Hi everyone! Sorry for such a long hiatus - I didn't think I would take THAT much time off from writing. I did pass my NCLEX though, so I'm an official RN! YAY! It was a looonng 3 years to get there LOL. So it's great to finally shut that chapter and relax until I find a job.

I received my first reviewer, who left not 1 but 3 reviews! Thank you so much nandy7781 for being that person : ) It actually is what made me come back sooner and start editing and writing again. This chapter I think I edited 3 times already and this version is the one I am most satisfied about. So, this chapter is dedicated to my first reviewer!

Thank you for reading and coming back to this story- I have SO much planned now for it and lemme tell you, it is not the direction I thought it was gonna go in, but I'm low key obsessed. I did say it was a post-mockingjay story, just never said when or how it was going to happen ;)

Without further ado, here is the next chapter!

Please continue to like, follow and review my story, you guys have no idea how much it means to me as a beginner writer :')

- MrsVela99

I've been going over to Katniss's house for dinner almost every night these past few weeks. We take turns cooking, and somehow we even roped Haymitch into giving it a shot. Turns out, the old drunk has some hidden talent in the kitchen. He bragged about this chicken dish he once had in the Capitol—a cranberry and orange glaze that I never would've thought would work. To my surprise, both Katniss and I went back for seconds. At first, Katniss wrinkled her nose, claiming chicken should never be sweet. But that didn't last long. By the end of the meal, she was scraping the last bit of sauce off her plate with her finger.

Haymitch even got creative with the green beans Katniss grew and froze for winter. Nothing special, really, but when Haymitch cooks, there's this strange feeling of belonging—a broken family pieced together by shared meals. A feeling neither of us had known for too long. When it's our turn to cook, Haymitch shows up sometimes, as long as he's not too far gone, which is rare. He likes to say, "Progress, not perfection," on his more sober days, which is about twice a week. Maybe three, if we're lucky.

Last week, I tried teaching Katniss how to make my cheese buns. It was... an experience. I trusted her to watch the oven, but the first batch came out underdone, and the second batch was burnt to a crisp. The house reeked of charred bread for hours. Another attempt resulted in a mess of overstuffed buns, dripping with cheese that bubbled over and burnt to the trays. That was her way of proving me wrong after I mentioned we'd run out of cheese if she kept snacking on it. It took me two hours to scrape the oven clean.

Still, she's determined. She's made them every day since, and each batch gets a little closer to perfect. Typical Katniss, as I have learned – stubborn and relentless, even against her favorite snack.

Tonight, as I slogged my way home from work, my feet barely left the ground. Exhaustion weighed me down, every step a calculated effort like I had to actively remember how to move. Four straight days of this, and each shift hit like a freight train. Two codes per shift—back-to-back—with the same five patients. Running from room to room, half the time wondering if it was real this time or just another false alarm. By the end, Delly and I were practically drafting each other's resignation letters in our heads.

We threw blame around like candy—at each other for missing the monitors, at the doctors for not ordering the meds we needed, at ourselves for not catching it sooner. Only to find out the pumps that kept their blood pressure stable had been malfunctioning the whole time. Today, I caught one of them flickering on and off like it had a mind of its own. Turns out, we were part of some recall investigation no one bothered to clue us in on. Fantastic, right?

I called Katniss to let her know dinner was off the table—literally. I was beyond wiped out, and the idea of sitting in a chair, eating, making conversation, and walking back home felt more impossible than scaling a mountain. Honestly, just making it through this day should've earned me a medal. I could hear the disappointment in her voice, and it took all my willpower to remind myself, 'there's always tomorrow night,' just so I wouldn't betray my body and give in to going over.

As I got closer to my building, I noticed a small figure at the bottom of the stairs, kicking a rock absentmindedly. Please don't let it be my downstairs neighbor again. She's nice enough, until you cross her. I'd already been on the receiving end of her wrath after a few too many complaints about my "stomping" on the stairs. Yeah, I used them for cardio—fine, I was loud—but I don't think that justified the title "loud-footed cripple."

Squinting through my exhaustion, a wave of relief washed over me when I realized it wasn't her. It was Katniss, standing there with a pot in her hands.

A smile tugged at my face, though it felt like my muscles had forgotten how to function. "Hey, stranger. What're you doing here?" I called out. Her head snapped up like she'd been caught sneaking around. Straightening up, she held the pot like it was some grand offering, and sure enough, slung over her shoulder was that beat-up brown bag she always called her "cheese bun" bag.

"Dinner," she said, her smile so bright I almost forgot how tired I was. She held the pot out in front of her, like she'd traveled all this way just to offer me peace. And for a moment, it worked. The thought of her carrying that food all the way here eased the weight in my chest. I should've thanked her—hell, I wanted to. But the first thing that came out of my mouth?

"How did you know where I lived?"

My voice came out flatter than I intended, and I watched as her smile flickered, faltering just for a second. She glanced down at the pot, mumbling something about not wanting me to eat dinner alone.

I could feel sweat creeping down my back, making the ache in my muscles worse with every second. All I could think about was getting upstairs and crashing into bed. Katniss still wouldn't meet my eyes, and irritation started bubbling up, mixing with the sticky October heat that clung to the air despite fall being long overdue. I sighed and nodded toward the stairs, silently inviting her up.

She hesitated, her mood visibly deflated. I'd ruined it. Typical. This was Katniss—showing up unannounced, trying to do something kind, and I'd snapped at her for it. She doesn't do gestures like this often, not unless it means something. And I'd messed up her groove.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I said, softening my tone as I took the pot from her, tucking it between my arm and chest like it might slip away if I wasn't careful. "That wasn't fair of me. It's been a rough few days, but I really appreciate you thinking of me—and hauling this all the way here." I let my fingers graze her cheek before pressing a quick kiss there, a small gesture of thanks that felt both familiar and awkward. "Did you wait long?"

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she shook her head, following me up the stairs in silence. My feet thudded against the steps—loud and uneven, the kind of noise my downstairs neighbor would complain about—but Katniss moved so quietly behind me, I had to turn around just to be sure she was still there. When we finally reached my door, she glanced around the hallway like she was searching for something to focus on.

"I like your door color," she offered, a little too quickly, as I struggled with my keys, balancing the pot in the crook of my arm.

I raised an eyebrow, glancing from the door back to her. A faint smile tugged at my lips. "Thanks, it's my favorite." The door, a faded orange that had once been bright, was now muted and worn, beaten by the elements over the years. I finally got the key in the lock and nudged the door open with my foot. "Ladies first."

Katniss stepped inside slowly, her eyes sweeping over the small, cluttered space like she was taking inventory. "It's… cozy," she said, though I could tell she was being polite.

I let out a laugh as I set the pot on the stove. "That's just a nicer way of saying 'tiny,' but I'll take it." I glanced around, feeling oddly self-conscious. Her place was always so neat, and I had a hand in that—I cleaned up a little extra after dinners, a habit I'd never acknowledged out loud. I hoped she hadn't noticed. "Sorry it's not as organized as your place. I had to buy everything here myself, including the appliances, and since I'm hardly ever home, I didn't bother sprucing it up much."

Katniss ran her fingers along the edge of the counter, then bent down to take off her boots, lining them up neatly by the door. "My house in the Seam was half this size, and there were four of us at one point. Now, the place I'm in feels too big. I really do like it here, though. It feels... comfortable."

Her words tugged at me, reminding me of her past. She'd only been living in Victor's Village for a few years, but before that, she shared a cramped space with her family. I thought of Prim and the way she once told me how much she appreciated the sturdy floors of their new house, relieved they wouldn't collapse from the weight of too much bathwater. I immediately regretted my earlier complaint about the apartment being too small.

"Why don't you sit down?" I motioned toward the couch, trying to shift the mood.

But instead of sitting, she stepped closer to me, her arms beginning to lift like she was about to hug me. I immediately stepped back.

"Wait, hold on," I said quickly, raising a hand to stop her. Her arms fell to her sides, confusion flickering in her eyes. "I need to change first. You do not want to know what's on these scrubs, and trust me, you don't want it on your clothes."

She wrinkled her nose, half-smiling, half-repulsed. "Good point. Sorry."

I pointed to the couch again, and this time she sat down while I headed to the bedroom. The thought of touching clean clothes after being coated in blood, sweat, and God-knows-what all day made my skin itch. Images from the hospital flickered through my mind, worsening that crawling sensation on my skin.

I poked my head out from the bedroom doorway. "I'm gonna shower real quick."

After rinsing my hair and scrubbing my body—not once, but twice—I finally felt clean enough to put on fresh clothes. I threw on a hoodie and hesitated for a moment before pulling on a pair of knee-length shorts. They used to be called "basketball shorts," though we just call them training shorts now. My prosthetic was fully visible—fine when I was alone, but with Katniss here, I usually stuck to joggers or jeans around her. The only time she ever got a glimpse was when she boldly peeked under the table. Swallowing the familiar pang of self-consciousness, I made my way back out.

The smell of whatever she'd cooked hit me before I even saw her, and my stomach growled in response. I hadn't eaten much today—just a piece of bread and half an apple I'd shared with Delly. Katniss sat on the couch, her jacket off, wearing a fitted spaghetti-strap cami and loose black sweats. From where I stood, I could see the faint curve of her breasts peeking over the cami, and a flush of heat crawled up my neck. We hadn't done anything since that night after our argument—just awkward hugs or a kiss on the cheek—and it seemed like she was fine with that. I wasn't going to push for more.

I walked over to the couch and settled on the opposite end, leaning against the armrest the way I often did at her place. My couch, of course, was less antique and infinitely more comfortable. The soft gray fabric hugged me in, and it was padded enough that if I ever fell asleep here, I'd be out cold, just like in my bed.

"So," I asked, closing my eyes to avoid the distraction of her cami and resting my head back against the cushions, "what's in the pot?"

"Chili," she said, perking up. "Found it in a cookbook Effie gave me. It's mostly beans and meat. Apparently, you're supposed to have cornbread with it, but I've never had it, so I wouldn't know if it's any good."

I couldn't help but smile at the image of her frowning at a cookbook, treating it like an enemy she had to outwit. I could practically see her scowling at all the unnecessary paragraphs about why the recipe was "the best." It was kind of annoying. My family's cookbooks, which were lost in the bombing, were no-nonsense—just straight-up titles, ingredients, and instructions.

"I've made cornbread before," I admitted, adjusting my leg beneath me to get comfortable. "More of a winter thing, though, to go with chili. But I could whip some up next time if you give me a heads-up on what you're making."

The fact that I was talking about a "next time" didn't faze me anymore. I used to worry that each visit could be our last—Katniss tended to run when things got uncomfortable. If she wasn't feeling it, she'd disappear into her room and stay there until Haymitch, or I left. But now, after so many nights spent together, it felt like there was no turning back.

Katniss smiled, and naturally, I smiled back. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I closed my eyes again, soaking in the subtle sounds of her presence—the way she cleared her throat when she shifted, the slight change in her breathing when she was reading something she liked from my table. A few times, I could feel myself starting to nod off, my head dipping toward my chest.

Guilt crept in—I was supposed to be hosting, not napping. I stretched and yawned, rubbing a hand over my face to wake myself up.

"Sorry," I said, blinking my eyes open. "Not exactly the best host right now." I stood up, trying to shake off the drowsiness. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Before she could answer, I grabbed two glasses and filled them with lemonade I'd made yesterday. Lemons were scarce, so I wanted to make the most of what I had. I handed her a glass, and she smiled gratefully before taking a sip. Her face scrunched up almost immediately.

"Oh my god, that's so sour," she said, grimacing but taking another sip anyway.

"You know," I teased, sipping my own glass, "you can just tell me, 'Peeta, this is awful, never give it to me again.'"

My own mouth squeezed into a tight pucker and I realize I may have forgotten the sugar. I rushed to grab some from the kitchen and added a few shakes to both our glasses. After stirring hers with the straw, I handed it back.

She took another sip and nodded. "That's much better. It's really good now."

I smiled, relieved, and took a sip of my own, enjoying the improved flavor.

"I know lemonade isn't exactly an autumn drink," I said, staring into my glass, "but the only apple tree I knew was the one by the bakery, and... well, we both know that's gone now." My voice softened as memories of my dad making apple cider crept up. "He used to make cider from the apples we grew. It was one of my favorites."

As the words left my mouth, I realized I'd opened a door into my past, and I caught a glimpse of her sympathetic smile from the corner of my eye. We slipped back into silence, and just as I began to drift off again, Katniss broke the quiet.

"So, work wasn't good today?" she asks softly.

I pause, lowering the cup to my lap. I rarely talk about work with her. She's seen so much already—far more than she ever should have—but I chose this line of work. It feels different. I take a deep breath, the weight of the past few days pressing down like a heavy cloak. Her body shifts closer, knees hugged to her chest, offering silent support.

"No, it... it hasn't been good for a while," I admit, rubbing my hand over my face. "The medication pumps we use? Some of them malfunctioned, caused a lot of... issues." Deaths. Near-deaths. But I can't bring myself to say it.

Katniss looks like she wants to speak but hesitates, her lips parting slightly. Finally, she asks, "Do you see death a lot at work?"

Her voice is small, like she's bracing for the answer. I nod slowly.

"Yeah, I do. It's a critical care floor. I wouldn't trade it for anything, though. I love it there—the people, the challenge. But it gets tough... more than I like to admit."

I take a sip of my drink, trying to ease the knot tightening in my throat. My legs stretch out on the coffee table, but the tension lingers. For some reason, now that I've started, it feels impossible to stop. "The past few days, we've had two codes a day. That's when someone's heart stops. You have to jump into CPR immediately. But our crash carts weren't even fully stocked. We had to break them open mid-code and hope we had enough supplies for the next one." I flex my fingers unconsciously, the memory still fresh. "I've done so much CPR this week my arms feel like noodles. Being one of the few guys on the floor... well, I always end up doing it. I've gotten good at it, but it still… it takes a toll."

Katniss watches me closely, her gaze falling to my hands. I can almost hear her thoughts—these hands, which she probably thinks of as gentle, have done both healing and harm in the name of saving people. But I look at her eyes, those gray eyes that have seen more horrors than most, and I know she understands.

"What's it like?" she asks quietly. "Doing CPR on someone? I never learned how."

I blink, surprised by the question, but instead of answering, I get an idea. I stand up and grab a hardcover book from the table, then a pillow from my room. I slip the book inside the pillowcase and lay it on the floor, motioning for her to join me. She kneels down, curious but silent. "Okay, so put one hand over the other, like this," I demonstrate, hands positioned. "Now, place your hands here and push down—hard. Center your weight over your hands."

She mimics my actions, pressing slowly at first. I try not to notice the subtle movement of her chest as she leans into the compressions, my mind quickly sobering when I glance at her arms. Bare tonight for once, they're littered with scars—some faded, others still stark reminders of the past. I force my gaze away, focusing on her hands instead.

"Good, but it's much faster. Here, let me show you."

She moves aside, and I press down with the urgency I've grown so familiar with, my hands working automatically. As I compress, images flash—faces of patients I've lost, blurring and overlapping. I stop abruptly, sitting back, closing my eyes for a moment. Stay calm. Not in front of her.

"Peeta?" Her voice pulls me back.

"Try again," I say, steadying myself.

Katniss watches me for a moment longer before refocusing, setting her hands in place. She pushes faster this time, mimicking the pace I showed her. Her lips press together in concentration, but after just a few compressions, she sits up, gasping for breath. The relief in me is immediate—if she had kept going, I might've had to excuse myself. Watching her like this, it's too much.

"That's really good. But you have to keep that pace for two straight minutes. Then check their pulse and get back on it within fifteen seconds."

She looks at me, wide-eyed. "Two minutes of that?"

"Yep. And sometimes it goes on much longer."

She shakes her head, sitting back on her heels. "How long today?"

I hesitate. "We had two codes. So, four total. I did CPR for most of them. Each one lasted about an hour."

Her mouth falls open. "You did that for four hours today? No wonder your arms feel like noodles."

I nod, pulling the book out of the pillowcase and tossing it onto the couch. When I stand to put the pillow away, I can feel her eyes on me. She's not done with this conversation.

"What does it actually feel like?" she presses, her curiosity relentless. "I mean, it's not like pressing on a pillow. Is it... weird?"

I exhale hard through my nose, wanting to explain, to make her understand how grueling it is, how it lingers long after I leave work. But instead of giving her the raw truth, I give her something that will hopefully end the conversation.

"It feels hard. Like pushing on a spring. Until you've been at it too long, and their ribs break. Then it's just... mush."

Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. "That's... disturbing. I'm sorry."

I wave it off, though the tightness in my throat grows. I feel the pressure building behind my eyes, and for the first time in days, I realize I'm close to crying. I turn away, checking the pot of chili, pretending to focus on the food. But when I turn around, she's right there.

Before I can speak, Katniss wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me into her. Her face presses into my shoulder, and I can feel her breath against my skin as she holds me tightly. It's all I need. I wrap my arms around her waist, resting my chin on top of her head, the familiar scent of her grounding me.

And then, without warning, a tear escapes. I blink, trying to stop it, but it's useless. My chest tightens, and suddenly, the dam breaks. I bury my face in her shoulder, my body shaking with sobs I can no longer hold back.

Katniss draws shapes on my back with her fingertips, tracing a pattern that soothes me more than I care to admit. She lets me cry, offering quiet comfort, never pulling away. I hadn't realized how much I needed this—needed her.

"You're so good, Peeta," she whispers. "You save lives. You've helped me in more ways than I can say. It's okay to let it out. You don't have to be strong all the time."

Her words break through the wall I've built, and I sob harder, releasing everything I've been carrying. The faces, the broken ribs, the failures—it all pours out, and she holds me through it, never once letting go.

Eventually, my sobs slow to deep breaths, the kind that seem to scrape the last remnants of emotion from my chest. I pull away from Katniss's embrace, swiping my sleeve across my face, feeling the rawness around my eyes. Just as I begin to apologize—more out of habit than anything—she hushes me with a kiss. Her lips are soft, but damp with my tears, and as she pulls back, I notice her cheeks are streaked with her own.

It's not a passionate kiss. Not a desperate one either. It's a kiss of understanding, the kind that says she knows exactly how I feel without either of us having to say a word. She stays close, her hands coming up to cradle my face.

"I'm so proud of you," she says, her voice steady, but the emotion in it is unmistakable. "I don't know if anyone's told you that lately, but I am. I'm incredibly proud of you."

She kisses my cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears with her thumbs. I manage a small smile, nodding. Her words hit me harder than I expect, filling a void I didn't realize was so empty. It's been so long since anyone's told me that. The sincerity in her eyes makes me believe her, and for the first time in a while, I feel something close to peace.

We finish dinner in comfortable silence. The chili is even better than I expected, and I catch Katniss smirking at me when I sneak back for a second bowl. It's a simple moment, but it feels right—warm, easy.

Later, we settle on the couch, our feet propped on the coffee table, some random show playing in the background. The TV is just noise at this point. Katniss leans into me, and I drape my arm around her shoulders, tracing my fingertips along her arm. Her scars stand out in the low light—thirty on her left arm, twenty on her right. Her left arm, her non-dominant one, took the brunt of the damage, and I feel that familiar ache of concern rise in my chest.

I want to ask her about them, about the memories they hold, but now doesn't feel like the time. We're content, wrapped in a rare moment of calm. Katniss has always been the one to push people to open up, to get them to talk, but I've always been more patient, knowing there's a right moment for everything.

She nestles closer, her breathing slowing as she begins to doze. I glance at the clock; it's just after ten. Lazily, I press a kiss to the top of her head. It stirs her, and she shifts, blinking awake.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were asleep," I murmur, sitting up a little. "Would you like me to walk you home? Or call Haymitch to come and walk you back?"

She stretches, a small scowl taking over the content expression she had just a moment ago. "I don't need an escort—I've survived two Games and a war, you know." She rolls her eyes, pulling her knees to her chest. "But... would you mind if I stayed the night? I really don't want to walk all the way home."

For a second, I want to roll my eyes right back at her—classic Katniss, never asking for help unless she's exhausted. But her request throws me off. My place is a mess, and the idea of her seeing it like this makes me slightly embarrassed. I hadn't planned for her to come over, I still don't know how she knew where I lived, I realized.

"Peeta?" Her voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I realize I've been quiet too long.

"Yeah, of course," I say quickly, my words tumbling out. "I just need to tidy up my room a bit before you can use it."

I head down the hallway, my heart racing as I see the disaster that is my bedroom. Clothes are everywhere, and the bed looks like I haven't made it in days. I grab everything in sight, stuffing it into a laundry basket before hauling it to the washer. The cycle starts, the sound of water filling the machine masking my nerves. When I glance back toward the living room, I see Katniss peeking over the back of the couch, watching me with a slight smile. I quickly turn away, heading back to clean the room as fast as I can.

I smooth the sheets, fluff the pillows, and straighten up the small mess of books and notes scattered on my dresser. Finally, I close the window, feeling the warm air replace the cool breeze that had slipped in earlier. I glance around, satisfied enough, and grab a pillow and blanket from the hall closet.

Katniss is still on the couch when I return, her arms wrapped around her knees. As I approach her, she reaches for the pillow, but I pull it back.

"No, no," I say with a small smile. "This is for me. You can take my room. It's all cleaned up, and the bathroom's in there too. Make yourself at home."

She stares at me for a moment, her lips pressed together in thought. There's something in her expression, something almost... disappointed?

"I was kinda hoping you'd stay with me," she says quietly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear.

My heart stutters in my chest. I blink, trying to process what she's just asked. Stay with her? In my bed? Together?

"You mean... you want me to sleep in my bed... with you?" I stammer, my heart now racing for an entirely different reason.

She nods, her gaze unwavering. "Yes, Peeta. I'd like you to sleep with me. In your bed."

Her tone is teasing, but the sincerity in her eyes holds me in place. I manage a nervous laugh, shrugging casually, even though I feel anything but calm. "Sure, yeah, that's fine with me."

Katniss stands, turning off the TV before following me to the bedroom. I toss the pillow and blanket back onto the bed, my nerves buzzing. We've slept together before but this feels different. We're not drunk from our orgasms and seeing no reason to leave one another like last time. I start to think that this might be a little too much, and the fear of Katniss shutting me out again starts to rear its ugly head. I swallow my fears and think bluntly to calm my nerves. It's just us, choosing to share a bed, and the weight of that choice settles heavily in my chest.

I sat on the edge of my bed as Katniss moved to the other side, tying her hair into a messy low bun before pulling back the thin sheet and comforter. That's when it hit me—why I was so anxious: I needed to take off my prosthetic.

I hesitated, biting my lip, debating whether to leave it on. I've slept with it before, but I always regret it by morning—waking up with my leg red and swollen from the tight pressure. I weighed my options: suffer through the discomfort tonight and hide it again tomorrow, or take it off and let Katniss see the ugly reality I still struggle with.

I glanced at her, her back now to me, and quietly asked, "Hey, Katniss, um, I need to take off my prosthetic. Is that okay with you?"

She turned, her brow furrowed in confusion as she crawled over to sit beside me. "Peeta, of course, it's okay. This is your room, your space. Do whatever makes you comfortable," she reassured me, rubbing my back gently. Her touch was soothing, but I still felt exposed, my vulnerability raw.

With a quiet sigh, I gripped the edge of my prosthetic and unclipped the locks, a soft hiss escaping as I removed it. I quickly leaned it against the wall by the bedside table and slid my stump under the blanket, hoping to hide it before she could really notice. But Katniss's curious gaze lingered, and she smiled softly.

"Oh wow, I had no idea it was that realistic. Honestly, I couldn't even tell you had one on," she said, now looking at the gentle curve the blanket made over my leg. Her expression wasn't one of disgust but admiration, which only made me more self-conscious. I rubbed the sensitive area with one hand, wincing slightly as I found a sore spot.

Concern flickered across her face. "Are you okay?"

My face flushed as I tried to brush it off. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Sometimes it gets sore if I leave it on too long. I just need to massage it," I mumbled, pressing down on the area, trying to ease the ache. But I could feel her gaze, steady and unwavering.

"Katniss, you're staring," I said, trying to lighten the mood with a chuckle, though I still felt a bit exposed.

Her eyes widened in realization. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" She paused, biting her lip. "Here, let me. I've… never done this before, but can I help?"

I blinked, unsure if I should let her. No one besides doctors had ever touched my stump. But the way she looked at me, so earnest, made me want to trust her. I nodded slowly, leaning back against the headboard.

Katniss gently pulled back the blanket and rolled up my shorts, placing her hands carefully on either side of my leg. Her touch was soft but firm as she applied pressure, easing the soreness in a way I never could.

I couldn't help but let out a low moan of relief, the tension melting under her fingertips. "Sorry," I mumbled quickly, embarrassed by the sound. "It just never feels that good when I do it."

She didn't seem to notice, continuing her careful work. Gradually, the pain began to fade entirely. "Wow," I breathed, "it actually feels a lot better than it usually does. Thanks."

Katniss smiled, settling back into her spot on the bed. "You should let me do that more often. I've got some salve I use for sunburns—maybe it could help?"

I smiled back, appreciating her thoughtfulness. "Maybe," I replied, though I knew it wouldn't help as much as pain meds or a lidocaine patch. Still, I didn't want to dampen her caregiving spirit. She turned onto her side, facing away from me, as I took off my hoodie and laid down.

I reached for the new lamp I'd bought the week before, switching it off as I adjusted the blanket up to my chest. The room was dark, but the warmth of her presence made it feel brighter somehow. As I started to settle, I felt her shift beside me, wiggling closer. She pressed her head against my chest, right over my heart, and draped a hand across my stomach. Instinctively, I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, my fingers brushing the elastic band in her hair. Without thinking, I tugged it free and gently ran my fingers through her soft hair, the repetitive motion soothing us both.

"Goodnight, Peeta," she murmured against my chest, her voice soft and warm.

I let out a contented sigh, my eyes growing heavy. "Goodnight, sweetheart," I replied, my voice thick with sleep.

The last thing I remembered before slipping under was a light, playful slap on my belly.