She looks different as she stands on the stage. Still as tall and skinny, true enough. In fact, her physical appearance remains much the same. But there is something about her, something I cannot place. Perhaps it is confidence. Her shoulders are squared, her back perfectly straight. With her hands folded in front of her, she looks every bit the professional in her uniform.

I didn't think the day would ever come. For a long time, I had hoped. Begged and pleaded, more like, for her to snap out of her despair and to rejoin us in the real world. To try. It looks like she has. And though we haven't had the opportunity to speak yet since she arrived, she seems to be doing well for herself. Maybe getting away from Twelve, away from all the memories of everything we've lost, finally helped her come to terms with it. We should all be so lucky.

They wanted me front and center, once again under the spotlight. I ever so politely declined in favor of being one in the crowd. This day, this facility, had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my mother. She deserves the attention, not me.

A hand bumps into my arm. Jostling to the side, I try to give myself a little more space in the gathered crowd. Fingers brush against my elbow, then slide down and curl into mine. Turning my attention from the stage, the sharp retort dies on my lips. "I didn't think you were going to make it," I whisper, leaning in so he can hear me.

"I didn't either," he whispers back, "but here I am." He plants a soft kiss to my cheek before dutifully turning his attention toward the stage. "She looks good."

I'm glad I'm not the only one who noticed. It feels more real when I hear him say it. "Doesn't she?" Entwining my arm in his, I pull his against mine. It doesn't matter how long we're together or how natural it feels, each day I'm able to draw support from the feel of him standing there next to me.

Most of what they say is a publicity stunt and a pat on the back for bringing work to the district. Clean, safe work, they remind us over and over again. As if we need any reminder of how dangerous the mines were. As if the few who survived the mines and the war aren't the ones doubled over in the square with wracking coughs. We don't need reminders from people who used the power we supplied and never once stopped to think at what cost they got it.

The factory isn't a hospital, but it's a first step. There are already excited murmurs that a hospital will surely follow soon on the heels. I suspect everyone will wait to see how the medicine factory produces before committing to any other new projects in the district. We're still the outcasts, though a lot of people credit Twelve, along with Thirteen, to being the spark of the rebellion. Their thanks, however, only stretches so far, their generosity so much.

My mother gives a short, simple speech. She says how good it feels to be home, but I don't buy this sentiment. She looks pained. Returning brings back all the memories she's fought so hard to shove down and forget. The people that follow her are much wordier. My feet begin to step in place as my patience grows thin. The air is crisp, the weather great. The perfect combination for a day spent in the woods, yet I am here. After the opening ceremony finishes, I've promised the remainder of the day to my mother.

My feet still when I remember my primary reason for roping my mother into staying after the ceremony for a day to spend some time together. As much as she brings up me visiting her in Four, she's never once come back home and it was like pulling teeth to get her to agree to spend one night. Then I remember in my excitement and rushed planning that I haven't even asked Peeta yet.

"Peeta?" I try to get his attention without drawing any additional from the bystanders around us.

As soon as I have his attention, I begin to change my mind. In my heart, I know what he's going to say. There isn't a doubt in my mind. As I try to form the words, though, doubt shoves its way in. Clawing at my throat, my heart, the doubt climbs to surface.

It's been like this for the past few months. I'm sick of it. I finally know what I feel, and I refuse to play my own enemy any longer. "You know what you said? A while back," I begin.

He, clearly, does not know what he said. "I've said a lot of things. Several times. Afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific."

"You know the one I mean." I know he knows. We don't mention it often. It hardly ever comes up. But when it does, I clam up. So he brushes it off like it means nothing to him. But I think it means everything.

"Katniss."

"Fine," I huff. "Would you still consider," my voice drops to barely above a whisper, "marrying me?"

"I thought we are married," he teases.

Exasperated at how he seems to want to make this exchange as difficult as possible for me, I warn, "Peeta."

"You know the answer," he tells me. Pulling me tighter against his side, he presses his lips to my ear. Whispers, "Always."

The word sends an excited shiver down my spine.

"How does tonight work for you?"

I've caught him off guard. Shifting to look down at me, I can tell he's trying to decide if I'm pulling his leg or serious. I'm serious, though my heart screams to stop. The fear of rejection clings tightly. I think some of it always will. No matter how long we are together, part of me will always wonder if he'll wake up one morning and realize he can do better.

"That's not funny," he tells me.

Honestly I tell him, "I'm not joking. It'll be small, simple. Just the way you described it to Caesar before the Quarter Quell. We'll have a traditional Twelve ceremony at the house. While my mother is here."

We may not ever talk about anything heavier than the weather or my goat or the medicine facility anymore, but the thought of getting married without my mother present is unthinkable. I wouldn't even begin to imagine it. I've even been letting my hair grow out, so that I might entice her to braid it once more. For old time's sake.

"Katniss." His voice holds the warning this time, still in disbelief.

Turning to face him, my back goes to the stage. For the moment, we're the only people standing here. Cradling his neck in my hands, I shyly smile. Though he's putting up a bit of a fight, I'm no longer afraid of rejection. Peeta's known how our story would end far longer than I have. He realized it long before I did. He's waited so long, would have waited forever. I know he'll say yes, just as he knows that Gale plays no factor in my decision today. No one does but him.

"It's you," I promise beneath the public speeches and dedications. "I think, maybe, on some level, it's always been you," I admit. "Even if I didn't always see it. Even if I tried to ignore it."

"You better not be messing with me." Even as he says it, his hands find my waist and pull me to him. We are two people in a crowd, but we are everything.

"I love you." It's a declaration and a promise. A vow already spoken. I've been his pretend wife for years and, now, I'm ready for it to be real. "Real." I say this last word allowed. It brings a smile to his face. "Always." Another promise, this time from me to him.

When he replies, "Good," for the first time it feels real to me too.