my bed an hour later. Katniss laughs. I grumble into the pillow.

"I didn't quite catch that," she teases.

I lift my head from the pillow. "I'm tired. Leave me alone."

"I offered to sleep somewhere else," she says as she closes the bedroom door. "Multiple times, in fact."

"And I was the noble gentlemen who refused."

"Don't you mean 'stubborn townie'?"

"I'll sleep downstairs if you want." I offer seriously, climbing off the bed, ready to grab a blanket and sleep amongst the boxes downstairs.

Katniss wraps a tie around the end of her braid. "On what? The floor?" She pulls back the blankets. "No, it's okay. It's not like we haven't been here before."

"And by here, you mean this bed?"

"Charming, Mellark. Where has that noble gentlemen gone?"

"Sorry." I laugh, climbing into the bed again. Katniss slides under the covers beside me and rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn. "I'm surprised that I didn't fall asleep the second my head hit the pillow." I remark.

"Me too," she sighs, turning onto her side and placing a hand on her stomach. "Wake me up next year."

"What time are you going to meet Gale?" I ask, facing the plainly painted ceiling, admiring a crack that runs across the concrete above us.

"Sometime in the morning, probably."

"You sound enthusiastic."

"I just want to stop fighting with him. He's my best friend. We don't normally not speak for this long. We kind of just… get on with it."

"You'll be okay." I reassure her, taking her hand. We fall into silence.

"It's really quiet," she mumbles, shifting onto her back like me. "I'm used to Prim lying next to me."

"If I grow my hair long, maybe you can pretend I'm Prim."

"You're such a weirdo," Katniss laughs.

"I know how you feel. I'm used to hearing my brothers snoring. Sounds like thunder half the time."

"I don't snore."

"Apparently I do."

She rolls her eyes. "Great."

"I know."

"I'll hit you with a pillow if it sounds anything like thunder," she says, and I pull the bed sheets over our shoulders.

"It's way too cold in here," she shudders, placing her hand on my bare chest and curling up beside me, her eyes closing as she snuggles up close. "You're so stupid for wanting the window open in winter."

"Be grateful I brought extra blankets then," I say. She makes a content sound and moves ever closer, resting her head on my arm. I look down at her, watching as she drifts off.

Yeah, I could definitely get used to this feeling.