As promised! :)

"I think you should come with me today," I say, swirling the milk and sugar around in my coffee and watching Peeta as he pulls a tray of raspberry jam filled biscuits from the oven. It's the fourth time this week he's knocked on my door in the morning, offered to cook breakfast, and acted like he hasn't seen me since the day before. I don't think anyone has caught on yet. It's Sunday, and a welcome day off for anyone busy building their houses or businesses during the week. With everyone hanging around my house all day, it also means that I'd rather not be home.

"Are you so bored out there that you need someone to scare away the game for you? Like an extra challenge?" Peeta asks wryly, referring to his ability to sound like he's breaking branches in half even when he's barefoot and walking in grass. Or as barefoot as he can be with his leg the way it is. It's really not his fault at all, but I know he feels like a hinderance whenever he's around while I'm hunting.

"I was just going to check the snare lines, and I thought it'd be nice if I had company," I muse, ignoring his question but smiling in spite of it. Really, I have somewhat ulterior motives, though it would be good to stock up on fresh meat from the snares. It occurred to me a few nights ago that I've never taken Peeta to one of the most sacred places known to me, the lake where my father and I spent so many days fishing and swimming. Gale's been there. I even brought an entire camera crew there once, but not Peeta. I've just never had the chance.

But Peeta seems to like the idea, and packs up lunch and some blankets for a picnic into my game bag. We bundle ourselves up with scarves and itchy woolen hats to guard against the cold, and I let Saffron know that we're going into the woods for the day. I take my hunting gear just in case, and Peeta slings my bag over his shoulder.

The air is frigid and damp, and the sun has only melted away some of the lingering frost on my porch. Fortunately, it only takes a few minutes of walking to get our blood flowing and the temperature doesn't feel too bad. It's late fall, and I know that I can count on one hand the number of weeks we have left before the woodland animals start hibernating and we'll mostly have to make due with the butcher meat from the marketplace. It was never too hard to feed a family of three from what we caught in the woods, but any more than a dozen people is near impossible.

When we get to my usual weak spot at the fence, I slide through it and pull the edges up for Peeta to do the same. He looks somewhat apprehensive, but he pushes the bag through and climbs underneath after it. We talk a little as we make our way along the trek, stopping to bag the game entrapped by the snares and resetting them. It's a good run and we have a couple of rabbits and squirrels, and even a woodchuck to show for it. After a while, the exertion it takes to continue hiking towards the lake makes it difficult to talk, but our silence still feels comfortable. Peeta doesn't ask where we're going, but I know he's curious as to why it's been over an hour since we've stopped to check a snare.

We are very close to the lake when the first snowflake lands on my cheek, burning cold and sliding down the side of my face. I look up and see that the sky has turned very grey. Flurries come all the time this late into the autumn, but it doesn't actually worry me until the lake is in sight and skies open up and start dumping massive flakes on top of us. Within minutes, I can barely see three yards in front of me and I take Peeta's hand because I don't want to lose him. It's easy to get disoriented in the snow. I've been to the lake so many times that my sense of direction is pretty good, and I'm able to guide us to the little cement house that sits on the lake front. Guiding us home is going to be another matter.

The house has definitely been used since the last time I was here. It has only one remaining glass window that lets a little light in, and although the glass in the three other windows had long since disappeared, someone has gone through great lengths to construct wooden boards that fit over them to keep out the elements. After 12 was bombed, I can imagine that more than one person ended up calling this place home for a while. There is still a sizable pile of seasoned firewood and kindling in the corner. In all seriousness, this is better than anything I could have hoped for when trapped in the woods in the middle of a blizzard.

"Umm… did you know this was here? Because it seemed like you knew this was here…?" Peeta says, a little confused.

"I was going to tell you about this once we were here. I wasn't really planning on the snow," I say. I motion him to the one remaining window and point to the frozen lake, barely visible now. "When I was little, my father and I used to come here in the summer. This is where he taught me to fish, forage for plants, how to swim. It was kind of our sanctuary, just me and him, and I wanted to take you here. It just feels right that you should know this place too."

I feel Peeta's arms circle around my waist and his breath on my neck. "I wish I could have known him. I know I would have liked him."

I smile at the thought. "No one could help but like him. I'm sure he would have loved you."

The snow is coming down hard, and it's pretty clear that it will be a while before it lets up. Despite the shelter from the snow and wind, it's very cold in the room, so we start building a fire. I breath a sigh of relief as my fingers find the tiny box of matches that I try to keep in my coat pockets. I hadn't remembered to take one today, but I must have left this one in from last year. Peeta has already made a pile of the kindling in the fireplace and stacked some wood on top, and I strike one of my matches and let the tiny flame envelop the little pieces of sticks and bark.

I start laughing when my stomach grumbles and I realize that not only do we have shelter and a fire, we also have a weeks worth of food. It's almost ridiculous. No, it is ridiculous. This could probably go down on record as being the easiest time anyone has ever had trying to survive the elements in the middle of the woods. I pull a loaf of fresh nutty bread and a piece of cheese wrapped in butcher paper. I hand these to Peeta and start dressing the woodchuck, cutting the meat into cubes with my hunting knife and skewering them onto a thin stick so we can roast them over the fire. It doesn't take very long, and we even heat the cheese on top of the bread and add the meat, folding it over so we have hot sandwiches.

After our meal, there's really not much to do except wait for the storm to pass. It's almost evening, and even if the snow stops there's no sense in trying to hike home in the dark. I'm sure everyone back at our houses will be worried, but there's nothing we can do. I curl up on the blankets we brought and watch the fire and Peeta, who has collected several kindling sticks and is whittling the ends into points. He puts one end in the fire and waits until it starts turning red and smoking before he pulls it out. The end changes from crimson to black and he rubs it on the floor, leaving a long grey streak. A smile crosses his lips. He puts the ends of the rest of the sticks at the edge of the fire where they can smolder until he needs them.

"Don't move," he says, and starts sketching my reclining form. I love watching his face and his hands when he's drawing. It's kind of like watching him make bread, except he seems like he's half present and half inside his head when he's holding a pencil. Or a burned stick. I watch my face take shape, strands of hair straying across my forehead and cheek. A hand, relaxed and upturned. The soft curve of my waist where it meets my hip. This is how he sees me. I'm so focused on the drawing that I don't see Peeta reach behind his back to pull another sharpened stick out of the fire. It's only when I hear him gasp and clutch at his hand that I realize he's burned himself.

I jump up and run to the door, opening it and scooping up handfuls of snow for drawing out the heat and easing the pain. From what I can see of his hand, it doesn't look too bad, but from bitter life experience I know how painful burns can be. I walk towards him, prepared to lay the snow on his injured hand, but I stop short. Peeta is muttering to himself and staring at me like I'm a wild animal, about to attack him. No! I think. Not now! Whenever Peeta's had one of his flashbacks or episodes or whatever they are, there's always been other people around, people who can help calm him or at least physically subdue him if he can't regain control of himself. I'm on my own.

He's become the other Peeta, the one I haven't seen in months, the one that I thought might be completely gone. The muttering stops, and he walks towards me, harshly pushing me up against the wall, all the warmth in his blue eyes gone, his pupils dilating in hatred or whichever vile emotion the Capitol wanted him to feel with the tracker venom. The fingers on his uninjured hand grip my arm so painfully that little black specks start flying around in my vision, and no amount of pleading his name helps to extricate me. So I do the only thing that seems to work, the only thing that's ever really worked. I kiss him with as much passion as I have, pressing my lips to his unyielding ones, trying to break my way into his mind. The pressure of his pushing me against the wall eases, but his hand refuses to release my arm. I can't lose him. "Peeta.. please, look at me. Peeta… I love you. Come back…" I whisper.

His breath is ragged and his pupils dilate again. A wave of fear overtakes me as I think that maybe I haven't brought him back, and besides trying to actually fight him off, I'm out of options. But his iron grip on my arm has loosened and he starts kissing me back with a desperation I didn't even think he was capable of. His lips move from my mouth to the edge of my jaw, down the side of my neck to my collarbone, and all I can do is grasp around his shoulders to keep myself steady. The trail of kisses leave their own kind of fire behind, and despite the fear that is still making my heart pound, I want more, I want all of him.

Emboldened by these new sensations and the enveloping desire I'm feeling, I start unbuttoning Peeta's shirt. He comes to a dead halt. He's practically panting, but he still manages to gasp out, "What are you doing?"

I try not to groan. Oh, I just thought now would be a good time to pull all of our clothes together and go launder them out on the frozen lake. What do you think I'm doing, Peeta? I don't say it out loud, but I give him a look that indicates exactly what my intentions are.

Peeta considers me carefully. "Are you sure? This is what you want?" If I had any doubts at all about whether or not he was back in control of himself, they are completely gone.

In reply, I grab the bottom of his shirt and lead him over to where we'd laid a couple blankets down earlier. I look him square in the eyes. "This is what I want," I say, and as if to prove it I take off my blouse and pants, leaving me shivering in my underclothes, slightly from the cold but mostly from anticipation. Apparently this is all the convincing Peeta needs, and he sheds his shirt, then scoops me up and places me down gently on the pile of blankets.

I run my fingers through the fine blond hair on his chest, caressing muscle and burn scars alike, and eliciting a soft moan from his lips. His hands mirror mine, and his fingers make their way underneath my undershirt, encircling my navel, moving along my ribs, running up and down the valley between my breasts. The callouses on his hands create a friction that I can only describe as being absolutely exquisite.

My undershirt is suddenly a nuisance, a barrier keeping us apart. Peeta slowly lifts it off of me, throws it on top of his own, and pauses to take in what he's uncovered. His hands caress my skin almost reverently, like I am something to be worshipped. Most of my body is still covered in faded burn scars and skin grafts, but the way he looks at me, touches me, makes me feel like I am perfect. Flawless. His mouth renews it's assault on my neck, but his kisses trail further and further down until he takes a nipple into his mouth, and my whole body begins to tremble and I can feel a dampness surging between my legs. I can only imagine that Peeta's in a similar state of arousal.

I unbutton and tug off his pants and position myself on top of him, straddling him. I can feel the growing stiffness between his legs rub up against me, and it sends little sparks through my limbs. His hands find their way to the small of my back and then down between the elastic of my underwear. I'm done with clothing. So is he.

I've never been very comfortable with nudity, but I'm not embarrassed when he looks at me now, nor when I look at him. Quite the opposite really. It seems like the most sensual, natural thing in the world, and I am overcome with desire, my body demanding to have him inside of me. I take a deep breath and give in to the demand. Nothing could have prepared me for the sensation of heat and hardness that plunges into me, and a cry escapes my lips. Peeta clutches at my hips as I grind up against him, trying to maintain a hold despite the sheen of sweat on both of our bodies that make it almost impossible.

Minutes pass, maybe an hour, and our breathing becomes more labored, our groans more and more audible. His hands move all over me, teasing, exploring, and I shudder beneath his every touch. I drive him into me harder and harder, determined to satisfy my own growing hunger. Our hips never part or cease moving, but Peeta pulls me down to him, my chest pressed up against his. With one arm wrapped around my back and the other in my hair, he kisses me, and starts thrusting into me with reckless abandon . The sensation is overwhelming, and suddenly every single nerve in my body is singing. Peeta lets out a noise that almost sounds like he's in pain, but between the contented groans that follow and the blissful look on his face, I know it was one of pleasure.

Exhausted, I have to practically roll myself off of him, and I nestle my head on his chest. His breathing slows as he strokes my arm with one hand and pulls the blanket on top of us with the other. I watch his face, firelight playing across his forehead, the bridge of his nose, those lips that have kissed me everywhere. He doesn't say anything for a long time. "Katniss," he shakes his head, "that was more than I even…" he pauses, seemingly unsure of how to continue. But I know what he means without him having to say it, so I kiss him to keep him from speaking because we don't need any more words tonight. I fall asleep listening to his heart beating.

A blast of icy cold air and blinding light tears me out of my dreamless state, and I open one eye to see that the door has blown open. I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes. It's when my eyes refocus on the open door that I see that the door hasn't blown open. It's been opened by Haymitch, mouth hanging open in surprise.