For three nights he's stayed away. For three nights I have suffered the nightmares alone, away from Peeta's embrace. Then, on night four, he appears at the doorway of my house. Peeta looks worn out - that's the only way I can describe his dark under-eye circles, messy blond hair, and slumping shoulders. In the buzzing lamplight I see that he's holding a canvas sack.

"I brought fresh buns. Well, fresh from earlier today. Can I come in?"

His voice sounds lower and more hushed than I've ever heard it. He knows I would never turn him away, but I'm still smarting from his rejection. I didn't know I still had it in me to play games, and yet...

"I'm not sure you should," I say.

My and Peeta's breath are both visible in the freezing air. We stand there staring at each other for a very long moment, a standoff that I lose when I glance at his slippered feet.

"It's 30 degrees! Damnit, Peeta, where are your shoes?"

The side of his lip twitches in a second-long smirk.

"I was counting on your District 12 hospitality to not let me freeze to death," he says. Peeta tilts his head. "Or is that not a funny joke anymore?"

I roll my eyes and retreat into the house - my victor's house, not my home - and leave the door open for Peeta to follow. He coughs back a laugh and trails behind me, giving me plenty of room. Remembering that I still feel humiliated, anger bubbles inside me.

"You can't show up acting like nothing is off between us," I say sharply. "You just left and stayed away."

"I obviously didn't stay away," he says, softer.

"Yes, well, I appreciate the bag of bread," I huff. "Is this your idea of an olive branch?"

Peeta sits at the table and shrugs off his wool pea coat. He reaches into the sack and tosses me a perfect golden-brown bun.

"Are you going to sit down?" He asks.

My preferred wooden chair is warming beside the fireplace, and I drag it, scraping, across the floor to my table.

"Can never do things the easy way, can you?" He says, gesturing at the other empty chairs around him.

"Not in my nature, I guess. No," I say.

He gets up suddenly and walks over to the fire, still a respectable size. Peeta pats the ground beside him.

"I change my mind about that godawful seat. For people obsessed with luxury, the Capitol has no idea what's comfortable," he says.

I sit on the wide planks of hardwood, though farther away than he'd wanted me to.

"You bring them up a lot - the Capitol," I say.

I wish I could make jokes as a way to cope the same way Peeta does. He has taken the terrible pain they gave to us and found a way to laugh in their face.

"They still don't own me," he says. "We might have to parade in front of them for the rest of our lives, but they can't stop me from saying what I like."

"If they heard you... Peeta, haven't you noticed they can stop us from doing anything?"

He looks irritated with me.

"You used to want to fight," he says.

I remember my conversation with President Snow and the almost imperceptible shake of his head that I know has doomed me and Peeta someday soon. What fight is left?

"Why did you come tonight?" I say, tears coming on.

He's right that my backbone has left me. I don't think he sees that I need his stubborn goodness and belief in a future where things could be better for us.

"I came to apologize for leaving like I did," he says. "I had my reasons, but I would hate to lose what we have. No one else could ever understand what we went through."

He sounds solemn and gentlemanly, like the courteous District 12 boy he's - against all odds - grown up to be.

"I didn't mean to make things complicated between us," I say.

"Kissing tends to do that," he says thoughtfully. "Besides, I'm sure things seem clearer for you now."

I wrinkled my brow.

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"You don't owe me anything for being here. I'm not going to leave because you don't have romantic feelings for me. I know you think kissing me or doing intimate things with me is some kind of compensation for our weird dependency on each other, but it's not the Games - we don't have to pretend here. I'm not going to leave," he says.

"You idiot!" I yell. "Did you not think for a second that I might want to kiss you because I actually want to? I want you! I want to be close to you!"

Peeta looks dumbfounded, as if this possibility has never occurred to him.

"You spent so much time pretending in the Games," he says quietly.

I push myself closer to him on the floor in the light of the fire.

"I can't promise you what you deserve. I just want to be near you. I want to touch you when we're together," I say.

It's not the heartfelt declaration of love I wish I could give him, but it's the truth, and I think he accepts it.

"Come here," Peeta whispers, and I move in front of him.

We are both on our knees on the ground, feeling warmer now in the fire's glow. He tucks a strand of my dark hair behind my eye and then cups my jaw, seemingly waiting for me to consent to what's next. I kiss his lower lip, lightly, and then again with more passion, opening my mouth to trace his tongue with mine. The strong thighs that throw around flour bags are tight when I place my hands on them, especially under the thin cotton of his nightclothes.

"I want this too," Peeta murmurs into my lips.

"Bed?" I ask half-heartedly, not caring where we are.

"Here," he says, and stretches out on top of me.

I feel how hard he is as he rhythmically grinds against me while we kiss. I don't want him to stop undressing, so I reach under myself to pull down my underwear and flannel bottoms. Peeta notices and stops.

"Are you sure?" He asks, looking into my eyes.

"Yes," I say.

I tug down Peeta's nightclothes to his knees and guide his erection into me. He exhales and I breathe deeply through the pain, wanting him to keep going. Please keep going. He enters me slowly, hesitantly, and then fills me completely. My back aches from the unforgiving wood floor beneath me, but I encourage him.

"Again," I whisper.

He leans on one elbow and grips my waist with his other hand, moving us in sync and feeling so good. If only they could all see us now.