A/N: It's finally here guys, the end of Shot in the Dark. Thank you so much for reading and leaving kind comments, I hope this last chapter makes you all happy :) You should all go and thank louezem for betaing all this time. It's been a long ride getting this thing to the point it's at now, and she's helped more than you can imagine. Enjoy!

Chapter 12

Early April, two months after Peeta's exhibition

As I stand in the room that has served as my bedroom for the past two years, staring at bare walls and floors, I can't help but feel a little attached.

It's April, and the month has brought rain and grey skies that smother the city. It's miserable, and, in my apartment, it's damp and cold. I've told Cray multiple times about the mould, about the drafts, about the leaks, and each time he just waves his hand and reminds me that rent is due and to close the door when I leave. It's frustrating to say the least, especially when I'm not even really living there anymore. Ever since Peeta's exhibition, I've spent more time at our old place than at my apartment. Whenever I am here, I sit in my tiny kitchen and wonder how the hell I've managed to live here for so long without getting seriously ill. It's not worth a quarter of the rent I'm paying. But now the lease is finally up, and I can put this part of my life behind me.

Despite all that, despite the peeling paint and stubborn door and drug den in D6, it's been my home for a long time. I've grown used to the place. It's become part of me whether I like it or not, and even though I'm incredibly relieved to be moving out, it still holds a little something in my heart.

After mom died, I was just getting my footing in college, in living my own life after losing Prim and my father. I'd always been closer to them, so when it was just myself and mom, it was tough. She was in a deep depression and I was fighting my own demons, battling between moving on from their deaths and living my own life without feeling guilty. Having Peeta already there from high school brightened my world. Even during that first year when we were just friends, I found that talking to him was the easiest thing I could do after lowering my little sister into the ground. He was pure and honest and kind, always willing to listen to the problems of others, never complaining, never showing anything but happiness.

Dating him came pretty naturally, and the day I moved away with him for college, I felt like I could finally breathe for the first time in my life. Living with my mother meant our house was silent. She would either be sleeping or working long shifts at the hospital, and I was getting on with school, determined to get to the places I wanted. And even though we didn't speak very much in those last few years, there was a weight upon our shoulders that we never truly resolved. I may have never felt a true mother-daughter connection, but she was my mom, my only family. And it really did hurt when she died.

Then

I stare at the television, not really watching it anymore but just staring, trying to stay awake. The same can't be said for Peeta, however, who fell asleep halfway through the film. I have a feeling I'll be following fairly quickly, though. I'm comfortable on the couch with my head on his shoulder, and his gentle snores threaten to pull me under any time now.

I reach for the remote and switch the TV off, before reluctantly climbing to my feet, picking up our empty dishes and putting them aside to wash tomorrow. I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth, braid my hair back from my face, and pull on my pyjamas. I pull back the duvet cover and fluff the pillows, crack open the window to let in some air so Peeta can sleep, and then close the curtains. Once that's all done, I head back to the living room and wake Peeta. He's exhausted, with dark purple circles beneath his eyes and stress lines present even in rest. I know I can't look much better either. School has been taking its toll lately, with more deadlines needing to be met this week than any other throughout the school year.

"Peeta," I mumble, fighting back a yawn. "Peeta, wake up," I try again when he remains still, shaking him lightly until he opens his eyes, staring sleepily up at me, his hair sticking up in all directions.

"W-what's wrong?" he says, still half-asleep, so his words come out slurred, more like 'whas wong'. I smile down at him and take his hand, trying to propel him onto his feet. He finally stands and stretches, throwing his arms into the air and groaning, his shirt riding up.

"Come on, we can't sleep on the couch," I say, pushing him towards our bedroom, his movements clumsy and slow. "We'll just be grouchy in the morning if we do."

Peeta says nothing in return and strips down to his boxers before retreating into the bathroom to brush his teeth. I'm already in bed when he returns, flopping down onto the mattress beside me with a sigh. I attempt to drag the duvet over him until he does it himself, burying his face in his pillow, pulling the blankets up to his ears. I switch off the lamp on my nightstand and roll back close to him, kissing him softly.

"Goodnight," I whisper when I pull away, moving onto my side, ready to fall asleep after such a long day. Peeta doesn't allow me to move, deepening the kiss until I respond, biting down on his bottom lip. We're too tired to actually do anything more, falling asleep as we kiss, but it's okay. I'm warm and content and with the man I love. We have plenty of time to make up for half-assed kissing.

I rest my head on his chest and our legs tangle together, our breathing slowing as sleep creeps up on us. The last thing I register is his lips brushing against the side of my head, and his hand dipping below my shirt to rest on the small of my back, holding me close.

…

The sound of someone hammering loudly on our front door is what wakes me. I grimace, staring through the darkness, my heart racing when another round of knocks are heard.

"I'll get it," Peeta grumbles from beside me, already climbing out of the bed, pulling on some sleep pants and stumbling towards our bedroom door to pull it open. I stretch out on the bed and wait for him to return, and crane my neck to look at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It's 2:30 am. Who the hell would be knocking at the door at this time of night?

Peeta comes barrelling back into the bedroom then, his eyes wide as he stares at me.

"What is it?" I ask, frowning at his expression.

"There are cops at the door," he says, sounding confused. "And they're asking for you, Katniss."

I quickly climb out of bed and hurry out of the room, with Peeta on my heels. I yank open the front door, and, sure enough, two cops are standing in the hallway.

"Are you Katniss Everdeen? Daughter of Mrs Dahlia Everdeen?" one of them asks, and I nod, gripping the door tightly.

"Yes," I nod. "How can I help you?"

"Do you mind if we come in, Miss Everdeen?" he asks, stepping forward. I'm tempted to tell him to fuck off until it's a more acceptable time, but since I have no real choice, I step backwards and open the door wider.

"No, come on in," I shrug, glancing at Peeta. He folds his arms over his broad chest, watching the cops as they come into the apartment, his eyes dipping down to the handcuffs hanging from their belts.

"Is it really necessary to be here so early in the morning?" he murmurs as I pass him, and I grab his hand, hushing him and pulling him along with me.

"Please take a seat, ma'am," the same officer instructs, so I pull out a chair at the kitchen table, narrowing my eyes.

"What's going on?" I ask. "Why are you here? And at 2:30 in the morning?"

"I apologise for the time," he says. "We are here upon request of the Panem County Police."

"Panem?" I echo. Peeta sits down beside me, knowing the name as well as I do. We grew up there, but neither of us have been back for over a year now. There is no reason for the Panem Police Department to be contacting us, either.

"Yes, Panem. We received a call just over an hour ago, ma'am, regarding your mother. It is in our understanding that she collapsed at work. A co-worker of hers contacted emergency services several hours ago to alert them that your mother was unresponsive to CPR. She was rushed to Panem Memorial, but unfortunately was pronounced dead on arrival."

I stare at them, feeling my mouth drop open.

"W-what?" I ask, furrowing my brow. "What do you mean?"

The cops exchange glances. "Miss Everdeen, you were the only listed contact, the only next of kin. Panem County decided it would be better to have a local department contact you directly, rather than have the news delivered over the phone from halfway across the country."

Everything after that sort of fades away, melting into nothing but a buzzing sound. I stare at the kitchen table, at the whirling grain of the wood, digging my nails in to the varnish as hard as I can. Occasional phrases such as 'next of kin', and 'cardiac arrest', and 'documentation issues' float out of obscurity now and then, but nothing is sticking. Everything is going straight over my head.

My mother is dead. I'm alone.

My mother is dead.

I'm alone.

An odd feeling washes over me. Something made of confusion, grief, and relief. Confusion at how this can't have happened now. Not now. She's too young for death. Grief swallows me over the fact that I'm actually alone in this world now, for real. That all my last connections to my family are gone, ripped away from me. First dad, second Prim, and now, mom. Behind that grief is relief that she's gone. She may as well have died along with Prim. It's like she has been dead all these years. But now it's real and she's not just a shadow in the background of my mind. She's finally gone, and in a strange, morbid way, I'm free.

Peeta's hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch, before relaxing as he brings it down to rest on the small of my back. He's giving me space, but keeping me close. Keeping me anchored.

His touch brings me back to the present, and I look up, blinking rapidly at the cops.

"What happens next?" I ask, my voice wobbling.

"We have all the necessary documents down at the station. You can come and fill those out, and we'll go from there to organise things."

"Okay…" I say, standing. "Let's go then."

"Katniss-" Peeta says softly from beside me. "It's way too early for that, and you're tired. Get some rest first, and go down in the morning, when you've got a clearer head."

"I'm fine, Peeta," I snap. "Besides, we have classes tomorrow and I've got to work."

"Ma'am, it's advisable to take today off at the very least," the cop speaks up. "Your husband is right. It's better to get some sleep before handling these types of things."

Neither of us bother to correct him on our relationship status.

"Okay," I relent, exhaustion hitting me. "Is there anything else?"

"Not currently, but we'll be sure to contact you if you need to know anything."

"Alright, thank you," I say, and everyone stands. When I don't move to shake any hands or guide anyone to the door, Peeta does it for me, quietly thanking them and herding them away. After the cops are gone, he makes me drink a glass of water and silently carries me back to bed, curling his body around mine as if to shelter me from the world outside, from what the next few days, weeks, months will bring, and presses a soft kiss against the back of my head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the darkness, and I tighten my grip on his hands, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry.

"It's fine," I choke out, and he sighs, hugging me tighter. "Just stay with me, okay?"

"Always."

…

Regret eats away at me. After Prim died mom and I didn't have the best relationship. She was in a daze and I felt like I had no one. And now that I actually have no one, it stings. It burns. I haven't visited her in the few years I've lived in the city with Peeta, halfway across the country. I made the effort to call her at least once a week, but even that was too much sometimes. I spoke to her two weeks ago, and we chatted about mundane things. It was a strained conversation, never becoming too personal, but it was nice. It was comforting to have her there, even if she wasn't really there.

I signed off with my usual farewell of: Have a good day, Mom. I love you.

Half the time it felt forced and hollow, but a little bit of warmth sparked in my chest when she said 'I love you too, Katniss', and quickly hung up the phone. Neither of us made the effort after Prim was gone. We just stopped being a mother and daughter, just became ghosts in the same house, of the same blood, acknowledging each other occasionally but unable to show that we did care.

And now it's too late. Because she's gone.

After the grief comes respite. And that just makes me feel guilty. I shouldn't be feeling relieved that my mother is finally gone, should I? Not after barely talking to her. Not after we became strangers. How can you be relieved to have a stranger out of your life? I take solace at the thought of her finally being at peace. She always seemed so tormented after losing Dad and then Prim, caught in some strange limbo that I couldn't pull her out of, but now she's with them, and hopefully happier.

…

Watching the third coffin being lowered in the ground in my short life was tough, and it took me a while to get moving with my own life again. Peeta was there the whole time, supporting me, guiding me, making sure I ate and moved and smiled. He understood that I didn't want to be coddled, and contacted all the necessary people to make sure that we had the next week free, despite my protests. He always knew what was best for me even if I didn't.

We flew out back to Panem to bury my mother, and we left two days later, not able to spend any more time in that tiny town, where everyone knew everything about everyone, where too many demons lurked, mine in the graveyard, his in his family home.

When we broke up, my mouldy, freezing little apartment was like a symbol of my independence. It was the type of independence I didn't want, but it was there. I tried to convince myself that I was strong enough to handle having no family, no friends, and an awful job, and it's taken me a long time to realise that it has nothing to do with strength. Even the strongest people need human contact, and I did nothing but get weaker by denying myself conversation.

Leevy was a lifeline. The diner was a lifeline. A miserable one, but it was there.

And then, despite everything, I was a lucky one. I got back what I so carelessly threw away. Peeta, and the steady warmth that flows through him.

"How many boxes are left?" he asks, stomping back through my empty apartment and standing beside me.

"Just the one," I murmur in reply, and he steps closer, his hand brushing my arm.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "I just- have you ever got attached to something that's kind of stupid?"

"Of course I have. She's standing in this room," he jokes, and I looking up at him, scowling as he chuckles.

"You know what I mean, you moron," I say, and he pulls me to him, smiling softly.

"I do know what you mean. And there's nothing wrong with it at all, as long as you don't let it control your life. Sometimes letting things go is the hardest thing you can do."

His statement is loaded, weighed down with multiple different meanings for the each of us as individuals, and the two of us as a couple. I look up at him, and his gaze is so intense that I can't look away. A minute passes, and I stretch up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

"Thank you for being here," I mumble against his mouth, and he kisses me again, leaning his entire body into it, only pulling away when I'm moaning and weak at the knees.

"Come on, Everdeen. We've got places to go, things to do!" he exclaims, grabbing the last box at my feet and walking away. I smirk, bringing my hand up to my lips. Damn him.

I leave the room for the last time and walk slowly through my apartment, checking that I haven't left anything behind. I'm giving away all the furniture I don't/can't bring to Peeta's place – to our place – to various charities, except for my bed, which Leevy is getting to replace the 'creaky bed of nails' she sleeps on. Once I'm sure the apartment is cleared, I lock the front door for the last time, dump the keys in Cray's mailbox, and leave the building behind. Peeta is ready and waiting in his car, the few boxes of my possessions piled in the back.

"Ready to go?" he asks, smiling brightly at me when I get into my seat. I nod, and he pulls off, and I don't even look back.

We stop by at Leevy's apartment a few blocks away to give her my no longer needed bed, and as we fit into the elevator with the frame, I realise that Leevy has never even met Peeta. Apart from texts, I've only seen her a few times since I quit, having been busy with my personal life and with my new job. When I told her we'd be stopping by, she was excited to see if the infamous Peeta Mellark lived up to everything I've described him as.

"Katniss!" she exclaims upon opening her door. "How are you?" she hugs me, and I'm hit with a familiar smell of diner that has me wrinkling my nose.

"Leevy, hey," I grin. "I'm great. You look well."

"Yes, well, the diner just lost another brilliant waitress," she shrugs, her eyes sparkling.

"You quit?!"

"I got a job down at the kid's rec centre," she beams. "I'll be starting in a few days!"

"I'm so happy for you," I say, and she smiles wider, before noticing Peeta standing behind me, laden down with various pieces of bed.

"And I'm happy for you," she smirks, and I step further into the apartment, waving to her son, Dylan, who has grown so much but is still just as cute as the last time I saw him. "Leevy," his mother introduces herself to Peeta behind me. "It's lovely to finally meet you."

"Peeta. It's nice to meet you too."

Leevy directs Peeta and I to prop the bed frame in her bedroom, and once that's done, she makes us all some tea and we talk. Admittedly, most of the chat is just Leevy and I catching up, and since Peeta isn't really needed, he ends up playing Dylan instead, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor and playing with some toy cars, looking very much in his element with the three-year-old boy.

"He's gorgeous," Leevy gushes, looking over at Peeta with her son. "I'm so jealous."

"He's a lot of things," I smile, and she rolls her eyes, reminding me a little of Johanna.

"Listen to you," she says, mock-annoyed. "Being all lovey-dovey. Katniss Everdeen. Would you believe it?"

"A year ago? Definitely not," I say, glancing back over my shoulder to Peeta, who high-fives Dylan before resuming the car race, both with deadly looks of concentration.

Leevy has to call my names three times to get my attention once again.

"Just invite me to the wedding, okay?" she says, patting my hand with a knowing smile, and taking another sip of her tea.

We leave Leevy's a little while later, and once we reach home, Peeta puts down the boxes he's carrying to unlock the door, takes mine before I can protest, placing them carefully on the floor before turning back to me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, and he steps forward to sweep me into his arms, carrying me bridal style over the threshold and setting me down again. I roll my eyes but am unable to keep the goofy smile from my face.

"You're such an idiot sometimes."

"But I'm your idiot," he reminds me, and I walk back through the door I was just carried through to bring in the boxes hanging around in the corridor. It take only two more trips to bring everything up, and once it's done, we sit amongst the boxes and try to figure out where to start. I left most of my belongings here when I left, and Peeta tells me that he put the majority of it in storage, just in case I ever wanted it back. I decide to open that can of worms (or storage unit) another day, and just set about putting my stuff away. Peeta has cleared space for me, though I don't need much. Still, I get extreme déjà vu seeing my clothes all hung up next to his, to put my toothbrush next to his, to see things I'm used to seeing in my old place back here. Nothing has changed, but everything is different.

Hours later, when I'm settled, Peeta forces me to sit down in front of the TV while he makes dinner. That unease from earlier lingers on, and I have to force myself to move to the window seat, to sit down, to stare out of the window as the rain hits the glass, to look over the city view and not feel like I'm an intruder, because this is my home once again. There are memories in every corner of this place; bad ones, good ones, and everything in between. They're here to stay. I won't be able to forget them, but I can build new ones with Peeta, ones that are better suited to withstanding the test of time.

We're quiet at dinner, and it's comfortable. When I stand up halfway through to get both of us some more beer, it strikes me how strange it feels to just go into the kitchen and know my way around it. It's pretty similar from two years ago, and I can move with ease, finding the bottles on the second shelf in the fridge, finding the bottle opener in the third drawer on the right. This feeling just won't leave me alone, and it isn't until we're sitting on the couch, my head on Peeta's chest, his arm around my shoulders, with the rain hammering down outside and my boyfriend's heartbeat strong and steady against my ear, that I realise that this feeling just shows how natural it is to be sat here with him. It's like breathing. I don't even have to think about it.

We fall into bed, tired from such a physical day of sorting and dismantling and packing things, transporting them and sorting them all over again. After a few minutes of silence, Peeta rolls in closer, and I hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.

"What do you think about christening the place?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly in my ear, his hand sliding over my stomach, closing in on the waistband of my shorts.

…

The next morning, when I wake, I'm undeniably happy, in a warm and cosy bed with the man I love, a stark contrast from what I used to have, which was a cold apartment and a yearning for the person I'd taken for granted.

I look up at him and smile. He really is there, his face mushed into the pillow, soft snores filling the room, his hair a golden halo, morning sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains and illuminating him. This isn't a dream, not this time. It's reality.

I notice how often Peeta takes photos, how often he sketches. He always has a camera with him, whether it's his phone or a proper DSLR with ten thousand fancy lenses, ready to snap a picture of whatever catches his eye. I also notice how often he sketches me.

I'm rummaging through the junk mail and magazines and other bits and pieces that have gathered on the coffee table when his sketchbook slips out onto the floor, the pages fluttering open. I pick it up and find endless sketches of me, which is no surprise, but I'm blushing by the time I reach the first blank page.

He's been sketching me while I'm asleep, or from memory, and they aren't exactly family-friendly. Renders of my sleeping self tangled in sheets, getting dressed, below or on top of him, all in varying states of dress. I let the redness from my cheeks fade and turn the smile on my face into a scowl, finding the most risqué image before stalking down the hallway to his studio, throwing open the door.

"Jesus Christ!" Peeta exclaims, practically jumping out of his skin at my sudden entrance. "You scared me," he says, starting to chuckle.

"What the hell is this?" I demand, holding the book out as if it's on fire. Peeta's laughter quickly falters, and he barely reacts to the image I'm holding out to him before looking up at me and half-smiling, his eyebrows raising as he tries to tell if I'm serious or not.

"It's… it's you," he says, barking out a laugh, still unsure.

"Oh, well thank God for that," I sneer, flicking through the pages, pausing sporadically to show him choice sketches. "That was what I was really fucking worried about."

"Wait, are you seriously mad with me?" he asks, his stupid grin disappearing.

"Yes I'm fucking mad!" I snap, throwing the book at him. It hits him in the chest and he stares at me, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Why the hell are you drawing me like that?"

"I thought you didn't mind… I thought you knew," he says, but his eyes are still sparkling.

"I didn't know they were like that."

"You've never cared before," he tries to amend. "I always used to draw you and you didn't care."

"That was before we broke up and didn't see each other for two years," I remind him, and he frowns, obviously surprised that I've brought that up, but finally figuring out that I'm not messing around. He twists around to place the sketchpad on the table behind him, wiping his paint-covered hands on a rag and approaching me like one would an injured wild animal.

"I'm sorry, Kat," he says softly. "I'm sorry if I've upset you. I guess I just assumed that… that you wouldn't mind. I'll stop if you want me to."

"Don't come any closer," I warn, glaring at him. "I'm really fucking annoyed with you."

"Why?" he asks, half-laughing again.

"Because it's weird, Peeta! It's creepy, and I don't want you doing it anymore!"

"Okay, I'm sorry. Please don't be angry at me," he pleads, and I allow him to come closer now that I'm backed against the wall opposite, his hands settling on either side of my head. I continue to scowl at him, and he smiles beseechingly at me, trying to convey his albeit confused apologies. "I'll stop. I'm sorry."

"It's really creepy, okay?" I mutter, and he's about to speak again when I cut him off, lowering my voice so there's no room to doubt my true intentions. "If you want to draw me like that, at least do it when I'm able to actively participate."

He barely has time to react before I'm kissing him, cradling his jaw in my hands, biting down on his bottom lip as he catches up to what is going on. He leans further into the wall, bringing his body closer to mine, moaning against my mouth, sending electricity pulsing through me.

My hands soon move down to disappear beneath his shirt, eager to touch his skin. I begin scratching my nails slowly down the flat planes of his stomach, threading through the hair leading down past his waistline, teasing him by ghosting around the bulge in his pants. He groans against my mouth when I palm him over his jeans, panting against my neck, growing hard under my touch. I remove my hands after a minute or two and push him away harder than is probably necessary, pulling my shirt over my head to stand there, staring, my chest heaving just as much as his is.

"I take off my shirt, you take off yours," I say, my voice steady. His eyes are so wide they look like they're going to fall out of his skull any second now, but he nods dumbly anyway. "That's how this is going to work," I add, trying to convey that I'm the one in charge.

"Y-you're not really pissed?" he asks, and I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction or reassurance of an answer.

"Take off your shirt, Peeta." He whips it off in record timing and begins to move towards me again, but I put my hand out to stop him. "You want to sketch me, you do it right now," I say, pointing to his discarded sketchbook.

"You're serious?" he says, disbelieving. I arch one eyebrow, challenging him. "I- uh… Can I paint you instead?" he asks.

"Sure."

He grabs a new canvas, yanking off the protective plastic covering and placing it on his easel as I stand there, fight back the urge to push him to the ground and strip him of all his clothing. He hesitates then, his hands flexing as he thinks. He looks up at me and swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he stares at me with darkened eyes.

"I want to paint you," he states.

"I know. That's what you're doing."

"No, Katniss. I want to paint you. As in paint your body."

"Only if I can paint you," I negotiate, the idea of him actually painting on my body making the throbbing between my legs increase tenfold.

"Deal," he says, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his legs, tossing his socks to the other side of the room, before looking at me and prompting me to join him. I strip down to my underwear and he tilts his head to one side, smiling slightly. "That's not even."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm wearing one thing. You're wearing two."

"It's underwear, Peeta. I'm wearing mine, you're wearing yours."

"Fine," he rolls his eyes, and my mouth drops open when he kicks off his boxers as well, standing naked in front of me, bold as brass. "Now, take it off."

I do as he says, my pulse quickening as I unhook my bra and remove my panties. Peeta gathers tubes of paint and paint brushes and smirks at me, loading a brush up and bringing it down the side of my face, grinning the entire time. I grab my own tube and paint a line down his face as well, the bright red stark against his pale skin.

From there, no real painting actually goes on. It's just the two of us, trying to get the other more paint-covered than the other laughing all the while. I manage to get a bright green handprint on his ass, and he chuckles, pulling me to him with a hand on my waist, the other coming to the back of my neck to angle my head upwards so my lips meet his, my laughter petering out.

Fire catches between us, spurred on from embers to a blazing inferno, and I press my body against his, my paint-stained hands winding through is hair, streaking it blue. I wrap my legs around his narrow waist when he lifts me, walking forward until I'm pressed against the wall. I gasp, my head falling back when he slides his cock between my folds in slow, controlled thrusts.

"You're already so wet," he groans, pressing kisses down my extended neck, taking me by surprise when he pulls away from the wall and moves me down until we're on the floor. I can tell he's trying to take control, trying to gain the upper hand, but I don't want to let him. I want him to surrender to me completely.

"Lay back," I order, placing my hands on his chest to push him, and he frowns, staring at me in confusion as I continue pushing him until he's on his back and I'm on top of him. His confusion is gone the moment I sink down on his cock, moaning at the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, my thighs spread wide over his hips as pleasure sweeps through me. I try to get myself under control before I start moving. Peeta grips my thighs, urging me to move, and I shove his hands off me, leaning forward to kiss him, my lips trailing down over the sharp cut of his jaw, down his neck like he did to me, sucking on his pulse point, knowing that's his weak spot.

"Fuck," he pants, his hands working their way upwards again, kneading my breasts for half a second before I'm pulling them off again, leaning all my bodyweight forward, my hands securing his arms down to the floor, gripping his wrists tightly so he can't touch me without my permission. He's much stronger than me and could easily break free, but he doesn't fight. He just shifts his hips, silently begging me to move. When I finally do, my toes curl at the sensation. I grind myself against him, watching his lips parting, watching his stomach tightening, his eyes rolling back when I clench around his cock, calling his name to get him off.

Unable to handle the building pressure anymore, I release his wrists and brace my hands on his stomach, shifting my hips to rise and fall over him, riding him furiously, desperate for my release. Peeta curses again and starts thrusting into me, reaching down to cup my ass and push me against him. His movement gets more and more erratic as time passes, his mouth falling open, his grip on my ass tightening, his cock driving deeper into me. My nails dig into his stomach when my orgasm hits, my body arching, the sounds coming out of my mouth completely out of my control.

"Katniss!" he chokes out, faltering as I moan his name. He rolls us over in one smooth motion and starts thrusting into me, hard and fast, coaxing mewls from me with every unforgiving stroke. I'm delirious, unable to do anything but lie there, but the feeling of his cock sliding in and out is enough so that I'm moaning unintelligible words as he comes, his breathing harsh in my ear, his face contorting with pleasure, rocking his hips against mine before collapsing, his body resting over mine, crushing me just a little. I'm too weak to move, still twitching from the most intense orgasm I've had in a long time.

Peeta's breathing is loud in my ear as we gasp for air, our bodies still melded together. Paint is smeared over our skin. There's red and black streaked over my waist and thighs from where Peeta was holding onto me, and bright blue hand prints mar his own body; including the green one on his ass that turned what started as a competition of who can get covered in more paint than who into wild sex on the floor of his studio. Neither of us speak for a good minute, just listening to each other panting. And then he begins to laugh, the sound so light and joyful that I can't help but join in, warmth bubbling in my chest.

"That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever done," he chuckles, pushing himself up a little so he's not crushing me, sweeping my hair out of my face with a gentle hand, a stark contrast from the way he was gripping me just a second ago. I smile up at him, drawing him in for a kiss.

"Of course you'd say that, you weirdo," I grin, placing my hand on the side of his face and pulling it away to leave paint covering his cheek and jaw. He smirks, smudging a splotch of green on my side, looking around at the mess we'd made. I loop an arm around his neck and pull him down to me, close enough so my nipples brush against his chest.

"We need to shower this paint off," I whisper into his ear, climbing to my feet and racing to the bathroom, not waiting to see if he follows. He's right behind me of course, and presses me up against the icy tiles in the shower before I can move to face him, his cock growing hard again against my ass, his hands sliding over my bare skin, his teeth biting into my shoulder.

It's several hours later, as a paint-free Peeta snores beside me, the side of his face mashed into the pillow, bed sheets tangled around him so tightly he'll wake in the middle of the night to sleepily try to rearrange them, waking me in the process, only to fall asleep again with his arms wrapped around me, refusing to let go, that I realise how everything has changed.

This time last year, I was sat in my apartment by myself, eating microwaved meals in front of the TV, buried under blankets in an effort to stay warm against the drafts. I was working agonizing shifts at the diner, earning barely the minimum wage, feeling sorry for myself. I had no family, one friend, and had recklessly thrown away my relationship with the man I'd grown to love so much, all because I didn't know how to say I was sorry, and tell him how much I loved him. I was too scared of the uncertainties that the future held, and too blind to see the certainties of what a relationship with Peeta would be. I took what I had for granted, and, like with all good things, didn't realise how much I loved it until it was gone.

If it wasn't for that tiny ad in the newspaper that Leevy told me I should go for, I never would've found Peeta again.

Or would I? What if we had met again, but in different circumstances? If in some parallel universe we had bumped into each other in that grocery store, or in the street, or in fifty, sixty, seventy years' time, at a city care home. Maybe we never would've met again. Maybe we'd pass each other on the street without even knowing. Maybe I'd finish my shift at the diner be driving out of the parking lot out front just as he pushed open the front door, looking for some shitty waffles and watered-down coffee. Maybe we would have moved on, met other people, lived different lives, with the memories of each other growing fainter and fainter each day.

Or maybe, just maybe, fate brought us back together again for a reason. Whether that's true or not, this time, I know I'm not going to take it for granted. I'm eternally grateful for Peeta, for bringing me back when I felt like there was no hope, for allowing me back into his life after everything that happened between us. We've bridged that chasm that was created with harsh words and unresolved emotions, and I don't intend to go back any time soon.

I'm unable to restrain the smile that worms its way onto my face as I watch my boyfriend sleeping. My heart swells in my chest as I think about all the little details that I'm thankful to have, especially in comparison to what I used to have. A warm bed, a soothing heartbeat to fall asleep to, slow, lazy morning kisses, searing touches under dinner tables, his awful singing in the shower. His laughter rumbling in his chest when we watch something funny. The way tears shimmer in his eyes during sad films. The excitement in his eyes over getting a new delivery of paint. The little smiles on his face that I catch when he thinks no one is watching. The simple, quiet moments, when we don't need to speak or move or even think, because we're content to lie beside each other without needing to fill the silence.

That doesn't mean I don't like noise, of course. That I don't appreciate the way he tilts his head back and scrunches his eyes shut when he comes, the way his body curves over mine, the deep, gravelly moans echoed into my ear, the satisfied smile on his lips as we catch our breath. In typical fashion, I'm determined to end this perfect day with a bang. Quite literally.

I lie in wait, preparing for my target to align himself.

After a good ten minutes, Peeta shifts slightly, smacking his lips, and stills for a second before rolling over onto his back, his arm thrown out over the mattress. Making no sound, I push the covers back, moving carefully to his bedside cabinet to grab his camera. Climbing on top of him, I switch the device on before leaning down and kissing him gently to wake him. His eyes flutter up, and he chuckles, reaching for me to kiss me fully, still half-asleep.

"What are you doing?" he asks, not yet spotting the camera, his voice scratchy, even as his hands run up and down my bare thighs.

"I think you know exactly what I'm doing," I smirk, snapping a photo of him as a hint and then whipping off my night shirt, watching as his eyes darken as he realises what is going on. "There's some paintings we need to recreate."

You can find me at writingforhugs dot tumblr dot com :)