Well, exactly one year after publishing its prologue, I bring to you the long-overdue epilogue of The Bucket List.

The fact that this final installment is here and not in sloppy, unreadable fragments can be accredited to the ever-lovely Chelzie, whose beta work was such a godsend. Also, special thanks to Tumblr users and resident goddesses deinde-prandium and dianaflynn22 for the extra proofreading. You guys are champs.

I sincerely hope you all find the ending satisfying in some way. If you're feeling chatty, let me know how you feel! Reviews, PMs, or Tumblr asks are (as always) much appreciated. Find me at the-peeta-pocket there and, please, don't be a stranger. :)

Epilogue

The humidity sticks to the back of Katniss's neck and shoulders, thinly glazing her skin in a veneer impenetrable to the breeze. It's June and dusk, peaceful and perfect.

They spend most of their nights out here, sitting at the edge of the wooden deck attached to her and Peeta's home. It's a small house, but reduced square footage inside was a willing sacrifice in exchange for the two acres out back. After all, Katniss refused to raise a child without the help of Mother Nature.

She feels Peeta's thigh brushing her knee, his prosthetic gently nudging at her ankle. His hand is on hers – a small but necessary comfort.

But his eyes, like her own, are focused beyond their deck, watching the three children dancing under the canopy of fireflies. The little bugs polka-dot the air, taunting the kids and provoking their open-handed pounces.

Katniss rolls her eyes as the girl with braided hair stumbles down from one particularly ambitious leap and gapes at her empty palms.

"Daisy can't catch fireflies worth shit," Katniss murmurs under her breath, prompting Peeta to chuckle.

"And whose fault is that?" he teases, nudging her with his shoulder. "You're the one who's responsible for her outdoor skills. My expertise is strictly limited to the kitchen."

"Exactly." Katniss turns to look at him, her eyes glimmering. "She has too much of you in her."

The purple sky shadows Peeta's face, making his gaze appear to be framed by an even deeper blue. His hand pulses on hers. "That, I won't contest."

However, as she watches their daughter sashay around the other two children, she can't help but think the opposite. Daisy is the spitting image of Katniss – raven hair, olive skin, slight bone structure, maddening stubbornness – and only reflects Peeta in her electric blue eyes and unlikely compassion. She still has no idea how their child ended up with such lopsided genetics, and sometimes wonders how she can see so much of herself in the girl and still love her as wholly as she does. She'd given Daisy all of her flaws, and yet her daughter wove them into the most beautiful loom of strengths in a way that left Katniss in constant awe.

It must be the little sprinkles of Peeta decorating each of her qualities that make her so perfect. He brings out the best in both of them, after all.

Peeta pulls his hand from hers to drape his arm across her shoulders, tucking her into his side. Even with the humidity, she manages to relax in his delicious proximity. Her fingers splay over his abdomen, scrunching up the cotton fabric of his t-shirt, and she rests her temple against his cheek. He smells of honey and sandalwood and home.

They watch Daisy and her friends cavort around the lawn for a while longer, trying to contain their laughter as the older boy, Cooper, face-plants in the grass after one failed firefly abduction. At six, he's two years Daisy's senior, sporting the same olive skin and fair eyes, but he doesn't have even half of her agility. Which Katniss has no problem pointing out to his parents, Gale and Madge. (See, she and Peeta got the graceful kid.)

The other child, Celeste, watches with wide eyes as her brother and Daisy continue chasing the lightning bugs around the yard. She tries to catch a few for herself, too, but seems more entranced by the failures of her playmates than the prospect of her own success. Eventually, she plops down in the grass, taking a front-row seat to their tragic ineptitude.

Katniss and Peeta are so engrossed in the spectacle before them, and in the warmth of each other's touch, that they don't notice Madge approaching until she's plunked herself down onto the edge of the deck beside them.

"Beautiful night, huh?" she says, starling both Katniss and Peeta. And then, she smiles at him. "Hope the kids didn't give you too much trouble."

"Not at all," Peeta waves off. "I mean, Cooper dropped the F-bomb once, but we—"

"Seriously?" Madge throws her head back. "I'm going to kill Gale." (This wasn't true. She's infatuated with the guy.) "You'd think he'd at least try to filter himself around the kids, right? But no. For God's sake, we're still in the process of weaning the kid off the word 'potty,' but whatever, he can graduate to the four-letter words before reaching the second grade. That's fine. No problem at all."

Katniss bites her lip, trying to dampen her own amusement. "In other news, how was your date?"

Madge laughs, shaking her head as if the motion will jiggle the frustration straight out through her ears. "It was—well, it was really refreshing. It was nice being able to sit in a restaurant for two hours without having to worry about being exiled with a screaming kid, you know? And when we got home – Jesus, I can't think of the last time we had sex full-volume—"

"—and that's where I head out." Peeta throws his hands up in surrender, hopping off the deck and onto the patch of grass a few feet below. "I'm gonna corral the kids."

Katniss watches as he jogs up to the children, swooping up their daughter and propping her on his shoulders. She squeals, then reaches her hands up to revel in having better access to the veil of fireflies. From the deck, Katniss smiles softly, her chest tightening.

"Anyhow, thanks a million for babysitting the kids. Gale and I are willing to repay the favor, whenever you need. If mommyhood is driving you nuts—"

"I think we're actually doing okay," Katniss says, watching as Peeta begins chasing a now-animated Celeste around the yard, his limp barely noticeable now. Daisy's still on his shoulders, wildly directing the pursuit with excited chants of Go, Daddy, go! "I mean, she can be a bit of a handful at times, but Peeta… he's just so good with her, and knows exactly how to keep her under control. And, of course, it helps that there's only one of her. As long as Peeta and I can outnumber the Mellark offspring, I think we have little to worry about."

Madge is silent at her side; after a few seconds, the quiet almost seems too loaded, and she glances over at her friend to find the woman digging into her with an expectant stare. It makes Katniss want to shrink.

"What?" She picks at her nails.

Madge cocks a brow. "How much longer do you think that'll be true?"

"That—what?"

"That you'll outnumber your progenies."

Katniss feels heat curdling under her skin and briefly considers flinging herself onto the lawn, hoping the recently-mown grass will somehow engulf her. She's practically one with the earth, anyway. Maybe the dirt will just absorb her ready body.

"I—I don't know," she says.

Madge knows Katniss well enough to take her caginess as an open invitation. Even before she and Peeta moved down the street from them (which was only a month after Daisy was born – it took them exactly four weeks to realize that raising their daughter in a small apartment simply wasn't going to work), she and Gale were playing such an active part in their lives that the two couples, to this day, share very few secrets. And most of the communication, evidently, is facilitated by Madge. The woman knows no boundaries.

Her eyes carve into Katniss's so intently, as if her gaze alone can extract the truth – and maybe it can. Katniss sighs, her fingers drumming over her knees.

But suddenly, Madge's expression goes slack.

"Wait. You aren't—you're not pregnant, are you?"

Katniss almost loses her balance on the edge of the deck. "Pr—? No. No." And then her cheeks cloud. "I mean—Madge, look," she says, her voice growing softer. "It's still early, and I haven't really mentioned it to anyone apart from Prim, but—"

"—you want another kid," the reliably-psychic Madge finishes for her, eyes considerate.

Katniss's elbows lock as she holds her arms out before her, her fingernails digging into her bare kneecaps until the skin numbs. "We've been talking about it for around six months now, and I got my IUD taken out two weeks ago. So, it's still early on in the process, but…" Her voice trails off, her eyebrows raising to punctuate the sentence.

Madge shoulders Katniss, the gesture comfortably affectionate. "That's really wonderful, Kat. And it'll be good for Daisy, having a little sibling and all."

Katniss nods idly, watching as Peeta crawls across the lawn on his hands and knees, now carting around both his daughter and Celeste, the two young girls squealing as he swerves through the grass.

"Peeta's also a natural father," Madge adds after quite some time. "And you're a natural mother, too."

At this, she shakes her head. "Not like him. He just—he gets it."

"You get it, too. I mean, Peeta's intuitive to a point where I question his mortality, but you… you're a wonderful mother to Daisy. And a wonderful wife to Peeta. If you do end up having Kid Number Two, you'll be bringing him or her into such a strong, safe family."

Something in her words makes Katniss's pulse calm, and she allows her shoulders to relax. "Thanks, Madge."

"Don't mention it." And then, her ankle clicks with the side of Katniss's. "And, don't be hesitant about asking us to babysit. I'm sure your and Peeta's… endeavors—" She winks. "—may be a little more successful if you're not worrying about Daisy popping in at any given time."

After Katniss has scrubbed the dirt from between her daughter's toes, and combed her hair for ticks, she lets the water drain from the tub while toweling Daisy off.

While she's ruffling her daughter's soggy mane with a bath towel, the girl's blue eyes pin on her mother's, her bubblegum-pink lips parting.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

She puffs out her cheeks as Katniss pulls the towel away and reaches for the hairbrush. "Why does Cooper get a little sister, and I don't?"

Katniss holds her daughter's hair at the roots, gently raking the bristles through her dark tresses. The color mimics Katniss's, but it's thick and curly like Peeta's, and therefore clogs up the shower drain on a weekly basis while still remaining too beautiful for more than a monthly trim. That's what braids are for, anyway.

Katniss sighs.

"Be patient, honey."

"But Cooper got Celeste when he was three. I'm four."

"Good observation," she coos as she works through one particularly ruthless knot. "Daddy and I just weren't ready for another baby when you were three."

Her daughter's eyes are moons. "Are you ready now?"

After she parts Daisy's hair on the side, she leans inward, gently kissing the girl's temple.

"We'll see," she whispers.

To her relief, the girl lets the subject drop as Katniss helps her into her pajamas; after, they trek to her small bedroom down the hall. Peeta's already in there when they arrive, his arms snaking around his wife's body as their daughter crawls into her bed.

He sneaks a kiss to Katniss's cheek. "I can tuck her in."

She accepts his offer, quickly pecking Daisy on the forehead before slipping from the room. As she fades down the hall, she hears a delighted squeal and can't help the grin that curves at her lips. He's so good to her, she thinks, touching her smile. The day Peeta was released from the hospital after recovering from his leg amputation and, miraculously, the cancer, she vowed to never take his presence for granted. It hasn't been remotely difficult, even in the small moments. Especially in the small moments.

She slinks into the kitchen and steals one of Peeta's snickerdoodles from the cookie jar before making her way back into the bedroom. Of course, she's compelled to make a few stops along the way to clear the floor of Daisy's scattered toys – that's something they'll have to work on. Being the only child, and consequently the only mess-maker, she's discovered she can get away with a little disorder; once there's a second toddler pioneering a warpath through the family room, however, her parents' tolerance will dwindle.

As she navigates her way through the hall, she hears Peeta's muffled voice floating through the slightly-ajar door, which is quickly remedied by a higher-pitched chatter. She fights the urge to eavesdrop and slips into the master bedroom. After peeling off her clothes and tossing them in the hamper, she darts across the room, rifling through one of Peeta's drawers for an oversized shirt to sleep in. She settles on the one with a faded basketball logo stamped across the chest, ignoring the small holes beside the armpit seams. It swallows her whole. She smiles.

The rest of her nightly routine pedals by quickly, and within five minutes she's tenting the forest green comforter as she tucks her knees under the sheets. They feel cool against her skin, and she snuggles deeper into the mattress, content with relaxing and waiting.

About ten minutes pass before she hears the doorknob rattle, and her gaze flickers to the door seal, from which Peeta emerges. His eyes are wild.

"That girl is merciless," he says with a dark chuckle, running his fingers through his hair.

Katniss props herself up against the pillow. "She try to steal your prosthetic again?"

"No, she—" He registers what she's said, ducking his head down to laugh quietly. "Jesus, Kat."

She smiles as he moves to the edge of the bed. "So, what'd she do?"

"Ruthless interrogation," he says with faux-sobriety.

"Oh?"

"She started grilling me about how, apparently, it's my responsibility to make sure she has a new brother or sister by the end of the year. Her exact words: 'Mommy better get a baby, or I'm never gonna eat your cookies ever, forever.'"

"Sounds like a threat to me." Katniss touches his bicep, feeling it flex under the pads of her fingers as he begins rolling up his pant leg, revealing the expanse of silicone.

"It's official. We've raised a delinquent."

"Maybe the next one will turn out better?"

As Peeta moves to detach his prosthetic, his eyes flicker to her, a soft smile painting over his lips. The man's wanted a second kid since the moment Daisy popped out bearing an uncanny resemblance to an angry glob of silly putty; Katniss knows how elated he is to have her finally on board after four years of gentle but continual insistence. Now, she loves watching how happy the thought makes him.

Katniss helps him remove the prosthetic, then his shirt, and then his pants. Afterward, he slips between the sheets with her, his searing body reeling hers in.

"I've been looking forward to this all day," he murmurs, flipping her onto her back. His fingers glaze over her skin in lazy strokes, circling closer and closer to the juncture of her thighs, but never quite reaching there. Even after ten years of marriage, he's still patient with her at night, knowing exactly where and how to touch her to bring her to life.

When he kisses her, she giggles into his mouth. "I think you forgot to brush your teeth."

"Shit." He pulls back, his tongue making his pressed lips bulge as he runs it over his teeth. "After. I'll do it after. Hygiene can wait – reproduction cannot."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "Men," she teases, but accepts his lips when they descend back on her own.

His fingers then slip between her thighs, expertly stroking soft moans from her throat, which he carefully collects with his mouth. They've been having four years of nightly quiet sex – by all means, this isn't new.

As she feels the pressure beginning to build in her core, she snags the pillow beside her own and shoves it under the blankets. Peeta helps her align the cushion underneath her center, tilting her hips upward; this isn't exactly their preferred arrangement, but since all those fertility websites sing that position's praises, they figure it's worth a shot. After all, while they had little-to-no trouble with Daisy's conception, they were also twenty-seven at the time; the fanatical research they've done in the past few months has informed them that a woman's fertility starts dipping around the age of thirty-one, which is exactly where she's at. Although she still has faith in her reproductive system, giving it a little boost can't hurt.

She moans softly as Peeta pushes into her, her legs winding around his waist. He moves slowly at first, his forehead pressing against hers, pupils fat and jaw slack.

"I'm starting to work on a new recipe at the bakery," he announces mid-thrust.

She angles her pelvis slightly to invite him deeper, her fingers weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck. "Whatever it is, it—" She gasps at one particularly sharp movement. "—it can't beat your cheese buns."

"Such unfair standards," he says, his eyes twinkling. And then his lips move to her neck, planting sloppy kisses along the side of her throat. "How was your day?"

"Some kids thought it'd be okay to shoot a deer on one of the trails, so now we've got a legal issue on our hands." She gasps as he sucks her earlobe between his teeth. "Other than that, nothing's new. The sky's still blue, Haymitch is still perpetually pissy."

Peeta chuckles, nipping at her neck. And then his rhythm begins to quicken, his fingers curling around her hip to still her. She watches his face screw tight in pleasure as he sees their bodies moving together, and she reminds herself for the hundredth time today how beautiful her sunshine boy – sunshine man – really is. Not only is he a devoted father, but a fervent lover, a loyal husband, and an unfailing best friend. He's everything she's ever needed, and will ever need. He won't ever not be enough. She hopes that, after all this time, he knows this much.

She feels her own body melting in tandem with his, their breaths growing shallow in perfect synchronization. He holds himself up on his elbows to watch her with hooded eyes, all of his love and dedication packed firmly into that single gaze, and her veins electrify with life. It's all building, and building, and she can feel that familiar tightness bundling up in her core, so she focuses on the feeling of him moving inside of her, of the short, coarse hairs rubbing against her lower belly, of his arms caging her in, of his breath and gaze liberating her and loving her.

She warns him just in time for him to slip one hand between them to stroke her to completion, the other palm moving to cup her mouth to muffle her cry. Her entire body feels weightless as she arches off the bed, plunging over her crest, her fall coinciding with Peeta's own climax. He pushes into her once, twice, three more times, and then his body turns to gelatin above her, his weight crushing her deliciously as he collapses. She'd sell her soul for him to never move.

He pants into her neck for a few moments, then places a lazy kiss to the tender skin there, and then – regretfully – pulls away from her body.

"Where are you going?" she whines as he slips from the bed, although being able to watch him move in all his naked glory isn't such an unfair tradeoff for his momentary absence.

He hobbles slightly without his prosthetic, feeling along the wall for support. "I need to brush my damn teeth," he laughs, enough affection coloring his tone to send her curling up under the blanket, warm and sated and happy.

The moment he returns, he joins her under the blankets to haul her small body into the cage of his, brushing her sweaty hair from her forehead. A decade has passed since their wedding, and yet, he still looks at her with the same reverence he'd had their first night. She's never mustered the audacity to ask him if he actively avoids taking her for granted in the same way she does with him; almost losing him gave Katniss the capacity for ceaseless appreciation. Maybe that's true for him, too.

He kisses her idly, their lips slow and patient, punctuated only by an occasional breath. He tastes like spearmint, which is almost as satisfactory as when he goes to sleep tasting like her.

After several moments of kisses, darkness, and calming heartbeats:

"Do you think that worked?" she murmurs.

He pulls back to peer at her through the gloom, his gaze flickering between her eyes. His palm moves to brush over the flat expanse of her belly, sweeping up across her ribs, over the gentle swell of her breast, along her neck and up to cup her jaw.

"I hope so." Suddenly, his smile turns devious. "Guess we're gonna have to try again in the morning. You know, just to be safe."

Today isn't a good day.

It's just as much her fault as it is Peeta's, if not more – they kicked off the morning with an argument over knives, since Daisy thought using Peeta's paring knife to give her Barbie a haircut would be a glorious idea. Katniss blamed him for endangering their child, and he quickly became exasperated ("The knives are in the top shelf of the damn cupboard. Where else am I supposed to put them? In the safety deposit box?"), and she started yelling, and Peeta did that thing where he refused to yell but turned the color of a traffic light, and then Daisy started crying, and Katniss pulled her away from Peeta so she could take her to school, leaving without a good-bye kiss, and Daisy bawled the entire car ride because she didn't get a good-bye kiss, either, and the entire day hasn't gotten any better since.

Peeta always picks their daughter up from school as he swings home from his shift at the bakery, so she times her departure from work perfectly so that she can avoid him. When she returns, the house is still empty, and the paring knife is still sitting on the counter.

She ducks into their bedroom to nap off her frustration.

When she wakes several hours later, she hears quiet voices in the kitchen.

"Stir more slowly, sweetie," Peeta whispers. "Even slower. Good. That's good, Daisy."

It makes her heart hurt, because even in their gratuitously prolonged argument, he's still careful to keep their daughter quiet as to not wake his wife. How dare he be so considerate when they're supposed to be angry with each other?

(Then again, Peeta's never had much of a temper to begin with.)

She remains sprawled across the comforter for a few minutes until the fog from her nap has cleared, and then slowly drags herself from the bed. Her legs feel like noodles, and her entire body aches. Her head is pounding. She doesn't want to face Peeta.

To stall, she trudges off into the bathroom. She stares at herself in the mirror for an inordinate amount of time, studying the shadows burrowing under her eyes and the tiny gold freckles in her silver irises. She almost looks as exhausted as she feels.

Suddenly, she's crouching in front of the sink. She's not sure what's possessing her to do it, but without thinking through her course of action, she's opening the cupboard and taking one of the rectangular boxes off the small mound, most of which are unused hand-me-downs from Madge, while a few are from Peeta's last trip to the Dollar General.

She plucks open the packaging and takes out the small stick. She sighs. She goes to the toilet, and works her way through the procedure.

After, she sets it in the basin of the sink, waiting for the single line to appear.

This isn't the first pregnancy test she's taken, and it certainly won't be her last. It's been four months since they started trying for a baby, which isn't exactly an exorbitant stretch of time, but each month, her failure bears down harder and harder on her slender shoulders. Of course, Peeta isn't disappointed in her, but she's disappointed in her, because Peeta's disappointed in general, and she hates that it's because of her.

Maybe that's what this is about. Her irritability, her anger – maybe it's just the latent weariness bubbling up under her metaphorical lid. While today has been a bad day, the string of days before this weren't much better; there's been lots of petty arguments, long naps, and lukewarm sex. Katniss is just plain exhausted, and it's only been four months.

She drums her fingertips against the porcelain sink. A droplet from the faucet plunks into the basin. She waits.

The indicator in the middle of the stick starts to show something. She leans in closer, peering at the tiny marking.

The tiny markings.

Her heart lodges itself in her throat as she finds herself gazing at two very solid, very dark, very symbolic lines. She blinks the exhaustion from her eyes, assuming it's just a mirage, and when she discovers that it isn't, she pinches herself, waiting for the film of sleep to tear away and plunge her back into reality.

But she remains here, braced against the sink that contains a positive pregnancy test.

Her hands are shaking as she crouches down again, plucking another box from the stack. She restarts the procedure, forcing herself to urinate a second time so she can prove the first test wrong. With quivering fingers, she plants the second stick in the sink beside the first, waiting, waiting, waiting.

She clutches the counter for dear life, black spots flurrying behind her eyes once the second indicator models two parallel lines, too.

She's too shocked for her elation to take root, and she snatches the two sticks from the sink before slipping from the bathroom. Her footfall is quiet as she pads to the kitchen, still trembling from head to toe and painfully numb to the bone.

When she rounds the corner, her heart nearly vaults straight out of her chest.

Peeta's hovering over the stove with his back to her, an apron tied around his waist as he strategically lays down a blanket of raw lasagna noodles. Beside him, Daisy's standing on a stepstool, swirling her wooden spoon in a pot of what Katniss presumes is pasta sauce. She can't decide which is more adorable: that the girl's wearing a much smaller apron to match her father, or that her hands are entirely swallowed by oven mitts that Peeta must've imposed in the wake of his argument with Katniss on safety.

"Remember, sweetie, don't touch any part of the pot or stove," Peeta coos, sneaking his hand under his daughter's elbow, which must've been inching too close to the pot's lip. "We don't want to scare Mommy again."

Maybe it's the affection in his tone, or the charm in the spectacle before her, or the millions of emotions jumbling her thoughts, or the damn hormones, or even just the combination of it all. But whatever it is, it takes a wrecking ball to her resolve, and she starts to crumble. Her eyes prickle, and something of a distorted hiccup catches in her throat, the sound snaring the attention of both her husband and their daughter.

"How'd you sleep?" Peeta asks as he turns to face her, grappling for the towel slung over his shoulder before wringing it with his hands. Initially, his voice is light, but then his gaze lands on her, and takes her in, really takes her in. His expression fades into pure alarm. "Katniss?"

Despite being aware of how odd a vision she must be – post-nap hair snarled, eyes bleary, trembling fingers crimped around two small plastic sticks – she can't pull herself together. However, she doesn't have to, because Peeta's flinging his towel onto the counter and bolting up to her before she can fully dissolve.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" he soothes, his hands moving to cup her jaw. She feels something cool swiping over her cheekbone, and she imagines it must be a freckle of pasta sauce that Peeta forgot to wipe from his finger. "If this is about earlier, I'm sorry. Katniss, I—I never should've gotten angry, and—"

She gently pries herself from his grasp, stepping back so she can display the two pregnancy tests in her open palms. A wounded look flashes across his face in the split second that follows her tearing away, but his attention is quickly refocused to the sticks.

"W-what—?" he stammers. Distress first shifts to confusion, which almost immediately morphs into unadulterated shock. "Oh my god," he whispers, his palm slapping over his mouth, eyes bugging out in an almost cartoonish fashion. "Oh my God."

When his gaze flickers up to meet hers, she sees the forewarning of moisture there; uneven patches of color begin to sprout across his cheeks, and he chokes out something in the middle of the spectrum between a sob and laughter. His hand drops from his face, revealing the goofiest smile she's seen from him in ages.

She can't help but reciprocate.

The air's knocked from her lungs and the sticks from her hands as his body crashes into hers, his arms coiling like copper wire around her thin frame. She can feel him trembling against her, too, his hot face buried against her neck.

"I don't—I can't believe this," he laughs, the cotton fabric that hugs her shoulders growing damp as he blinks against it. She can feel her own tears soaking through his shirt. Soon, their whole house will be flooded. At least it's for a good cause.

She feels something latching onto her leg, and she looks down to see Daisy snuggling against her parents' knees, unaware of the reason but clearly eager to join the celebration.

She clings tighter to Peeta's shirt to tether her borderline-weightless body to reality, burrowing her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat tap-dances jubilantly against his ribs, and it's all she can hear, all she can feel, pounding out such a beautiful song. It's always been her favorite. After all, Daisy wouldn't have one without it, and the tiny bundle of cells growing in her core wouldn't ever have a chance at one, either.

Come to think of it, she doesn't know if she'd have one. If she did, it surely wouldn't beat the same.

Daisy curls tighter against Katniss's thigh, and she feels Peeta's open palms curling on the small of her back and in her hair. "What are we supposed to do now?" she asks, her voice thick but so, so free.

She feels Peeta's lips pressing a shaky kiss to her temple.

"We can start by disposing of all my knives," he laughs.

It took five, ten, fifteen months for Katniss to agree. But Peeta wanted it so badly.

Since Leo was born, Katniss hasn't had a single evening alone with her husband. It's not because she has no desire for one; more so, it's because she hasn't had the opportunity to really think about what the alone-time could possibly offer. Her and Peeta's marriage is a constant whirlwind of dirty diapers and misplaced dolls, of grass-stained clothes and puréed carrots, which seems to overwhelm all else. On a good night, they can barely manage three minutes of lovemaking before passing out on each other – where in the day could she possibly fit a calm outing with Peeta? Or, more realistically: Where in the day could she possibly fit planning a calm outing with Peeta?

"We could coerce Madge into babysitting for us," Peeta said, once. This was when Leo was five months old.

Naturally, Katniss almost flung the bottle of milk at his face. "Peeta Mellark, Leo is an infant! He's too young for us to just… just abandon…"

This elicited something of an amused smile from her husband, one that had I think the fact that you have separation anxiety from our son is cute, so I'll just let it pass written all over it.

Of course, in the ten months since then, Katniss has realized that Peeta isn't vying for a night off to avoid paternal responsibilities. Rather, he just wants time with her. Her, alone, without needing to worry about Daisy torpedoing through their closed door, or Leo spitting up all over himself.

So, after five, ten, fifteen months of dual-child parenthood, Katniss finally agrees.

"There's a little container of sweet potato in the fridge for Leo," Katniss says. "He's not a picky eater, so if he's still hungry he can have nearly anything else. But don't give him anything salty. He's too young to handle a lot of sodium."

Madge shares a look of entertainment with Peeta. "Katniss—"

"And Daisy's going to ask you for chocolate milk with her dinner. She can have some, but make sure you dilute it so it's at least one-fourth two-percent milk. She's never noticed the difference."

Madge giggles. "Katniss—"

"She really likes to supervise her brother, you know? She thinks she's the babysitter. Indulge her a little, but once she starts trying to dress him up in her doll outfits – thankfully, he's far too big to fit nowadays – that's where you have to draw the line."

"Katniss." Madge rests her fingers on Katniss's bicep. "Don't forget, I'm also a mother of two. I know how to watch kids."

Still, the avocado-pit-sized lump remains stuck in her throat regardless of how hard she swallows. She looks off into the living room, where Daisy and Cooper have already dived into an intense game of Chutes and Ladders. As evidenced by the boastful cackles, her daughter is clearly dominating. Leo sits right beside his big sister, too enchanted with the Barbie in his hands to acknowledge the chaos. The only absent child is Celeste, as Gale's taken her to her weekly soccer practice.

Katniss looks back to Madge and Peeta, who are both wearing matching smiles laced with an emotion she can't quite place.

"What?" she snaps.

Shaking his head, Peeta steps forward, gently curling his fingers around her waist. "The kids will be in perfectly able hands while we're away. Relax, love."

He reminds her of this when they're in the car on the way to the restaurant, when they're waiting for their table, and once they've actually reached the table. Still, she can't bring herself to unwind; after their food has been brought out, she leaves the bulk of it untouched, dazedly twirling her finger around the straw in her water as she worries her lower lip.

"Katniss."

Peeta reaches across the table, his touch delicate on her wrist. His eyes are sympathetic.

She feels her lungs deflate like punctured air bags.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," she says, rotating her hand so that her fingers can lace with his. "I just—it feels so wrong without them."

She knows Peeta won't blame her – he won't even be disappointed. Katniss is fiercely loyal, a quality which has bled over to and engulfed her relationship with her children. It's just who she is – and who she always has been, since they became best friends at the age of five.

His palm grips hers. "We don't have to stay."

"Peeta—"

"We can always go home," he murmurs.

But that isn't what she wants. Not only is Peeta her husband, but above all, he's her best friend; she wants to enjoy her time with him. She really does. It's been too long since she was able to truly appreciate his company beyond the context of parenthood.

"I don't want this date to end. I just—I want to be able to focus on you. On us."

His adorable dimples poke into his cheeks, blue eyes shimmering. For a fleeting moment, she sees a much younger Peeta flashing across his expression, his smile transporting her back to their blanket forts, to their cupcake fights, to prom, to the nights in his room, to the schoolyard where they first met, where he gave her his last cookie after falling in love with her voice. And then, suddenly, they're back here.

"Let's get out of here. I know the perfect place to go."

He raises his hand to flag down their waiter, but Katniss's arm shoots over the table, trying to stop him. "Peeta—"

When he looks at her, his eyes are glistening. "Do you trust me?

She feels her shoulders relax. Of course, of course, of course.

Always.

She doesn't know where he's taking her until he parks the car, at which point the destination becomes so obvious that she wonders how she hadn't guessed it all along. Her veins thrumming with anticipation, she leaves her shoes and handbag in the passenger's seat, joining him at the edge of the jagged tree line. Her pinky finger hooks around his.

"When was the last time we were out here?" she asks him as he tugs her through the underbrush. Prickled leaves flutter against her calves. Oddly, the sensation rejuvenates her.

"I think it was around the time we got married," he answers, his footfall reassuringly uneven. "But ten years seems too long."

They reach a fallen tree trunk, freckled with orange fungus. With one pointed glance, Katniss flaunts her agility by vaulting over the thing in one easy motion, leaving Peeta stranded on the other side.

"Show-off," he coughs.

She cocks a brow tauntingly. "Slowpoke."

This provokes a pseudo-threatening spark in his eyes, and suddenly, he's scrambling over the tree trunk. But her reflexes are too fast for him. She flashes through the woods, zig-zagging around where the path used to be. Her veins are charged with electricity, her lungs swollen with fresh air, and she giggles as she runs, finally feeling free.

When she's positive she's inflated the gap between them, she throws her head back. "You can't catch me," she taunts, craning her head just in time to see his arms coil around her body.

With his biceps roping her in and confiscating her mobility, his fingers are free to roam to her waist. A shriek is ripped from her throat when she feels his nails digging into her sides, tickling her as mercilessly as the ever-merciful Peeta can manage.

"Spoke too soon," he purrs against her ear before releasing her. She's panting hard now, her chest heaving as she pivots to face him. His expression emanates sunlight. She thinks she might die if she doesn't kiss him.

So, she surges forward, her lips crushing into his. She can taste the surprise there, as well as the enthusiasm, and she draws her arms from her sides to wrap them around his shoulders.

"I should tickle you more often," he chuckles against her mouth. "If it'll get you to kiss me like this."

She draws back, nuzzling his nose with her own. "You know, there are better ways to go about seducing me."

"Oh? And what are they?"

She reaches for his hands, tugging him along.

"Let's find out, Casanova."

They forge through the overgrown foliage for another hundred yards or so, the path untouched for so many years, yet still unreasonably familiar. Before they know it, they've arrived at the base of the grandfather oak, the one cradling their weather-beaten treehouse like a child in the crook of its bough.

The scent of the bark and musty lumber breaks over her like a water balloon, leaving her drenched in nostalgia. So many of her teenage memories with Peeta were spooled here, up in this particular tree, and she can feel each and every one funneling back into her bones. This was where they shared their first kiss. And where they were the first time he touched her. Countless summer nights were spent in this treehouse, cuddling and whispering, giggling and falling in love, long before Katniss ever realized that the swooping sensation she felt in Peeta's presence was falling. Teenage Katniss thought it was merely hormones.

Adult Katniss thinks Teenage Katniss was a complete bonehead.

Her fingers curl around the dampened rope of the ladder, her eyes flickering back to Peeta. "Think it's still safe?"

"Probably not," he says. Then, he swings in front of her, gripping the rung of the ladder that falls by his shoulder. "But I'll be the one to figure that out, not you."

Katniss pouts. "I weigh less than you, dummy."

"And you think that justifies me knowingly sending you into a death trap? If anyone's going to die, it isn't going to be the mother of my children."

Teenage Katniss would've had the gall to argue with Peeta, but Adult Katniss knows that, when it comes to her safety, Peeta would rather swan-dive into a lions' den than take a gamble. So she lets him win this time.

The ladder groans feebly under Peeta's weight, but it holds its own; soon, he disappears into the cavity of the treehouse. Anxiety pulverizes Katniss's stomach as she watches the branch shudder, but the treehouse stays entirely intact. Soon, Peeta pokes his head out through the opening to give her the go-ahead.

After she's scaled the ladder, and Peeta's helped her into the room, she feels her heart catapult into her throat. It seems so much smaller now, its timeworn planks greying and spongy, the mural of stars on the ceiling having flaked away. But it's still their treehouse. It's still their own hand-crafted cosmos, their secret sanctuary, theirs, theirs, theirs.

The world around them melts away. In this moment, she's not a mother, not a wife, not a park technician, not even a grown-up. She's just a naïve girl who thinks her best friend is the sun and wants nothing more than to lose herself in his warm rays. It's been too long since she allowed herself to do so, anyway.

She looks to him, finding him propped against the eroded wall and gazing at her as if she has the entire galaxy illuminating her flesh. It's the same look he gave her when he first saw her in her prom dress, and right before he kissed, touched, and made love to her for the first time, and when she pulled him across the beach in Miami, and the moment in which she promised to marry him, and as he stood across from her at the altar, and right when he awoke from the surgery that the doctors said he probably wouldn't survive. And when she told him she was pregnant with Daisy. And the first time she held their angrily-pink daughter in her arms. And, every morning in which he's woken up next to her. The Peeta who has brought her to their treehouse now is the same Peeta who's been with her through everything, and the same Peeta who will continue to remain at her side. He refused to leave her ten years ago when the odds were entirely out of his favor, which means that he's here to stay, forever, and ever, and ever.

She crawls up to him, nestling her warm body in his lap, her knees digging into the planks on either side of his waist. He grasps her hips with one hand, cupping her jaw with the other and tucking her hair out of her eyes.

"This treehouse smells like mildew," she says. "And I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Thank you for being my best friend," she whispers. "And my husband. And the father of my kids. And for being really good at distracting me. And really, really good at baking cupcakes."

His thumb brushes her cheek affectionately, his eyes gleaming. "And thank you for being my best friend," he says, "and my wife, and the mother of my kids, and my entire world."

She slants her lips over his. "That was pretty cheesy."

He chuckles, and kisses her once, twice, three times. "You started it."

Above him, Katniss beams proudly, running her fingers through his hair, down the nape of his neck, and under his jaw before gripping his shoulders. Every inch of her is throbbing for him; by the way his cheeks flush with pigment, she knows he must be in the same boat.

So, tired of stalling, she seals his mouth with her own.

Peeta's kiss is charged with the perfect fusion of eagerness and patience; every time they've made love since Leo was born, the moment passed before either of them could cling onto it, and so now, she knows she wants to take her time with him. They have all night, anyway.

His hands chart her body with the enthusiasm of the first time he felt her figure, yet with the expertise and conviction of someone who's been doing so for over ten years. He holds her to him, encouraging her to gently rock her hips against his while his tongue glides over her mouth. Moans and sighs and the rustle of subtracting clothes fill the treehouse, melting into the planks, sanctifying their shelter all over again.

Her fingernails dig into his shoulder blades when he pushes up into her, making her tense and relax, tense and relax, and her legs coil around his waist. The shift gives her the gift of leverage, and she uses it to rock against him with a degree of patience she's been unable to exercise in years. She's missed going slow with him.

The sky swings from blue to gold, from gold to orange, from orange to pink, from pink to violet, and all the while they fall in and out of each other, a mess of moans and laughs and interweaving limbs and the occasional awkward shifting. He brings her to life once with his fingers, twice with his mouth, and finally loses himself in her as she accompanies him to his high, his body a conductor's baton and her body his concerto. They've always made beautiful music together, with harmonizing tempos and gentle crescendos, but tonight they reach an entirely new pinnacle, to which no song, sonnet, nor symphony could ever compare.

After they've been broken and made new in the sunset's shadow, they cling to each other, hard and long, his fingers doodling promises over her spine as she rests her cheek on his chest.

"Damn," she breathes, her palm curling against his shoulder. "Who would've thought that after all this time…"

"…we've still got it," he finishes for her. She presses her lips to his chest, and can feel him smiling against her hair.

As her toes idly duel with his, she flattens her hand against his chest, dragging her face up to look at him. His pupils are the size of moons, his grin the size of Jupiter.

"We need to do this more often," she says, drumming her fingers on his sternum.

His wide eyes canvas their ensnared bodies. "What, the—sex? I mean, we—"

A giggle fizzles behind her lips as she shakes her head at him. "No. I mean, yes, but that's not what I was trying to say." She lifts her hand, her knuckles gently gliding over the sharp ridge of his jaw. "You were right, Peeta. We need more time to ourselves. Daisy and Leo are everything to me, and I wouldn't trade them for the world, but I—I guess I'm a little selfish when it comes to you. When it comes to us."

His lips find her forehead. "You're not selfish, Katniss. It's possible to love your kids whole-heartedly and still want a break every now and then." The breeze outside grazes the treehouse's wall, making the wood tingle underneath them; she curls up closer against his side. "I know I do. Kids are exhausting as fuck."

She taps his chest. "Spoken like a true warrior."

"Or a true parent."

Arching her torso against his, she strains to reach him, their mouths connecting. Electricity flickers down her spine at the lingering taste of herself on him, and when she pulls back, she finds him watching her with hooded lids. "I want more nights like this with you."

He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. "Agreed."

"I also want to build more blanket forts."

"That can be arranged."

"And… and maybe we can see the ocean again." Her voice takes on a softer quality, her words wispier, as if her tone's been fashioned with cotton. "We could take the kids down to Miami to see Mom, and show them the beach, too. And maybe Mom would offer to watch them for an evening. You know, just for a few hours, so we can—"

Her voice tapers off as he shifts underneath her and reaches an arm around her shoulders to feel for his discarded pants. He rifles though the back pocket, pulling out his leather wallet.

"Peeta?"

His teeth clamp distractedly over the tip of his tongue as he fishes around in the billfold, his eyes lighting up as he apparently finds what he's searching for – their receipt from the restaurant earlier tonight, and a small, twenty-five-cent Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pen that Leo accidentally took home from a party store a month back.

He pops open the cap, and Katniss's brows shoot up.

"What are you doing?"

Peeta swings up into a sitting position, flattening the slightly wrinkled piece of receipt tape on the plank in front of him. He leans forward. He preps his arm. His eyes find hers, enthusiastic yet wily, as if he's a child about to share a secret.

He brings the tip of the pen up to the blank side of the receipt.

He grins.

"I'm making a bucket list," he tells her.

Something in her throat constricts, her body having an oddly emotional reaction to such a simple string of five words, but she can't help herself. She scrambles up, too, sitting across from him and tucking her knees into her chest.

"For you?" she asks, trying to swallow the thickness in her throat.

His smile softens, and he reaches out with the hand that isn't gripping the pen to touch her face, his thumb grazing her cheek. His skin feels like sunlight.

With a gentleness that could calm oceans, he says, "For us."

"For us." She repeats the phrase, measuring its weight with her tongue.

"We boring, old married people need something to keep us on our toes," he says with a chuckle.

"But you're not dying."

This is a tad more blunt than she intended, but it only elicits a muffled look of amusement from Peeta. "Exactly," he says. "We're both going to be around for quite a while longer, so we might as well 'be around' together."

"Together?"

"Together, together."

She's not so familiar with the distinction between Together and Together, Together, but she knows what he's getting at. She understands exactly what he wants from her. Which is, evidently, what she wants from him, too. Not only the promise of a future, but a promise of happiness, and a promise of continually coming together and trying, trying, trying. As lovers. As best friends. As a team, a family, and, as one.

First, she guides his lips to hers, and then his hands to her waist. Soon, she's guiding the tip of his pen across the paper, streaks of blotted black outlining their second future. Only this time, the list isn't scripted by a sixteen-year-old boy afraid of death, but a dynamic duo eager for life.

And so, after the sheet has been swathed in vows, and Katniss tries to pull away, eager to inaugurate this new epoch, Peeta's hands curve into her back to keep her cradled against him. For now, for the evening, forever.

"Patience, love," he whispers, nuzzling her nose with his own. "We have all the time in the world."