A/N: The first part of a relatively short chaptered tale, set after Katniss returns to District 12 at the end of Mockingjay, but before the epilogue.

XXX

It goes slowly. It has to; if it happened too quickly, I would fall back into my nightmares and my grief and never come out again, no matter who tried to coax or demand or plead. After months of darkness, sunlight peeks through.

It begins around the time I wake to a shovel scraping outside the house, not part of a dream but a real, startling noise. Then I'm face-to-face with him, thin and scarred and an incredible sight for sore Seam eyes. I haven't realized how much I've missed Peeta Mellark until he is in front of me toting a wheelbarrow full of primrose bushes, his eyes the clearest they've been since the Quarter Quell.

Seeing him looking so whole makes me too aware of what a mess I am, outside and in, and so I let Peeta plant the primroses around my house while I burn things, throw open windows and doors, scrub myself clean, untangle my ragged hair. By the time I go out to hunt, Peeta is gone, and I'm torn between relief that I don't have to face him again today and something harder to pinpoint that makes me long to catch another glimpse.

It's a big reunion day: not only does Peeta return, but Buttercup reappears at the house. It's another part of my recovery when my old feline nemesis and I break down and comfort each other, missing someone who won't return, united in grief. I have fewer nightmares in the hours of despair-induced sleep I get with the ugly cat guarding over me. More memories of Prim, not burning, but laughing.

My truce with Buttercup spurs me on to call my mother. So much progress in just two days for the girl who could hardly leave a chair for months.

Greasy Sae barges in with her usual "Morning", carrying supplies to cook up breakfast. Her granddaughter hasn't accompanied her today. I'm watching her take out a pan when there's a cough in the doorway, making me turn.

"I thought you'd like some bread," Peeta tells me, holding out the fresh loaf, almost like a peace offering.

I think of when he choked me, when he was wild, when I couldn't recognize him in is eyes. I had thought I'd lost him for good. Now he's here, once more the boy with the bread.

I want to thank him for planting the flowers. Instead I just nod. He steps inside, the scent of the bread wafting over to me. Delicious. As I grab a knife, I snag another plate.

XXX

Early summer and it's warm. Peeta arrives for breakfast, loaf in hand; he always brings over extra of whatever he's made that morning. Today it's raisin and walnut.

I'm setting down my game bag by the door when he comes in, Greasy Sae already cooking at the stove. We sit at the table and begin on the loaf, and the usual conversation takes place. Idle chat about his baking and painting; my hunting. Greasy Sae interjects with her own commentary; a good buffer for the moments Peeta and I have where we don't know what to say. There is too much between us, and sometimes the things we don't speak sound too loud.

"How's the bakery coming?" I ask after a lull. We've each eaten two slices of the raisin and walnut in the silence.

"Good," Peeta nods. "I should be able to open it before winter." He wants to move back into the old family storefront, part of the district reconstruction.

"That's great," I say sincerely. Another bite and then I yawn, unable to stifle it.

Peeta is eyeing me. "Tired?"

"Haven't been sleeping well." He knows what I mean. I spend most nights waiting for the sun so I can go out hunting and occupy my mind with strategy. Sometimes, when a particularly nasty dream wakes me, I debate calling Peeta and asking if he'll come over and hold me. He's been the remedy to my nightmares before. Of course, we aren't exactly back at that point yet. We're both making progress, but it's painstakingly slow.

"Me either," he confides, and I notice the bags under his eyes. Have they been there this whole time? I try not to look at his face often, fearing that crazed, hateful expression towards me will return if I stare too long.

We end up discussing some of the people in town, the stores opening; safe, casual exchanges. We're trying to learn each other again. I wonder how often he thinks about our nights on the Victory Tour, when it was just he and I in my room on the train. I think about it more than I probably should.

XXX