They do not speak of her strange half-embrace as they pack up to leave. Snow does not ask, does not pry. He likes to give her space. Let her explore her violent and peculiar urges on her own terms. He has liberally baited his trap with kindness and care and black magnetism, and now he can sit and wait for her to wander into his jaws at her leisure. And then what will he do? Bite down? Eat her? Or let her slide herself into his throat and make herself willingly at home in his insides?

They load up on dehydrated meals from the cache. She counts out the meals they'll need, three for him and three for her for each day. Katniss realizes with alarm how little food they will now need to sustain them on the rest of the journey. The base is only a little north of Richmond. A few days at most. They're so close.

A memory that now seems from another world drifts back to her. Haymitch at her dining table. Interrogation. Torture.

It makes her grow cold inside.

It is sad to leave the museum, this place with pieces of a world so fragmented now it would be impossible to piece back together. She remains in thoughtful silence for some time as they leave and begin again to navigate the collapsing buildings, winding through streets and taking weird roundabout routes to find a way through the dead city. All she can think about is Snow. The ruin of Richmond is not of his making, and yet in every broken building she sees a bomb he dropped. In every scrap of bone she sees a person whose execution he thoughtlessly approved. In the wild eyes of the coyotes she sees his indifference to humanity.

She can tell he is giving her space. He does not even stare at her. He lets her walk ahead or apart from him and he does not trouble her thoughts. Perhaps he is thinking, too. Thinking about her and the fall of her hair before she braids it, thinking about her little limbs against his. Or perhaps he never thinks about any of those things. Perhaps she is simply his daughter-wolf and as far as he is concerned her body is just a vehicle for her to do violence.

The thought saddens her, and her sadness disgusts her. Does she want this old and evil man to find her attractive? What possible goodness could be gained from that?

The scraps of the city fade into grass and trees again, and soon only roads and occasional broken houses remind them of the civilization that once stood here. Katniss looks out for somewhere more comfortable than the tent to pass the night and she wonders if they should have just stayed at the museum. There was enough food to last them decades. Just the two of them and the dead animals, and each other, and sweat, and Snow's body against her own. Could she have been happy?

It terrifies her that she thinks the answer might be yes.

They cut through bracken and trees as the sky starts to darken, and then they emerge onto a strange road. Katniss pauses at the edge and looks along it, east to west. It is oddly empty. No broken branches, no abandoned cars. They each stare at it, examining the emptiness. Someone has cleared it. People have used it.

'What's this?' says Katniss.

'Coin's people, perhaps,' says Snow. 'Or your rebels. Or refugees. Someone has been using this road with sufficient regularity to need it clear.'

'We shouldn't be here, then.'

'No.' Snow points into the trees, where a path leads into the gloom. 'Come on.'

It's a well-trodden path, not from the old world but the new. It is narrow and the earth bears no footprints. No armies have moved through here, that's for certain, and perhaps no one at all has come through recently.

Katniss shoves aside a large, leafy branch blocking their way, and then she stops. Snow almost bumps into her.

There is a clearing and there is a cottage. Katniss immediately thinks how pretty it is. Stone walls, crowding flowers, little windows, an overflowing vegetable garden. A kitsch sign pressed into the grass outside reading Home Sweet Home. She feels arrested by the idyllic, picture-book nature of the place. It looks like a child's dream of a country cottage.

All the lights are out.

'What do you think?' she whispers to Snow.

'Do you think it's sensible to risk our lives for the sake of sleeping indoors?' he whisper-drawls back.

She shoots him a look. 'What about risking our lives for some of those fresh tomatoes?'

Snow's eyes rest on the big, red, plump fruits that hang heavy and delicious in the garden.

'Only if you lend me your gun,' he says, smiling.

She rolls her eyes and yet she does so. Her fingers brush his as he takes it. It has become so easy to trust him.

Slowly, they approach the front door. The cottage is completely dark and silent. Weeds have sprung up around the path and steps.

When she reaches the door, Katniss knocks. Snow stares at her.

'What? It's polite. Aren't you the one who's all about etiquette?'

'When one is living in exile, one must dispense with certain niceties,' says Snow, then tries the door handle. It is unlocked, not even properly latched. It falls open with a slow, unoiled creek. Silence and the smell of dust greet them.

'Hello?' calls Katniss cautiously, readying an arrow in her bow.

Snow wipes a finger over a sideboard then holds it up to show her the dust. 'I don't think anyone has been here lately.'

Katniss breathes more easily. She tries the light switch, but nothing happens. That's good, too. She sheaths her bow, then unpacks her flashlight and flicks that on. Katniss cautiously walks through the downstairs by the light of the beam. There is a small lounge and a kitchen with breakfast table, both unoccupied. There are still unwashed, moldy dishes in the sink.

Upstairs they find two bedrooms and a bathroom. The larger bedroom has cheap décor, the kind of second-hand furniture that was fashionable in the Capitol fifty years ago and has been offloaded out in the Districts. Still, it's better than the couple of pieces of nailed-together-wood that passed for furnishings in the Seam. The room is strewn with a couple's untidiness: make-up on one nightstand, a discarded bra at the bedside; a pipe and tobacco on the other, as well as a cheap novel. If it weren't for the dust, you'd think the inhabitants had only just stepped out.

She shines the flashlight beam around the room as Snow investigates the vanity.

'What do you think happened to the people who lived here?' she asks.

Snow picks something up. 'A couple. Both conscripted.' He turns, holding aloft two identical pieces of paper, one addressed to a Mr and one to a Mrs January. 'Fighting for Coin against your sad little rebellion.'

She turns the flashlight onto his face. 'You really have no faith in the rebels, do you?'

'No,' he says placidly. 'Nor do I have any faith in Coin. I predict it will be at least another decade before this country restabilizes. Who knows how many will die before then?'

'Do you blame me?' she says. 'I supported Coin. I helped bring down your neat regime. Is it my fault the country is in ruins?'

'No,' he says. 'You always did what you believed was right. You were lied to, you were manipulated…' He tilts his head. 'I never lied to you. It's a shame things couldn't have gone differently.'

She rolls her eyes at him and pushes past, her shoulder colliding lightly with his, then turns into the other bedroom. This is obviously for a child. Her flashlight illuminates a tiny bed and the beam lingers over a limp, faded stuffed animal tucked into the bed. A rabbit? It's hard to tell, the poor thing is so malformed, but it has long ears that flop down around its squashed face.

She feels Snow's presence behind her.

'What do you think happened to the child?'

'Dead,' answers Snow immediately.

Katniss turns, frowning. 'How can you tell?'

'It's a shrine.' He points. 'Photos of a child in the bedroom of said child?' Katniss looks. They cover every surface. In the photos is some small, auburn-haired girl, freckled, round-faced, wholesome and laughing. Conspicuous gaps where baby teeth once were. Young and happy. 'And candles, too. Inappropriate for a child so young.' He leans against the doorframe. 'And even Coin doesn't conscript two parents with a living child.'

She shivers. 'Well, I'm not sleeping in here.'

'Nor I.'

'You wouldn't fit in the bed anyway.' She pokes his shoulder. 'You're too tall.'

He indulges her, smiling. 'Indeed, Miss Everdeen.'

'We can just share the big bed. We are staying here tonight, right?'

Snow nods. 'Yes, if you like. Are you sure about sharing?'

'Why not?' She shrugs. 'It's bigger than the tent.'

'Yes, but…' A light frown depresses his brow. 'It is different, sharing a real bed. I could take the couch downstairs if you'd prefer.'

'Why would I prefer that?' she says, challenging him. She ensures her eyes hold his.

Snow inclines his head in polite defeat. 'We shall share the master, if that is what you want, Miss Everdeen.'

They investigate the rest of the house, discovering working plumbing but no hot water and a dead generator. There is a propane stove that still works, if you light it manually, and a good amount of fuel. Snow suggests they plunder the vegetable garden for dinner and Katniss agrees. She chops, he stirs and adds spices. He watches her wield the knife with weird delight.

'Stop staring at me or I'll stab you,' she remarks, annoyed, as she chops carrots.

He raises his eyebrows in an expression of strange play. 'Promise?'

Katniss chooses to ignore this.

They eat vegetable stew by candlelight. Snow discovers a stack of wine bottles and pours them each a glass of a dusty red. Snow seems to enjoy it, but Katniss makes faces and complains of its weird, sour taste. Snow laughs with her over her distaste and explains to her how wine is made, and the different grapes of Panem, and that wine used to come from all over the world. He tells her of places she has never heard of: Italy and Australia, and she refuses to believe his descriptions of a vast red country filled with animals with pouches like opossums that jump and stand on their tails. They drink and they laugh, and Snow's smile warms her like the wine in her belly.

In the little lounge, Katniss retreats to the couch, feeling at humming peace with the world in a way she hasn't in a long time. Snow is distracted by the bookshelves.

'My goodness,' he murmurs. 'They have old world books here. They must have plundered these from the older houses. I suppose Coin no longer enforces the death penalty for hoarding forbidden artifacts.'

Katniss shoots him a disgusted look. 'You'd kill people for owning old books?'

'This many, yes. Knowledge is extremely dangerous.' He runs his finger over the spines, unconcerned with the casual death he leaves in his wake, then makes a little ah of delighted surprise and pulls free a book. 'You might like this one. Tales of Arthurian myth.'

She accepts the proffered book. 'Tales of what myth?'

'They're stories from another continent, from a very, very long time ago.' He taps the cover. 'Give it a try.'

He settles down in the arm chair with an extremely boring looking book about local geography that are full of maps far more complicated than her own.

She reads slowly, her finger following the words, her mouth miming the sounds. She has no idea how Snow can read so quickly without moving his lips, but she does not question it. Just one of many weird talents he's accumulated in his bizarre and gunshot-ridden life.

The room is sleepy-warm, safe and quiet. Katniss chews her lip as she reads.

'Snow?'

He looks up from his own book. 'Yes, Miss Everdeen?'

She considers. This is embarrassing. 'That dinosaur we saw… I didn't know things like that were real.' She delays her question. The open book in her lap depicts a glossy illustration of a huge, fantastic lizard. 'This story, it's about… Well, I wondered… Are dragons real, too?'

Snow holds her gaze, his expression frozen, and she knows instantly that she has said something very stupid.

'Forget it. I'm joking. I know they're not real.' She dips her head back to the book, letting the fall of her hair obscure her blush.

'Would that they were, Miss Everdeen,' says Snow gently, and she dares a peek at him. His smile is the kindest she has ever seen.

When she finishes the story about the dragon she sets the book aside, stretching and yawning like a cat, vaguely aware of Snow's eyes on her.

'I'm going to bed.'

'Of course, Miss Everdeen.'

She lingers by his chair, standing on one foot to stretch the other leg behind her back. 'Are you coming up?'

Once again, he reads her feelings with straightforward ease. She feels like her body exists in a foreign language that only Snow can interpret.

'Of course, Miss Everdeen.'

She nods and smiles, then they retire to the bedroom.

Katniss sets the flashlight down beside the bed and then goes through the closets in search of linens. She finds a loose shirt she can sleep in, as well as fresh, clean sheets. She starts to strip the bed. Snow's heavy footsteps climb the stairs and then he joins her, and wordlessly he helps her pull back the cover sheet, dress the pillows, and pile on new sheets and blankets. Katniss cannot suppress a smile as he neatens everything, tucking in the sheets, smoothing the creases away.

'Why do you bother making it so tidy? It's going to be all messed up soon anyway.'

He smiles as he runs his palms over the sheets. 'Order in all things, Miss Everdeen. And…' His smile takes an odd, self-amused quality. 'I prefer for you to be comfortable.'

Katniss kicks off her boots as Snow unties his own laces and she considers going into the other room to change. Usually she would change in the tent and make him wait outside. But why bother leaving? It's just Snow. They've seen so much of each other at this point.

Turning her back on him, she shrugs off her jacket, pulls off her shirt, then hesitates for just a moment before pulling loose her t-shirt and then unhooking her bra. Briefly naked from the waist up, she quickly pulls on the new shirt, which hangs far too large on her, and then she strips off her pants. She smiles as she realizes the underwear she has on beneath are Snow's boxers. Well, at least they give her good coverage.

When she turns back, in shirt and boxers, Snow is sitting on the side of the bed. He has found a set of pajamas but has not begun to undress. She can sense his hesitation. It is not concern for baring his own body, she knows, but a desire to respect her personal space.

Tactfully, Katniss goes to the other side of the bed, pulls back the sheets, then lies down and faces away from him. From here, she can see nothing.

Give him his privacy. Let him feel comfortable.

After a moment of silence, she hears Snow remove his clothes as well. And then she feels the mattress shift as he climbs in beside her and she rolls onto her back, smiling at him: he, faintly ridiculous to her in an open-necked pair of pajamas, his book in his lap again, looking for all the world like he could be her grandfather. Or her father.

She watches him read for a moment. How attentive he is, how gentle his fingertips on the page. What a strange and delicate man. No wonder he was so efficient at torturing her. She has never seen a man so easily and consummately absorbed in the fine textures of this world.

'I'm tired,' she says. 'Can we put out the light?'

He is not even a tiny bit annoyed. 'Of course, Miss Everdeen.'

He shuts the book, places it on the bedside table, then flicks off the flashlight

The room is big in the dark, so much bigger than the tent. She does not question the position of her body. She brings it towards his straightforwardly, like it belongs there, and Snow accommodates her. Each lies on their side, his arm around her waist, his face against her hair, and she breathes with the deep, excellent relief that his physical touch brings her. Maybe they can stay here a while. What rush could there possibly be to get to the base? The rebels can wait. Coin can wait. Surely it is only fair that she gets to be warm and good and happy for a change?

The sounds and smells of breakfast wake her, and Katniss lies in bed and blinks with sleepy, pleasant confusion as she tries to remember why she's in a house and not the tent. Snow is no longer beside her, but there is no anxiety to the absence as she hears him shift downstairs.

She picks through the closets and finds a clean set of clothes, pants and undershirt and sweater and socks. She changes into her own clean underwear and she pairs these with her boots. The clothes are a little on the large side, especially in the bust, but they're extremely comfortable compared to her worn, darned, and threadbare hiking outfits that she's nearly worn to pieces. She smiles at the neat folded pajamas Snow has left on a chair beside the bed. These meticulous traits that once executed the most efficient tortures now seem like fussy domesticity. How funny he can be.

Downstairs, she finds Snow at the stove, a frying pan and saucepan on the heat, cooking an assortment of tinned meat, tinned mushrooms, and fresh tomatoes.

'Hey,' she says.

Snow smiles at her, then smiles more slyly at her hair. 'You need a hairbrush.'

'There's got to be one around here somewhere. Maybe you can tidy it for me again.'

Snow inclines his head. 'If you like, Miss Everdeen.' He indicates the table. 'The food is almost ready, if you'd like to eat. I made myself coffee which you are welcome to, though I'm afraid there's no milk or sugar, so it won't be to your taste.'

Katniss slips into a wooden chair at the breakfast table. She notes that Snow has laid two plates, folded two napkins around the cutlery, and set out a jug of water with two glasses. He does so like things to be neat and pleasant.

'You remembered I don't like coffee?'

Snow spoons food into her plate and smiles to himself. 'Naturally.'

He sits with her, a cup of bitter, steaming coffee beside him, and he smiles at her across the table. 'It's nice to have a proper breakfast.'

'I bet you had fancy breakfasts like this all the time in the Capitol,' she says, and digs her fork into a tomato. It bursts in her mouth and tastes like Spring.

'In the Capitol, my breakfasts were rather more elaborate than this,' he smiles. 'And we always had eggs. Caltha loves eggs.'

The name is unfamiliar to her. 'Was that your wife?'

The smile slips from his face. His features fall cold. 'My granddaughter.'

She watches him pause in his eating. He forgot again. He forgot that she's dead.

'You should talk about her more,' says Katniss, picking at her food. 'Talking helps.'

'I don't want to talk about her.' He takes one mouthful of the tinned meat, chews, swallows, then his aspect completely shifts and it's as though he never mentioned his dead granddaughter at all. 'So, when shall we leave? I know you don't like me to know how far we have left, but I assume we are looking at days rather than weeks of travel.'

Anxiety rises in her and Katniss takes a mouthful of cool water to cover it. 'There's no rush,' she says. 'Might be nice to rest here for a while. Sleeping in a proper bed is a novelty I don't want to give up.'

'Of course, Miss Everdeen.' Snow smiles at her with a patient, glowing happiness. 'We can stay as long as you wish.'

'I know we can.' She shoves more tomato into her mouth and speaks around the half-chewed food. 'You're my prisoner. You have to do as I say.'

'Indeed,' smiles Snow, and she smiles back, and together they enjoy their breakfast as the sunlight burns pleasantly through the filthy windowpanes.

'I might go hunting this morning,' she says. 'I want fresh meat to go with these tomatoes.'

'I suggest you go deeper into the woods and avoid the road,' he says. 'We don't know how safe this location is. I certainly don't think we should be starting any fires.'

'It's warm enough,' she says. 'We'll be fine without a fire for the rest of Spring and Summer.'

He tilts his head. 'Are you planning to sojourn here for that long?'

She shrugs. 'Maybe. I don't know.'

'The vegetable garden won't last,' he says. 'And won't Abernathy wonder where you are?'

She plays with her cutlery. 'Maybe.'

He carefully sets down his knife and fork. 'Miss Everdeen, are we still going to the base?'

'Of course,' she says immediately, and then she stops herself. 'Yes. I think so. Where else would we go? We can't stay here forever. We can't just keep wandering the wilderness. We can't keep living like this.'

Snow reads the texture of her words perfectly. 'Living together, you mean.'

'All of it,' she says, dodging the question. 'I just… I don't want to go there yet.'

'Why not?'

The low call of a wood-dove sounds outside, hollow and sweet. It reminds her of sleepy Sunday afternoons, when she had hunted and sold her catches and could rest with Prim at her side, drowsing, enjoying the little sun-flecks of happiness that briefly illuminated her childhood.

'Because they'll torture you,' she says.

She expects silence. Shock. Cool anger, perhaps. A smooth accusation of betrayal.

But Snow only shrugs. 'Yes, I assumed as much.' He smiles at her. 'I hardly expected a warm reception. I killed Abernathy's family, as you may recall.'

He is like a bright, happy, silver sunflower. Nothing troubles him at all.

'I don't want them to torture you,' she says pointlessly, emptily.

'What a conundrum for you, Miss Everdeen.' He seems very amused. 'Now, if we're not going to be leaving today, I would rather like to explore the area. In reading about the local geography I discovered there is supposedly a hot spring nearby. Would you give me leave to investigate?'

When he smiles at her she feels utmost, complete reassurance. Like he is the most powerful force in the world, and if he thinks everything is safe, then it must be. Like kits look to their mothers to know when the hunters are near.

Katniss has killed entire families of rabbits before.

'Sure,' she says at last. 'I'll wash the dishes, and then I might go hunting.'

'Alright. We shall reconvene later, then.'

As Katniss washes the plates in cold water, rubbing her fingers against the streaks of red tomato juice on Snow's plate, she wonders how long they could stay. Snow nods her goodbye as he leaves, taking with him a towel, washcloth and a local map he's found, and she watches his retreating back shift into the bushes. Tall, certain strides, towel over one arm, the other swinging loose. The sun is blinding on the back of his white hair. She feels a sweet, not unpleasantly melancholic pang as she watches him leave.

Katniss lingers at the house for a little while, trying to occupy herself. It's hard to be apart from Snow for any length of time; aside from going to the toilet, they never leave one another's presence. Anxiety pricks at her and eventually she decides she might as well go after him. If there's a hot spring, why shouldn't she too get to enjoy it?

Outside, the day is a real, glittering Spring. The season has come at last. She lets the sound of birdsong fill her and she smiles at the soft beauty of the whole place. She feels like everything was left behind in the night. All those dead bodies, Coin, the rebellion, the bunker where death awaits. For now, at least, she has the warmth of May, and she has a garden stuffed with a mess of crocuses, poppies, and dandelions.

She wanders into the grass, winding between saplings, and as she walks she picks out the sound of running water nearby. She follows it, pushing through waist-high and even face-high grasses and foxgloves, and then she sees a clear space ahead. Water sparkles.

The final crops of grass give way to the shore, and Katniss halts as a wide green pool opens out before her.

Snow is here.

He is bathing. She does not know what else to do but watch. There is a gentle curiousness inside that she gives herself over to instantly, melting into it, and her eyes travel him slowly. He is scrubbing his arms, whose pattern of scars and light hair she knows so well, and she is acquainted too with the shape of his chest. His legs are skinnier than the legs of boys she's known, no longer thick and hard-muscled but diminished, though not in a way she finds unpleasant. Just like the trunks of a different kind of tree. And between his legs is the pale, heavy hang of his cock.

She has seen so few in the naked light of day. Peeta's occasionally, and sometimes the nude bodies of her mother's patients would be hers to encounter. But this is different. Its soft bulk, its thickness, the loose hang of skin over its head. The curiosity inside her is strangely new, like she is first seeing the sun. The clumsy shape of the male genitalia has always seemed silly to her, but no longer. It simply looks like a new part of a man she knows well.

Snow knows she is watching her before he meets her eyes. He pauses in washing his arms and his gaze goes to hers. He watches her back, and he does not object to her eyes on him. But he wants her to know that he is watching her as she does him. He continues to pull the rag over his skin, attention split casually between her and his ablutions. He is totally unconcerned with her gaze.

She tarries a little longer, just for a moment. She wants to have her fill. This is the body beside which she has slept these past weeks. This is the human reality of him, stripped of everything but the shimmer of water that conceals his lower legs and feet. They have always shared honesty, but this feels like a new kind of openness.

She should leave. Run away. Apologize and pretend this never happened. Snow stares at her without embarrassment, without self-consciousness. He is as proud as he was when he threatened her in her study, as he was in handcuffs in his greenhouse, as he is now, naked in the glittering sun. Like he is completely removed from the world.

'I want to bathe too,' she says suddenly.

Snow's expression is perfectly controlled. 'Of course. Do you want me to leave?'

She shakes her head once. 'You can stay.'

For a long moment, nothing happens. He stands there, naked in the water, watching her. She stands too, watching him. And then he draws his eyes away and returns to scrubbing his arm.

That is her cue. She is being rude. She either needs to leave or take off her clothes.

First the boots — simple, straightforward. Then her socks — easy. He knows her feet better than anybody, maybe better than she does. The sweater is easy to lose; he has often seen her in just a little t-shirt. Then she dithers. Slowly, uncomfortably, she unbuttons, unzips, then strips away her pants. Her legs are the palest part of her, like dark milk, glimmering in the sun. In the incredible light of noon, you can see not just her catastrophe of scars but also, above them, the wisps of dark brown pubic hair around her underwear. She shivers.

Steeling herself, she grips the hem of her undershirt. And then it is easy. She pulls it high and free of her chest, and then there she stands, her small breasts goose-pimpling in the warm air. She does not think before yanking off her underwear. Finally, she pulls loose her hair band and shakes her braid loose. There she is: standing on the grassy bank, naked, defenseless, unguarded.

Snow pauses in his ablutions to give her a polite smile. He does not look at her body, and then he returns to his task.

She wades into the water. She thinks the title of hot spring is rather a misnomer, but it is at least lukewarm. Once the water covers her shoulders, she pushes out into the pool and joys in the power of her body and the buoyancy of the water. She has missed swimming. She circles the pool, her strokes confident, her breath keen and deep. She almost forgets about Snow.

Then she comes to a rest in the shallows and sits, her breasts above the water and the rest of her below, and she washes herself with her hands. She wishes she had brought a washcloth.

He gives her space and she does the same for him, but she continues to sneak glances at him even though his eyes remain averted. From her perch near the bank she can see the side of his naked body, dappled with the freckles of age that aren't so different to those that dust her own neck. It's interesting to look at a body so unlike those she has known. But though she looks at his chest and his back and his legs and his backside, she knows her attention continues to be drawn to his cock. Safe in the soft warm water, she thinks about the way he murmurs so deeply into her at night and she feels something ripple inside her. With alarm, she drops her chest and her hardening nipples below the water. Not that Snow is looking, but it's shameful. She is prying. Being sneaky. Perverse. She never thought she could ever feel like that.

Eventually, Snow sinks fully into the water as well and he relaxes, eyes closed, the sun on his water-flecked face, and Katniss rubs her fingers over the smooth nubs of her right toes, where he cut them. She watches him rest, and she rests herself. Fluffy cumulonimbus stroll over the blue sky. The water lightly rumples in the breeze. Insects flit here and there. Birds sing in pleasant snatches. The bushes that hem them and the trees that dip their branches to the water are all thick with green, alive with Spring. And she and Snow are alive, too.

'I forgot to bring a towel,' says Katniss suddenly.

An expression of amused exasperation settles on Snow's face, his eyes still closed, strangely peaceful. 'You can take mine.'

She swims back to the other bank and steps out of the water, pausing to wring out her hair and swipe droplets from her legs and arms. When she glances at Snow, his eyes are open again. They watch her movements; not her body, but the way she animates it. She again thinks of Buttercup and his moths. Sometimes he would bat them down and crush them beneath a paw, only to watch them twitch until they grew still.

The towel is neatly folded next to Snow's equally tidy pile of clothes and Katniss wraps it around her body. She then sits on the grassy bank, letting the sun dry the rest of her skin, running her fingers through the wilds of her hair. Snow watches her. She watches Snow. Exactly as it should be.

'If I braid it wet, it'll dry all curly,' she says, the kind of idle chatter she used to share with Prim and Peeta and Gale.

Snow watches her from the water. Just like an alligator. His jaw could snap her in two.

'Would you like me to braid it for you?' he asks.

She is taken aback, but does not let it show. She runs her fingers through her hair and she thinks, and then she nods. 'Okay.'

He rises from the water, his skin gleaming in the sun, and he slowly walks over to join her. With water droplets cascading from his nude body, he eases down on the grassy bank. He sits with his knees high, which gives him some privacy, and Katniss makes sure to stop staring between his legs like she's a child who's never seen a naked man before. She inclines her own body away so he can reach her hair, then slips the hairband from her wrist and offers it to him.

His fingers sink into her hair like he's planting seeds in the soil, like he's tending his roses. Her eyes close. She feels nothing but the grass against her bare feet, the rough kiss of the towel, the sun on her skin, Snow's fingers against the back of her head, against her neck, occasionally touching her bare back. He is slow, methodical. Surgical, just like he was with her toes, like he must have been with his garden. It is indescribable, this feeling of touch and care and cultivation. Whether he means it or not, he is changing her, shifting something inside her. He is reshaping her dark and loamy depths and she does not know how or why.

'All done,' he says, and Katniss turns and smiles. Snow smiles, too. His beard glitters with water and his hair is slick. Her smile flickers slightly at the smell of blood and rot that hangs on his breath.

'You're very pale,' she observes. His skin is so white against her own. She holds up one arm beside his. A fawny down covers her arm, more body hair than was common for girls, even Seam girls. His own arm is thickly veined and richer haired. She wonders what it is that makes men's veins so much bigger. Something hormonal, she thinks. Snow would know, should she want to ask.

'I'm not that pale,' he says. 'It's an average tone, for the Capitol.'

'You're wet, too,' she says.

'You took my towel,' he smiles, and she grins at him. Then she reaches out and presses her fingertip against one of the largest, fattest drops of water sliding down his shoulder. She puts the finger to her lips. It is slightly saline. They must be much nearer the sea than when she first set out on this journey.

Snow only continues to smile at her with affection and grace. And then, with play and with curiosity and with an untethered need to touch him in new ways, she dips her face to the next large droplet and flicks out her tongue to catch it. For the briefest moment she feels the smooth texture of the skin of his shoulder against her tongue, the tiniest kiss, and then it is gone.

She looks up at him through large, questioning grey eyes. There is a question too in Snow's. His head shifts, only slightly, but he seems so much closer to her all of a sudden. Her heart pounds. What on earth are they doing? With the utmost delicate care, Snow raises one hand to the side of her face. It hovers above her skin, not touching, but she is sure she can feel the vibrations from the pulse of his hand reaching through the air to the soft peach of her face. Then she moves her neck, letting her cheek rest perfectly in the soft cup of his hand. His palm is cool, the skin calloused from their weeks of labor on the road. He holds her face in his hand and she feels like the whole world could fall away and gravity itself could shrivel, and still she would be borne aloft by the strength of his touch.

The blood scent of his mouth is coasting over hers. She lifts her chin, wondering if she's going mad, wondering if Haymitch would kill her for this, wondering what Snow's lips would feel like against hers.

Snow's head jerks away. The hand drops from her face.

He does not look at her at all. His expression grows cold and something even colder floats through her chest.

'I should go back,' he says. 'Get dry.'

She is careful not to look at him as he stands, and she actively turns her head away as he goes to fetch his clothes. She only listens to his retreating feet, soft against the grass.

She has gone too far.

Snow has been extremely clear with her. His feelings for her aren't sexual. There has been no ambiguity on that point, even if she feels like there is something inside him, something lurking, something waiting to snap at her. What if that's all in her head? What if she's so unused to feeling sexual attraction that she just projects it on him? Imagine herself the prey rather than think of herself as the monster?

These thoughts make her very miserable.

She stays by the water for the rest of the day, dreading having to confront what she almost just did. She stays on the bank until the sun has long faded and the late afternoon has given way to cold evening. She lies in the grass and she stares at clouds, at green fronds, at quivering insect wings. She does not want to go back to the cottage and to Snow. Surely he knows, now. She has no idea what the weird feelings inside her mean, but he must know. He knows her so well, after all. What does she even want? To be touched by him and to touch him, and to be safe and quiet and warm with him. To look at him. To touch new parts of him, perhaps. That is all she knows.

Once twilight has started to seep into the air, Katniss shrugs off the damp, cold towel and dresses again in her stolen clothes. She can't avoid him forever.

Unless he's run away from you and taken all the weapons and food and left you to die, she thinks.

No. He wouldn't. She trusts him.

She tramps back through the thick weeds, placing her feet thoughtlessly in the larger imprints left by Snow's feet. When the cottage comes back into view, she stops abruptly.

Snow is in the doorway. 'I was just about to come find you,' he says. He has tidied himself, she notices. His hair is carefully combed back, his beard freshly trimmed. He must have found a clean shirt in one of the closets, one which is a little too big for him, but it looks nice. She has not seen him so neat since when she first found him in that apartment. 'Dinner is ready.' His voice is immaculately controlled.

He disappears into the darkness of the house. Feeling a little less ashamed, Katniss follows. In the kitchen, she stops. There is candlelight filling the room, more than a dozen candles, on the table and on the countertops. He must have taken them from that dead child's bedroom. The table is finely, neatly laid with a tablecloth and napkins. Silverware is perfectly arranged. A bottle of red wine sits between two glasses. A vase of wildflowers shimmers in the pleasant gloom. She hovers in the doorway and feels awfully underdressed.

'This is nice,' she says, confused.

Snow fixes her with a hard and discerning gaze. He speaks purposefully. 'Is this what you want?'

She tries helplessly to survey the room and understand what it is he's doing. These are not the actions of her paternal protector. This is courtship. And how efficiently has he made the switch! Her feelings for him are more than filial? Fine — he'll play the suitor. There is something unsettling in the rapidity of the change.

'It's nice,' she repeats by way of answer.

With careful reverence, Snow pulls out her chair. Katniss feels like she's walked into a strange play as she sits. Snow joins her on the other side of the table and pours their wine. There is something unusually specific to his movements, a new layer of control and care, and she wonders what he could possibly be thinking.

They eat in silence. Snow has cooked a tin of spam with fresh garden vegetables, plated beautifully, and it's the most delicious thing she's eaten in a long time. But the air is awkward. She doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't want to upset some delicate balance. Katniss tries not to gulp her wine. She does not want to get drunk.

'The food is really good,' she says eventually and in return receives a polite bow and a smile.

'Thank you.'

They finish and sit quietly, Katniss swirling her wine glass, playing with the stem nervously.

'Perhaps we should talk,' says Snow. He takes a deep breath and speaks slowly, as though this is rehearsed. 'I want to provide you with what you want and what you need. I think I have been mistaken about the nature of that. But I would like to be corrected.'

She does not meet his eyes as she toys with her wine glass. 'You haven't been mistaken. I've just been confused.'

Snow nods. All his movements are slow, like she's a flighty animal he doesn't want to startle. 'Do you know what you want now?'

What a hopeless question. She forces herself to look at him, at his peculiar, bright, intense eyes. 'Not really.' She gently and firmly sets down the wine glass and interlaces her fingers. She realizes her knee is shaking and makes herself keep it still. 'I like you. I like being with you and talking with you. That's frightening to me.' She draws a long and shaking breath, a weak fiddle-string. 'Today I thought about kissing you. I don't know why.'

Snow absorbs this thoughtfully, academically. 'I see no problems with continuing our shared presence, conversation, and physical proximity. I enjoy these too.' He takes a breath. 'But I cannot kiss you.'

She nods and does not look at him. 'I know. It was a stupid thought.'

'It would be unpleasant for you,' he says, and Katniss raises her frowning eyes. That is not what she expected him to say. 'You know how my breath smells. Imagine how my mouth tastes. You would find it disgusting. I do not wish to inflict that on you. But you could kiss me,' Snow continues, like this is normal, like this is an everyday conversation. 'Though not on the mouth. My face or neck — that would be alright. If you wanted to, that is.' His head tilts. 'Are there other things you want?'

Katniss is without words. The thread of the conversation has slipped from her hands like an errant kite string.

'I'm not even really sure what we're talking about,' she says helplessly.

Snow speaks very levelly. 'I want to give you what you want, Miss Everdeen. I want to give you everything you want. I would deliver you the world, should you ask it of me.' His eyes pierce her and they keep going and going and going until he sees into the darkest places of her. 'I believe you want us to be in a romantic relationship. Is that correct?'

'I don't… Snow…' She is helpless and overwhelmed. 'You're President Snow!' Her voice is a whisper-shriek. 'You killed so many people… you destroyed my town… you ran the Games… we were enemies…'

'I don't care about any of that,' says Snow. 'At least not insofar as it affects me liking you. I liked you when you were my enemy and I like you now. I don't care what happened before.' He shrugs and takes a mouthful of his wine. 'And nor do you anymore.'

'Yes I do!' She feels like her voice is going to shrink so small no one will ever hear it again.

Snow's gaze shoves itself effortlessly inside her once again. 'No, you don't. You crawl into my arms every night. Your heart beat slows down when you do. I feel you, every night, melt into sleep against me. You trust me. I make you feel safe. So no, you do not care about the things I did.'

'Then I should care—'

'But you don't,' he politely retorts. 'And so there is no point dwelling on it. It's inefficient.'

She feels completely shot down, a poor gopher obliterated by buckshot. 'What about…' She is stammering. 'You're four times my age.'

'I could not care less about your age.'

'Wouldn't you care if I was younger?'

Snow is completely indifferent. 'I don't care about such things.'

This provokes a queasy fear. 'But I have almost no experience, just Peeta, and we were… I don't know. I feel like I don't know anything about romantic relationships.'

'I'll teach you,' says Snow pleasantly. 'I like teaching you. I have no intention to use my experience against you. I only want to give you what you want. Tell me what you want, and I will provide. It's quite simple.'

'I don't even know what I want.'

'I'll help you figure it out.'

'Snow,' she pleads, and then she doesn't say anything else. He studies her: her helpless eyes, her sternum trembling with her racing heart, the anxious twitch of her fingers.

He nods once. 'This is too much for you.'

Katniss nods like a child that wants to be taken home from the fair because the noises are too loud and the lights too bright.

'We can talk about something else,' he says. 'Perhaps I misjudged.'

She takes deep breaths. Nothing is making sense.

'Snow,' she says at last. 'Do you actually like me? Or are you just humoring me?'

He looks amused. 'Humoring you?'

'You've been very firm about not being attracted to me,' she says. 'But I have no idea what you feel about me. If you like me, or if you're just obsessed with me... You said it yourself, you lost everything and I'm what's left. Maybe you're just desperate to cling onto what you have left by any means necessary.'

Snow's expression is surprise and a little pity. Then a change goes through him. The stiffness fades, the cool impassivity melts. Something warm and kind and strange takes their place. When he speaks, his voice is dark, blooming blossoms. Soft petals on her skin, whispering against her.

'Miss Everdeen, I love you.' He says this simply, his palms open, his smile small, his eyes gentle. Katniss does not feel surprise, but she does feel shock. 'I have loved you for a long time. I loved you when we fought and you defeated me again and again. I loved you when you tried to kill me. I loved you as your enemy, and I love you as my companion. If you wanted me to love you as a father, then I would have been honored. And if you want me to love you as a paramour, then I want that too. And if you take me to the rebels and they kill me slowly, I will love you with every piece of me that they cut away, and those pieces will love you too.'

He finishes his speech and he awaits her response. But what is she supposed to say? She likes him — oh, she likes him. And she is helpless as the stands at the precipice of his obsession. How deep does it go? Has he truly loved her so long? When he rained bombs on District 12, did he love her? When he scraped out Peeta's mind, did he love her? Coating District 13 in roses… just for her… was all of that laced with terrible love?

She does not speak for some time. Snow's eyes do not leave her face.

'Oh,' is all she says, at long last.

'Now you know I feel,' says Snow, his voice so soft. 'Do you know what you want?'

It is hard to find her voice. 'You loved me all this time? Even when you hurt me?'

'I did,' he says quietly.

'But I don't understand.' Her voice is plaintive and pathetic. 'I don't understand how you can hurt someone that much but still love them.'

He softly bares his teeth. 'You do not need to understand. You only need to trust that I won't hurt you anymore.'

And she does trust him. She has been lied to so many times in her life, but Snow has always been honest. She has always been able to trust him to keep his word: to care for her, or to try to kill her. If he says he won't hurt her, she believes him.

She knows she has already surrendered. Perhaps she never had any chance against him, from the moment she held a gun in his face in that apartment. Perhaps she was trapped even before that, when she wandered into his greenhouse and she let him bind her to him in trying to kill Coin, when he let her take that white rose away and keep it in a little vase, just for herself.

Eventually, quietly, she answers him. 'Let's go to bed.'