'Let's go home.'

The return trip through town passes in a blur. Or at least, I think it does since I don't actually remember walking. All I know is one moment I'm kneeling with Peeta on the hard wet cement that used to be his family's bakery, and the next I'm sloughing through a muddy river that used to be the path heading towards Victor's Village. The hunter in me is horrified that my brain is engulfed in such a haze, but it's nearly impossible to concentrate on anything except the lingering feel of Peeta's calloused thumb as it caressed my bottom lip and the husky tone of his voice as he whispered those three little words that won't stop repeating in my brain. Yes, I'm thankful it wasn't the three words I'm most afraid of, but they are still three that scare the ever-living shit out of me with their possible significance.

'Let's go home.'

Seriously, what in the hell could he possibly mean by saying that? Is it simply that he thinks of my house as home now that Delly and her brother, Dilly, have invaded his? Or does the use of the word 'home' imply that he's ready for a more permanent arrangement?

And if it's the latter, what will happen once we get there?

I know what I'd like to happen, or rather, I have a pretty good idea despite a remarkable lack of experience, but I haven't been able to get a read on where Peeta's thoughts lie. He hasn't said a word, or even looked at me, since uttering that one sentence and turning my world on its end. Instead he walks silently beside me, his face set in a grim expression that doesn't bode well for the direction my thoughts have taken.

Resolutely, I keep my eyes rooted to the path that was once nothing more than a pock-marked stretch of dirt, now turned into thick, sticky sludge courtesy of the afternoon's deluge. Puddles bubble like water boiling on the stove, while others overflow their edges to form a small river that winds along the path, carrying bits of branch and leaves as it curls around rocks to form a waterfall of sorts down the grassy slope off to the side. The hiss of rushing water battles with the staccato tap of drizzle on the leaves of the surrounding trees to drown out every other sound; further isolating me from Peeta and whatever inner battle is going on in his head.

I have to admit, I'm still in shock over how well he handled the visit to town and the remains of the bakery. Relatively speaking, it went better than I think anyone anticipated - if you don't count the almost-episode he had there at the end. Even so, rather than making me feel relieved, I'm actually more concerned than before we left - my hope was that this little excursion would help him finally find the closure he needs in order to move along in his recovery; my fear is that all we did today was to rip open the wound, infecting it further and making it deeper, more painful. In other words - a huge leap backwards that we may not be able to come back from.

Chancing a quick glance over my shoulder causes me to trip and almost fall as I realize why Peeta's been such a silent partner - he's no longer on the path beside me. I whip around, my head swiveling about as I try to find him through the grey curtain of rain that surrounds everything.

"Peeta?" I call out as fear slices down my spine and memories of both arenas pop into my head, uninvited and terrifying.

Hearing no reply, I make my way back down the path, attempting to track him along the slippery ground, even though I know the effort is futile. Any tracks he's made are quickly washed away by the torrent of rain still falling in sheets from the sky.

"Peeta, where are you?" I try to keep calm, but terror colors my voice.

My nerves stretch thin as I retrace our steps, trying my best to keep calm and fight the rising panic bubbling in my chest. I am mere moments away from breaking into a run back to town to organize a search party when I come around a bend and finally see him, standing like a statue in the middle of the meadow. His blond hair is plastered to his head, but still manages to shine like a beacon in the gathering darkness. I never would have seen him otherwise.

With a start I realize he's standing at the edge of the newly regrown area covering those unlucky enough to not make it out when the bombs fell on the District so long ago.

"Peeta?"

Something in his stance warns me to stay on the path, and my voice is soft, hesitant, but I know he hears me when I see his shoulders tense and become rigid. There's no immediate reply, and I'm about to call out again when he stops me with a question of his own.

"Did you mean it?" His voice is hoarse from crying earlier and thick with something else that I can't quite put my finger on.

"Did I mean what?" Confusion colors my words as I try desperately to understand what it is he wants to know.

Without turning around he replies in a tight voice, "Did you mean what you said that night on the beach? That you needed me?"

I gasp, stunned both by the question, and by the vulnerability lacing his words. It breaks my heart to know I am the cause of this uncertainty, and I know, without a doubt there's no way I can keep twisting my words, not really lying, but not being completely honest either. Peeta deserves the truth, no matter how much it may ruin whatever trust we've managed to forge these last few months. He's been through too much as a result of my actions, or in action, as the case may be. It's time for me to lay it all on the table and stop hiding behind the past.

Resolved, I take a step off the path towards Peeta's stoic form. Squaring my shoulder I plant my feet and give him my answer, the one I know will change everything.

"No."

His shoulders slump, and I can see the disappointment radiate from him in waves. My heart clenches tight in my chest, and I almost leave it at that. Part of me still thinks it would be easier to let Peeta hate me, to finally set him free, but I selfishly push it down, refusing to let my insecurities get the better of me once again.

Another step forward and I seal our fate.

"What I said that night was that I need you, Peeta, present tense. And I still do, very much."

Time stands still as I wait for Peeta's reaction; for my words to penetrate the maze of lies and mistrust still floating in his hijacked mind.

Suddenly he turns, and intense blue eyes lock with mine. The cautious hope I see in them, in every inch of his beautiful face makes my knees weak, but I hold my ground, refusing to give him any reason to doubt my sincerity.

A tentative step in my direction is all it takes to break the spell, and I run to him, crossing the meadow as fast as my shaky legs will allow. Peeta's arms come up to welcome me, and I gladly launch myself into them, wrapping my limbs around him like bands of iron. Our lips meet in a rain-soaked kiss that's sloppy but perfect. I pour every ounce of my being into that kiss, trying to tell Peeta without words everything I've been too frightened to say out loud.

The built up emotions unfurl as my hands work their way through his sopping wet curls. His fingers dig into the soft skin of my thighs as he pulls me tight against his hard body.

I would give anything to freeze this moment and live in it forever, but the momentum of my jump, along with the rain and Peeta's prosthetic conspire against us and we collapse in a soggy heap on the cold, wet grass. Limbs still entwined I end up sprawled across Peeta's chest, eerily reminiscent of our fall in the snow at the start of the Victory Tour so long ago.

"Oof," Peeta grunts and tenses as he stares up at me in confusion. The unspoken question is written all over his face as yet another shiny memory surfaces from the depths of his addled mind.

Before he can say a word I lean down and plant soft reassurances along his jaw, his cheekbones and his eyes while whispering, "Real. So real."

I have no idea if I mean the fall in the snow, the kiss that accompanied it, or both. And at this moment, I truly cannot care less.

Peeta's arms snake around my back, holding me close as he finally relaxes and kisses me back. We lay there in the meadow, soaked to the bone by the unceasing rain, savoring one another until the need to breathe takes priority. Reluctantly we pull apart, panting from the exertion.

Sweet blue eyes gaze up at me in wonder, and my heart flips at the emotion I feel coursing through my veins.

"Let's go home." Three words, tiny in size but enormous in meaning, fall easily from my lips. Peeta's answering smile warms me more than if the sun had spontaneously broken through the clouds, and I can't help but smile back.

dwdwdwdwdw

The rain has finally begun to ease, but we hardly notice as we slosh through the mud back to the house in the Village and whatever waits once we're inside. Hand in hand we walk, stealing kisses and sharing smiles as we go. While I am eager to get home, I am equally reluctant to break the spell. I want to take this moment and keep it someplace safe; someplace I can pull it out on the black days when even getting out of bed is too much, to help me remember that things can be good again.

The dull grey sky does nothing to dampen my spirits as we pass under the remains of the wrought iron gate heralding the entrance to Victor's Village. Only one side still stands; the other having fallen victim to the bombing of the District. A single intrepid vine has woven itself around the posts, its deep green foliage attempting to reclaim the gate for nature.

Before long we turn onto the path leading to my front door. It's narrow, forcing Peeta to lag behind me as we walk, our hands still clasped together tightly. I feel almost giddy wondering what will happen once we cross the threshold, and I'm so lost in my thoughts as I climb the porch stairs that I don't realize Peeta has stopped moving until I feel the resistance of my arm being pulled backwards. Stopping mid-stride I turn to him with questioning eyes. Peeta tugs on my outstretched arm, pulling me back down a step, eliminating the height difference between us. His other hand cups the nape of my neck and draws me in for a soft kiss that is full of promise. It's brief, but enough to whet my appetite for more.

A flicker of light over Peeta's shoulder grabs my attention and as I look across the courtyard I notice someone silhouetted against Haymitch's front window. Between the remnants of the rain and rapidly dimming light I can't tell for sure it's him, but there's no mistaking the nod in our direction before the curtain drops back into place, obscuring whoever it was from my view. Somehow I instinctively know that small gesture means we've been seen, the situation has been assessed, and, most importantly, that Peeta and I will not be disturbed tonight. With courage I don't entirely feel, I give Peeta another kiss and squeeze his hand.

"C'mon. Let's go inside."

Once we enter the cold, dark house I am hit by a sudden attack of nerves unlike any I've had before. Not even standing on a platform wired with explosives, waiting for the clock to tick down to zero and signal the beginning of the carnage of the Cornucopia bloodbath did I have such butterflies in my stomach. This isn't the first time Peeta and I have been alone, but something shifted back in the meadow, and suddenly I'm terrified. Well, maybe that's too strong of a word as it's not fear roiling in my blood, but rather anticipation for what's going to happen next.

To say the feeling is new is an understatement. Normally I approach the unknown with a healthy dose of distrust and suspicion. Emotion of any kind was a weakness I didn't want and couldn't afford, but now, as we walk into the silent house, I'm an embarrassing mixture of giddy exuberance and curiosity.

Before I do something ridiculous, like giggle, I toe-off my boots and leave them by the door. Peeta does the same, carefully undoing the ubiquitous double-knots, and we find ourselves staring at each other in the foyer, unsure of the next move as rainwater puddles on the tile floor around us. Peeta shivers and I finally notice just how drenched and dirty we both are from our town adventure.

"Why don't you start a fire and I'll get us some towels." The storm broke the heat wave, but the cooler air that came with it has left us both chilled.

Peeta nods, but doesn't answer as he turns and walks to the fireplace. His wet foot prints follow him and I'm struck by the difference between the one left by his real foot as opposed to the one attached to his prosthetic. The real foot has all five toes and a high instep, whereas the fake one is solid, almost like he left his shoe on. I have no idea why this is suddenly so fascinating, other than it's something that's a part of Peeta now, like the scars – both physical and mental – courtesy of the Capitol. Images of my arrows piercing President Snow's flesh flash through my mind, and not for the first time I regret not being able to rid the world of his disgusting presence.

The sound of a match striking against the tinderbox pulls me away from my musings, and startled, I shake the cobwebs from my head.

"I'll be right back." My voice rings out in the quiet stillness of the house. Peeta nods in response, crouching before the small pile of kindling in the hearth to coax a flame from the small bits of dry wood and crumbling paper. I fleetingly consider offering up the untouched pile of letters sitting on the mantle as additional fuel for the fire, but change my mind and walk down the hall instead. They've been sitting there this long, a little longer won't make any difference.

Just off the kitchen is a little room containing a work sink, long table, and a Capitol-issue laundry machine. I've never used the shiny metal contraption, being naturally distrustful of anything from the Capitol, but as my mud-soaked clothing begins to rapidly cool against my skin I decide it can't hurt to use the fancy machine just this once. The controls seem pretty straight-forward, so I set the wash tub to fill with soapy water and leave the lid open for our soiled clothes.

Grabbing a stack of freshly cleaned towels from the downstairs closet I head back to the living room. The air is starting to warm, and Peeta has managed to build up the fire just enough to ward off the chill, but not overheat the room. It's cozy and welcoming; the small flames jumping as they greedily devour the pile of fuel he has carefully built in the grate. There's no other light, and the growing darkness of the room reminds me of the cave from our first Games. My mind whirls back to those days and nights Peeta and I spent cocooned in our own world, when it didn't matter what was real and what was for the sponsors.

"We should probably dry off before we end up getting sick," Peeta's soft voice pulls me back to the present, and I find him watching me intently, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. His fingers brush mine as he takes a towel from my hand, and silky warmth that has nothing to do with the fire slides down my spine.

"Yeah," I breathe, unable to form a more coherent response.

Firelight dances around the room, coloring his drying curls with amber highlights. His eyes hold mine in a piercing stare, almost willing me to look away as he begins removing his wet clothes. I am pinned in place by those azure orbs, unable to move as he tugs his shirt from the waist of his pants, and starts unbuttoning from the collar with a deliberate slowness that ironically makes my pulse race. His long fingers take their time pushing the small plastic discs through the buttonholes, and I don't realize I've stopped breathing until he reaches the last one and spreads his arms, exposing a wide expanse of fair skin dotted with freckles. My fingers curl into the soft terrycloth towel twisted between them as spots start to swim before my eyes. I gasp, inhaling deeply as my eyes bravely chance a glance at his shoulders, muscled arms, and wide chest. The pale golden hairs dusting his skin shimmer in the firelight, giving him a golden glow.

I watch, mesmerized, as Peeta continues to disrobe down to his undershorts. Under normal circumstances this wouldn't bother me since we've shared a bed this way often enough, but now, with the obvious evidence of his arousal literally growing before my eyes I suddenly feel shy.

"Sorry," I whisper, turning away as I hold out a towel, "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts, too."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," Peeta's voice flows over me like honey, and my stomach flip-flops at the unspoken invitation.

Swallowing hard, I turn back to see him standing with his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, the towel momentarily forgotten hanging from my hand. His face gives nothing away, but the heat creeping up my neck and cheeks announces my agitated state. I push the rising panic down, refusing to give in to the nerves skittering across my skin. My chin inches up determinedly, and I meet his gaze full, even raising one eyebrow in a feeble attempt to seem unaffected.

Peeta sees right through my feigned nonchalance; the tug of a small, secret smile gracing the he corner of his full lips as he slowly pushes the cotton over his narrow hips and down his strong thighs, letting them drop to the floor at his feet. It takes every ounce of strength I possess to keep my eyes from falling and taking my first glimpse of that part of him I've only ever felt pressed against me, hard and insistent, under the cover of sheets and blankets. My body trembles with the effort, my jaw clenched stubbornly as my brain screams at me to just take a fucking look already!

Peeta's eyebrows twitch with amusement, effectively breaking the spell, and without permission my eyes flick down, unable to resist any longer.

"Oh…." I exhale in awe. The sight of his cock, hanging long and thick, makes something inside of me melt and pool between my thighs.

It's not that I've never seen a nude man before; after all, it wasn't unusual for an injured miner to need his clothes removed in order for my mother to assess the severity of his wounds, but none of them could compare with Peeta. I wouldn't have thought the word beautiful could apply to a man, but it's the only word my fuzzy brain can conjure to describe the sight before me. Even the patchwork of scars across his torso, and the silver gleam of his prosthetic cannot mar his beauty; in fact, they only serve to enhance it.

A new wave of anxiety washes over me, finally giving me the strength to look away. I know without a doubt that my mottled skin and ratty hair pale in comparison to his perfection. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he rejects me after seeing what a complete and utter mess I am.

"I'll uh…I'll just put these in the wash," I mumble feebly as I gather his discarded clothes and tear down the hall to the kitchen before he can respond.

I toss everything into the waiting machine, and grip the edge to steady myself, dragging deep breaths into my lungs as I try to calm my stampeding nerves. It takes some doing, but once my hands stop shaking I remove my own clothes, self-consciously leaving on my white cotton panties and camisole, and throw the rest in with Peeta's before shutting the lid to begin the cleaning cycle.

Leaning against the agitating machine, I gnaw on my thumbnail, trying to work up the courage to go back into the living room. All of my insecurities come rushing to the forefront, and I am tempted to just stay here until the clothes are done, rather than going back and having to face Peeta.

"Stop being such a chicken-shit, and get your ass back in there," Finnick's smarmy voice comes unbidden into my mind.

"Easy for you to say," I respond angrily in my head, "You're perfect. Plus you'd know what to do once you were in there."

"Oh Katniss, pure sweet Katniss," he answers, and I can easily imagine him shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Did it ever occur to you that Peeta may be just as unsure, and that he may not have any idea what to do in this situation, either?"

I straighten in shock at the realization that I had not, in fact, ever considered that Peeta may be just as clueless as me when it comes to things involving sex and romance. I just assumed since he had older brothers that they would have imparted some kind of knowledge. Not to mention the fact that so many girls in school used to whisper about him in the halls, wondering what it would be like to go to the slag heap with him. I guess I always thought he was far more experienced, not a pure innocent like me.

"Imagine that, Katniss Everdeen jumping to a conclusion without all the facts. That's so unusual."

"I've had just about enough of your sarcasm, Odair," I think as my mind whirls with this new revelation.

I hear Finnick's chuckle in response. "Listen, Girl on Fire, odds are that neither of you has any idea what the next move should be, so my advice is for you to go back in there and make some memories with Lover-boy. You can figure it all out together, which is much more fun, in my humble opinion."

As suddenly as it appeared, Finnick's voice leaves my mind, and all I hear is the gentle swishing of the clothes as they go through the wash cycle. Something in my 'conversation' with Finnick pricks at my brain, though, like there was more to the words than what was said.

'Make some memories'

The phrase floats before my eyes, and I recall the dream I'd had of Finnick at the lake, where he suggested I help Peeta create new memories to replace the ones tampered with by the Capitol. It makes perfect sense, but the question is how do I go about doing that? Since not having a plan ahead of time has worked in the past, I decide to go that route and just wing it. People figure this stuff out all the time, right?

Still somewhat unsure, I slowly walk from the laundry room into the kitchen, letting my eyes roam around the room. As my gaze passes the pantry door, I remember that my mother used to store herbs and oils in there, items that needed to be kept cool and out of the light. Seeds of an idea begin to sprout as I pull open the door and rummage around until I find the small green vials, each with a label in Prim's best handwriting. The sight of her looping letters almost reduces me to a sobbing mess, but I manage to pull myself from the grasp of despair and find the one I want - 'Sandalwood – good for relaxation and meditation. Can also be added to water and used as a skin moisturizer'.

Back in the kitchen, I turn on the faucet, letting the water run until it's hot enough to scorch my skin as I hunt down a large glass bowl. Opening the vial carefully I use the attached dropper to add several drops of the fragrant oil to the bowl then fill it with the now steaming water. The aroma of sandalwood wafts over me and I already feel more calm and relaxed than before, ready to go show Peeta how much I really do care about him.

In a fit of inspiration, I stop in the powder room for washcloths, and catch sight of myself in the mirror. My face is splotchy with mud, and my hair is pretty much a ratty mess, having fallen out of the braid I'd thrown together earlier today. Remembering that the Capitol used a woman with a braid like mine to torture Peeta, I pull off the elastic at the end and run my fingers through the wet locks, probably causing more knots than I untangle in my haste to get back to Peeta. One last look in the mirror shows I've done all I can to make myself presentable, so I take a deep breath and head down the hall to the living room.

Any confidence I thought I had flies out the window when I catch sight of Peeta standing in front of the fireplace, still nude, toweling his hair dry. It's unfair, really, just how magnificent he is. All those years of wrestling, not to mention lugging around sacks of flour and other baking necessities, have given him long, lean muscles that bunch and twist in an intriguing manner with every movement. I lose myself in admiration, slowly flitting over the way his forearms and biceps bulge with the effort of scrubbing the towel over his scalp, down to the way his abdomen clenches, making the ridges more defined. My admiring gaze dips into the dimple of his buttocks, and down the strong length of his legs to his toes. My scarred and battered body is almost an insult to his perfection.

I must make some kind of unconscious noise as he whips towards me, wrapping the towel around his waist defensively, his eyes wide. The action is so unexpected that I startle, making the water in the bowl splash back against my chest. The hot water burns, but it's nothing compared to the way Peeta's gaze fixes on my breasts and the dusky nipples clearly visible through my now soaked camisole. Blue fire rakes across my skin slowly as the intensity of his gaze causes them to harden into tight buds, sensitive to every movement of the damp fabric against my skin.

Water trickles down my chest and stomach down towards my panties. I watch, fascinated, as Peeta's eyes follow the trail left in its wake. If the tent rising at the front of the towel wasn't an indication of his aroused state, the flush that blooms across his skin would be a dead giveaway. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows when the spreading water finally reaches the apex of my thighs, which is already soaked from my own arousal.

Peeta exhales sharply through his teeth, and my toes curl into the rug beneath my feet at the raw need in that one sound. His eyes swing up to mine, naked lust shining in their crystal depths.

"What's the water for, Katniss?" His voice is deeper than normal, more primal and exotic. My center pulses in response, and I fight the urge to clench my thighs together in an attempt to find some friction.

As usual, words fail me, and of all the answers I could possibly give, "I want to clean you" is the best my jumble of a brain can spit out. Peeta crosses his arms and quirks his eyebrow, clearly amused by my ridiculousness.

"I mean, you have mud all over you. Let me clean it off for you."

He searches my face, looking for what, I have no idea, but whatever he sees must satisfy his unspoken query. "Ok."

I nod, and take a step closer, hugging the bowl close with one hand and plunging the washcloth into the still steaming water with the other. It's hard to squeeze out the excess water with only one hand, but I do the best I can and raise it to Peeta's cheek. The scent of sandalwood fills the air as rivulets run down my arm, further soaking my skin before falling to the floor.

A little voice in the back of my mind vaguely wonders if the rug will be ruined after this, but it is quickly silenced when Peeta sighs and leans into my touch, his eyes drifting closed. Slowly the cloth slides across his cheeks and forehead, gently stroking away the mud and rain. I rinse it again, this time leaving just a bit more water than before, and trace his collarbone letting it trickle down his chest. My eyes watch as the drop leisurely makes its way down along his abs, around the indent of his navel to disappear in the cotton fibers of the towel at his waist.

He starts to pant as I drag the cloth lower, letting out a moan of approval when the rough material scrapes across his nipple. The sound causes an answering flash of heat between my legs, and emboldened, I wet the cloth again, using it to tease his other nipple, before letting more water trickle down his abdomen. Peeta's hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, almost like he's trying to keep himself from pouncing.

"Peeta," his name escapes my lips on a sigh, "look at me."

Twin blue flames sear me as his gaze flickers between my eyes and lips as I continue to clean away the dirt, letting my fingertips drag along with the cloth. The sandalwood oil leaves his skin as soft as silk, making me want to run my hands all over his body. My tongue quickly darts out and runs along my lips, which are suddenly very dry from the heat of Peeta's stare. With a growl Peeta pulls me forward, causing the bowl of water to tip backwards and spill all down the front of my body, landing with a soft thud on the carpet beneath our feet.

Before I can begin to process this turn of events Peeta's hands are cradling my head, and his lips are sealed over mine in a kiss more intense than any we've shared before. I feel every inch of where his body presses against me, all hard planes that mold perfectly to my minimal soft curves, since the towel that was wrapped around his waist is now sitting on the floor with the bowl.

Peeta slants his head, changing the angle of the kiss, and I respond by nipping his full bottom lip. In a flash he takes full control, our tongues sliding against each other sinuously. My own hands, which had been flailing helplessly at my sides, find purchase on his firm biceps, clasping him close before running along strong shoulders to bury themselves in his still-damp hair.

We cling together, trying to get as close as possible, until Peeta scoops me up and walks to the couch where he lays me back against the cushions. Gasping for air now that we've separated, I search his face for signs that this is just a hijacking episode, but his pupils, while fat and black, are equal and his eyes show every sign that this is indeed Peeta, my Peeta, and not the Capitol's failed experiment.

I stretch out along the couch, pulling him with me until we lay facing each other.

"Touch me, Peeta, please." I beg, knowing that I'm crossing a line from which there will be no return should we progress any further.

He swallows hard, a look of uncertainty painted on his face as he whispers, "Are you sure?"

My heart pounds in my chest as I take his hand and place it on my breast, keeping his eyes locked with mine.

"Yes."

Tentatively he squeezes the soft mound, testing the weight in his hand. When I don't pull away, he becomes bold, running his index finger around the turgid peak straining against the wet fabric of my camisole. I hiss at the sensation, unconsciously bucking my hips towards his as tiny flashes of lighting shoot across my flesh. Peeta squeezes the nub gently, and I moan embarrassingly loud, my back arching in an effort to have more contact. He tugs harder on my nipple, and another bolt of pure desire surges through my limbs directly to my core.

With a cry I push against his chest and roll us so that I'm lying on top of him, my knees straddling his hips. Fear flickers across his eyes for the briefest moment, a remnant of his torture no doubt, until I take both of his hands and press them against my breasts, urging him to continue. Pure desire replaces the doubt in his eyes as he takes the initiative, molding and pressing my flesh. It's impossible for me to keep still while his talented fingers explore my body, and without conscious thought, my hips rock against his, stoking the fire that burns between us.

A surge of unfamiliar emotion that I don't care to examine too closely right now washes over me, making my heart thump harder in my chest, and I decide that for this one night I won't let my insecurities weigh me down. Tonight is for Peeta, to show him that I do need him, that he's not some second prize in a game I never wanted to play.

Sitting up quickly, I cross my arms and tear the wet camisole from my body, tossing it aside without a second thought. Peeta freezes at the sight of my naked breasts, and a moment's uncertainty creeps up my spine. Too late, I remember how unsightly I've become since acquiring the patchwork of scars that climb across my torso. A new sort of heat flames across my skin as shame sets in and I try to cover myself up.

Peeta stops me with a gentle yet firm hand on my forearm.

"So beautiful," he breathes, tracing the pale, puckered lines with the tips of his fingers. He follows them intently, as if memorizing my skin and it wouldn't surprise me to find this moment captured in charcoal or acrylics at some point in the future.

Despite evidence to the contrary, the way he's touching me, combined with the look of reverence on his face, makes me feel desirable in a way I never have before. Not even when I was prepped and polished by the Capitol, wearing some fantastic creation of Cinna's did I ever feel like I do now, as seen through Peeta's eyes. I also know it would break me irreparably to see that look fade, which is almost inevitable being the impossible person that I am.

His fingertips ghost across my chest and shoulders, barely touching but nonetheless leaving a trail of heat behind them. For once I truly feel like the Girl on Fire, but these are flames I welcome as I begin moving once again. Peeta's head lolls back against the couch as his hands make their way to my hips, holding tight as he bucks up against the soaked cotton of my panties. It feels utterly delicious, but I want more, so much more.

As if reading my mind, Peeta abruptly sits up, turning so his feet are now on the floor with me still straddling his lap. This new position changes the angle, and now each revolution of my pelvis brings more friction, more of the fire, the heat that smolders between our bodies.

"Yes, Peeta!" I cry out as his hot mouth latches onto my breast, and I cradle his head against me, my hands tugging at the soft golden curls. The unexpected rasp of his tongue against my nipple makes me jump, sending shocks of electricity down my spine, and spurring me to move faster, to grind down harder against his erection.

"Fuck, Katniss," he pants against my chest before turning his attention to my other breast.

Sounds I've never heard before pour from my lips as I move, desperate for the release steadily building deep in my belly. Peeta's muffled moans vibrate along my skin as he kisses his way along my collarbone. When he sucks hard on the tender curve of my neck, the coil deep inside of me finally snaps, and I come harder than I ever have before, screaming his name to the rafters.

Rather than stopping, Peeta pulls me close and continues to thrust, sending residual shockwaves of pleasure through my boneless body. It only takes a few moments before he joins me, shouting as his release coats our bellies.

We sit there, still wrapped tightly together as our breathing and pulses return to normal levels, reluctantly pulling apart only when I start to lose feeling in my feet from the way I'm sitting. Slowly, with soft, satisfied smiles and tentative touches, we clean ourselves using the discarded towels and settle back onto the couch, still nude as the need for clean clothing is overruled by wanting to preserve the intimacy of the cave-like room. Peeta drags the throw blanket from the back to cover our cooling bodies as I take my favorite position, one arm and one leg draped across his body with my hand resting over his heart.

In the growing darkness, as the weight of sleep begins to pull me down, just before my conscious mind unplugs for the night, I hear Peeta whisper softly, "I need you too, Katniss. Always."

A/N: 9 months….if anyone is still reading after I made you wait so dang long, you have my utmost love and respect. Life and work conspired to create a well of insecurity that kept me away from this story, but I promise I am back and we will finish this beast (or die trying). There's not much more, so just hold on for a bit longer, ok? I promise it will be worth the wait!

Special thanks, as always, to the lovely and talented Titania522 (ct22) for being such a terrific beta/cheerleader.

As a reminder, I own nothing.