SIX YEARS LATER

"Stop it!" I slam my hands down on the counter, sending a plume of flour up in front of me. I wave it away irritably, sneezing as particles sneak up my nose.

"I didn't say anything." His voice is calm and level, which only upsets me more. He loves to play the logical one, making me the hotheaded mess.

"You don't have to! Dammit Peeta, I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"And we aren't."

Picking up the blob of bread, I knead it savagely. My fists pound down on it, but it does little to lessen my aggression. "You keep humming that blasted song," I accuse.

He laughs, his eyes meeting mine across the table. His look is incredulous. "So what?"

Fist into dough, fingers ripping it apart. "You know I hate it when you do that. You know I know what you mean by it, and you know I don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It." Each word is punctuated as I beat the dough into submission. I can almost picture his face in it, the dough only a shade off from his blond hair.

He shakes his head at me, the only response I receive. It is the best way to get a rise out of me and he knows it. Scooping up the dough, I hurl it at him without a second thought. It strikes him square in the chest. His head snaps back up, his eyes zeroing in on me.

"You can't ask that of me."

My unsolicited attack has struck a nerve. Setting the pastry bag down on the countertop, he grabs the dough where it fell, narrowly missing his tray of miniature cupcakes, and throws it back. It lands exactly where I was kneading it, sending the flour into a tizzy again. "I didn't."

His attention returns to the cupcakes as he bends over them to work. I stew as I stare at the top of his head. "Got a letter from Gale and Cressida," he comments just as I sink down onto my stool.

I know better than to ask, yet I do anyway. "And?"

"They're having a baby. A girl." I can hear the smirk in his words. "Gale is over the moon and Cressida is optimistic that she'll be able to handle the both of them."

A repressed scream tears through the walls of my throat as I reach angrily behind me. The dough caked on my fingers makes it difficult to untie the knot in my apron. My nails dig roughly as I try to yank it off.

Peeta no longer pretends to ignore what's going on. The pastry bag hits the table with a solid plop this time as he sinks to his stool. His long arms stretched out on either side, he clings to the edge of counter as I pull the apron up over my head and throw it onto the floor next to me. "You promised me you would think about it."

"I have!" I shout, loud enough that I'm sure everyone in the bakery eating can hear if they have one decent ear.

"Obviously not!"

"I thought about it," I snap, "but the answer is still no!"

"Katniss."

"What? What! Do you really want to bring a life into a world that is still so fragile? Our government tried to kill us, Peeta. Over and over again. The people sworn to protect us put us in an arena, twice, and made us kill innocence kids. They tried to make us kill each other!

"You would be able to send your kid off to the arena? To sit there in town square and watch them get reaped and know there isn't a single thing you can do to save them?"

"The Games are over, Katniss."

"The Games are never over!" I slam my fist into the table. I would overturn it if I thought I could, but it's hefty and solid and I think Peeta even bolted it into the ground. "They will never be over, not entirely. History has a way of repeating itself." I'm getting myself worked up, but it's too late to reign myself back in. "That's what Plutarch said, and he was right. We're living in that little space of time where the pain is fresh and we think we've learned from our mistakes. But there's no way to know, ten, fifteen years down the road. You can't promise me that, and I can't take that chance."

I'm acutely aware I've become somewhat hysterical. Peeta stares stupidly at me, like he has no idea what to say. I take little happiness from stumping him. When we fight, it's usually empty and benign. It ends almost as fast as it starts, and we pretend like it never happened. But I've said it this time, I actually said something that means something to me, and there's no way to scrounge up those words and shove them back into my mouth to swallow them down.

"Okay." He says it slowly, carefully, as if testing the word for the first time. "Okay. Just... calm down."

"Oh, shut up," I snap. Already my frantic heartbeat dips to a more manageable pace. It no longer feels like it's going to leap from my chest and explode into pieces. Running my hand back and forth over my forehead, I try to collect myself a little more. "You have to stop asking, Peeta." There is no fight, no anger anymore. It's burned off like the alcohol in one of his desserts. All that's left is me, in pieces, trying to pull myself back together. "You have to stop wanting," I clarify. "Because even when you don't say anything, you say everything."

"I don't think I can do that. That's like telling the sun not to shine or the deer not to run. I can't stop wanting, Katniss."

"And I can't start. I can't."

"Maybe not now, but-"

"No!" My voice raises again. The fire that just died down burst to life from the embers. "Not ever, Peeta. I would do anything for you, anything but this. Don't ask this of me. Don't put this guilt on me."

"I don't know what you want me to say." He's still the calm one, but even he's upset now. His face is scrunching and the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes appear.

"Nothing." I don't know what I want. Right now, I only know what I can't handle. "I don't want you to say anything."

"Fine."

"Fine." It is not fine. Nothing feels fine at all.

"I really have to finish these cupcakes before Vick comes looking to refill the display."

"Okay."

A pause. Just a brief moment of silence. "Are you going to bite off my head if I accidentally starting humming again?"

"Probably." A beat as I think honestly about it. "Yes," I revise.

"Then will you go home so I can work?"

I will my face to be a blank facade. I don't want him to see how much that question hurts. I know he's mad. I'm just as mad, if not more so. But I didn't think he'd tell me to leave. It feels wrong, to leave us where we're at now. But I don't have a good reason to stay. "Fine." The word is a clip off my tongue.

"Fine. I'll be home in a bit."

"Okay." But nothing feels okay either.