I slow my pace to a walk as I catch sight of the fence, rabbit in hand and game bag filled with katniss tubers flapping against my leg. The snow has all melted now, the green leaves bringing the trees and bushes to full bloom, and I turn back briefly. Taking a deep breath I relish in the clean air of the woods, still sad at the thought of leaving.

Even though I don't need the woods to crack a smile anymore, I still love it. Despite the fact that it lingers with memories of Gale, and Peeta rarely joins me, I still find peace here.

I don't need to hunt here now, but I come here when I need to be reminded of who I am, and how I am safe and as happy as I could ever dream to be.

Things have been better, since that night. Since I finally realized my fears and spoke to Peeta. Since he took me to his grandfather's old garden and showed me his tree, and reminded me of the depth of his feelings.

For days afterwards I felt guilty; ashamed at having believed that he no longer wanted to be with me, to be married to me. Of course he did. It's Peeta. He shows me his love every day and yet sometimes I am too stubborn to see it.

He cooks for me and holds me at night. He built me the fire pit, he takes me on trips out to the lake when I'm feeling stressed and he leaves fresh cheese buns on the table when he knows that I have a long day ahead of me at work.

He's always been so good to me, and yet somehow I barely noticed.

Although it's hardly surprising, I suppose. I have never been good at noticing anything like this.

I realize now that I was simply terrified of losing him, terrified that he had changed his mind, and so I showed it in anger and frustration. I realize now how stupid I was.

These last few months have been better. Although nothing has really changed, I don't feel on edge about it; I don't feel concerned for our future. I feel safe with Peeta, like I always did before, and that alone is comforting.

We still have our bad moments. For the last few years I have been working with Thom at construction sites around the district and last night I got home late to a dark and empty house. After calling Peeta's name and walking through the rooms, my heartbeat picking up with each step, I found him huddled in the corner of the kitchen, shaking and still clutching the back of the chair he'd pulled down with him. It took me half an hour of stroking his hair and whispering in his ear to get him to relinquish his grip and let me put him in the shower.

His flashbacks have gotten better, and rarer, but they are still there.

I've come to realise that the images of horror that we have seen will never leave us. Not really.

I don't think they ever could.

The aftermath of his flashback led to my own horrors, and even with Peeta sleeping peacefully beside me I saw the same images. The flames. The yellow coat. The braids. The screams.

Me, searching wildly for my sister. And still too late to save her.

This time it had been almost three months since I'd been there; a wonderful reprieve from that particular horror.

But that didn't make it less terrible when I woke in a sheen of sweat and a tangle of sheets this morning. When Peeta lay with me, his strong arms encircling my shaking form, and before I could even form coherent thoughts he started listing out loud all of the good things that we have seen people do.

He understands my game of reciting every act of goodness that I've seen. He doesn't realise, however, that the majority of my list is of him. That the list actually started with him, years ago, when we first came to this house and I focused on his goodness, his kindness and his strength to ground myself.

I've been doing it ever since.

So this morning I continued his list silently- adding the fact that he was helping me in that very moment- and thought of how good he is. And of how much I need him and want him and love him.

And once I had calmed down we went downstairs and he wordlessly handed me a cheese bun, knowing my need to escape. So I did.

Now, hours later, I almost feel myself again. As I crunch my way down the gravel roads of what we still call the Victor's Village, I look at the familiar structures and take in the small changes. Haymitch's gardener must have visited recently as his lawn is neatly trimmed and his flowers in bloom. There is a brightly coloured swing set on the front lawn of the house that once belonged to Peeta, and the shutters on my old house are now painted blue.

But a new coat of paint can't cover the feeling of dread that I get as I look up at it, the knowledge that President Snow was once there, living and breathing blood and roses into my nostrils.

I promptly shake the thoughts from my mind as I pick up my pace. Haymitch is eating with us tonight and I have a lot I need to do before then. I can tell from the light that it isn't quite noon but I still have to prepare the rabbit and make the stew, and I need to swing by to pick up some logs from the stand in town before I go.

Suddenly, my feet can't carry me away fast enough.

The town square is busy today, which is not surprising for a Saturday morning. It is usually bustling with people, and today I see children calling out to each other across the fountain, and couples sitting on the bench seats, enjoying the sunshine. I can't help but give a small smile at what we have accomplished. I helped to build six of the buildings that surround the square and it gives me a burst of pride to know that despite everything I could contribute to the rebuilding of our district.

I make my way across the square and a small smile washes across my face as I walk through the doorway. I fling my bundle of wood down on one of the couches, spraying a spattering of wood chips onto one of the brightly coloured cushions, before throwing myself down alongside it and simply enjoying the view.

Peeta is in his element here. I can only see the back of him as he stands in the door way between the front counter and the back room, but I can see the muscles in his broad shoulders as he reaches one hand up to grip the door frame above him. As he calls out to the workers his back reaches down in a subtle V and I can't help but grin as I take in his backside.

It's always been one of his best features.

After a minute I drag my eyes away and stifle a giggle. Glancing around I quickly realize that nobody in the bakery has taken any notice of me: the family in the corner are involved in a friendly but heated debate; the couple on the couch alongside mine are playing a board game involving a number of cards and tokens; and there are two others drinking coffee and reading in other places across the bakery. I let out a breath, glad that nobody caught me staring so blatantly at him.

I don't really care what people think, but being caught staring at Peeta's backside seems like a bit much after all this time.

A tinkle of laughter draws my attention and I turn towards the doorway to where a man is being dragged in by his daughter. She couldn't be more than six years old; her hair curls into loose blonde ringlets and her chocolate eyes sparkle with mischief. "Daddy, daddy!" she calls brightly. "You have to see them! They are so pretty!"

The man smiles down at the child's beaming face, but drags a hand across his eyes wearily. "Okay, Snowflake, you show me them then." I watch her bound across the floorboards and screech to a halt in front of the glass-fronted displays. Her eyes widen at the rainbow of colours in the cupcake stand, and her father can't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. The girl stands there, staring at each brightly decorated cake in turn, and I notice Peeta has turned, shifting his attention to the new customers. I watch his face as he gazes down at her, his smile seemingly nostalgic as he watches on.

After a few minutes of looking, the little girl turns her head. "Can we get some, Daddy?" her voice is high-pitched but quieter now. The man bends down to talk to her, and while I can't make out his words my gaze falls to his clothes. They're well cared-for, but not new. And his body language oozes with the disappointment of someone letting down the light of his life. I know that he wants to give her the cake that she wants, he wants to give her the world... but he can't.

I know that feeling well. That look in her eye is so familiar, it could have belonged to Prim at her age. My heart squeezes at the memory of her smiling eyes as she begged to look at the cakes for just one more minute. At the thought, I almost gather my things up and stride over, offering to buy this girl a whole range of cakes, but I stop myself. I know how the man feels. As much as he wants her to have the cake I know that a stranger barging into the moment with offers of charity will damage his pride; make him feel less than nothing.

Suddenly, Peeta reappears in the doorway. I hadn't even noticed him leave, I was so caught up in the little girl's wonder.

"Excuse me, ma'am." He is the perfect gentleman as he crouches down on one knee in front of her. She takes a small step back, closer to her father's legs. "I hope your Daddy doesn't mind but I was wondering if I could ask you a favor?" Both he and the girl turn to look up at the man, who simply shrugs his shoulders and smiles before nudging the girl slightly closer to Peeta. He is well respected in this town, and with his wide smile and relaxed stance you can't help but trust him.

"It will be something I'm asking of both of you, actually," he continues warmly, before turning his attention back to the girl. "But first we need to get to know each other a bit better.

"I'll tell you something about myself and then you can tell me something about yourself. And then maybe you and your Daddy can help me out with my problem. My name is Peeta." The little head of blonde ringlets dance as she nods shyly in recognition of what Peeta has said, so he continues. "Do you have any brothers and sisters at home?"

"Yes," the girl answers solemnly, speaking to him for the first time. At her father's nudge, she continues. "I have a brother called Mikhel."

"And how old is Mikhel?"

"Um, he's four." The deep brown eyes look up at her father for confirmation, and he nods once again.

"Do you think that Mikhel likes cupcakes too?"

"Oh yes!" As all children do after a few moments with him, the girl has decided to trust Peeta. She steps even closer to him and bursts into an excited tirade about how last time they got a cupcake as an extra-special-treat, her brother ate all of the frosting from her half that she was saving for last.

My heart swells as I watch the interaction. Peeta hasn't noticed me here and it makes me feel like an outsider, a voyeur invading on a personal moment. I wonder how many times a day he engages a child in conversation, makes him or her feel like the most important person in the world. And while I initially swell with pride, I can't help but feel a tugging pain in my chest as I deflate a bit, knowing that he will never have these interactions with a child of his own.

We haven't talked about it for a while, the idea of children, but I know that my mind won't change. The mere thought of being responsible for my own child makes me break out in a sweat. I know deep inside that the world has changed now. I know that we are safe. I do. But how can I bring a child into a place that has brought us such heartache, pain and terrifying, gut-wrenching fear?

I can't. And I won't.

But watching Peeta with this girl, her blonde curls bouncing, I can so clearly picture what he would be like with a similar girl, but with bright blue eyes to mirror his. I can so clearly see him gathering her in his arms, swinging her over to sit alongside me on the couch and all of us laughing at his silliness.

But no. I can't afford to think of these things. Not now, or ever.

I drag myself back to reality and notice that the three are gone, but as soon as I realise this they are back, and the little girl has a clear plastic box clutched tightly in her hand. Inside, I can see, sit two cupcakes; one decorated in yellow flowers, and the other sky blue.

"Now Meeghan," Peeta is saying, "you will remember what your job is won't you? You and Mikhel will taste this new recipe and let me know what you think, won't you? Whenever your Mummy and Daddy have time they will bring you back in so that you can tell me whether you think I can sell them here in the bakery? I'm counting on you two as my official tasters. You are being such a big help." His smile is warm, and his intention genuine.

"We will come in soon!" The girl carefully sets the box on the seat beside her before throwing her arms around Peeta's neck. "Thanks Peeta! We will be good tasters, I promise."

I watch as Peeta's shoulders shake a little as he chuckles, and notice him whisper something in her ear. Her eyes light up and she nods, before carefully picking up the precious box and skipping out the door, leaving Peeta to straighten up and face the girl's father.

He smiles a small smile and reaches his hand out for Peeta to grasp, which he does. Peeta nods firmly in understanding before gesturing out to Meeghan, who has sat herself outside on the bench in the sunshine, and started to pick at the lid of the box. "Don't mention it," he says warmly. "I look forward to hearing what they think. Now you'd better go and sure that both cupcakes make it home in one piece!" The man thanks him, smiling gratefully but warmly, and with his shoulders square. Peeta hasn't shamed him, I realise. He has simply welcomed them and made the little girl's day. And this man has a good enough self-esteem to recognise that. He is not ashamed by the gift, as many would have been, as Peeta has charmed them both. He always does.

I keep watching them as he takes the girl's hand and they walk down to the street. "Don't worry, Daddy," she rambles excitedly. "I'll share mine with you. Peeta said that I should!" I can't help but grin at that. He really does think of everything.

"Can I get you something, Miss?" His deep husk breaks into my thoughts and I snap back inside, realising that he is standing right behind me, blue eyes laughing as he looks down at me.

I can't help but smile at up him. "Nope. Just admiring your handiwork."

"What, Meeghan?" he grins, wiping his hands on his apron. "She's a good kid."

I stand and then reach up onto my toes before pressing my lips gently against his. "Well, you're a pretty good guy."

He grabs my hips and pulls me closer, and all rational thoughts leave my mind as his lips press firmly on mine, seeking, demanding and taking.

Sometimes it amazes me how he can still take my breath away, even after all that we've been through. But he can. And in this moment I can feel every inch of him pressed solidly against me, and all the pain, despair and longing of the day seeping out of me.

As I drag myself back from him, suddenly conscious of where we are, I hear a low laugh rumble in his throat. He knows me well, and knew that such public intimacy would make me uncomfortable. Ever since we arrived back here our relationship has just been for us, no one else, and I planned to keep it that way.

"I should get going."

He gently pushes a stray hair behind my ear, and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Okay. I'll see you a bit after six?"

"Sounds good. Don't forget that Haymitch is coming for dinner."

The laugh bubbles from his chest again. "I won't forget, Katniss." He brings his hands up to draw my face in to his, before leaning in to capture another kiss, this one deeper again. My stomach bursts with butterflies before they are startled away by the sound of the door opening, and my eyes open to find the breeze ushering another family into the bakery. I push him away firmly, gaze dropping and cheeks burning, as he laughs once more. Nervously flicking my braid I push him towards the customers before heading towards the door.

"Katniss," he calls out, and I turn back to face him, wondering what he could possibly say in front of all these people. His smile is dripping with mischief. "Don't forget the wood."

At the sight of his exaggerated wink I roll my eyes before dashing back to grab the bundle and heading out the door.

He always did have a way with words.

I place the last of the plates in the dish rack and lean against the counter, picking up the damp dish towel to dry my hands. Tonight I forced Peeta to leave the dishes to me, and shoved the boys into the living room to catch up. Peeta has been so busy lately and they haven't caught up properly for a while. I figured they could both use a bit of time, so I didn't rush to finish quickly as I usually would.

The dim murmurs escaping the living room seem to be slowing, so I hang the towel on the hook beside my hip and go to join them. As I make my way into the room I realise that they have pulled the chess board out for the first time in months, and I can't help but stop and take in the comfortable scene before me. The fire glows softly behind them, silhouetting Haymitch's slouch and Peeta's broad shoulders against the blaze of amber, and a small smirk washes my lips as I get close enough to take in their mutual, concentrated scowls. I place another log on top before settling on the couch, my feet tucked up beneath me.

Just as I get settled, Haymitch pushes his chair back unexpectedly. "I'd better get moving," he says, his mouth awash with a sly smile.

I feel my brow furrow, "Now? But aren't you in the middle of a game?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't matter. Your boy here's got me beat and anyhow, we can finish another day. That chess set ain't going anywhere." My surprise continues as he claps Peeta on the shoulder. Haymitch's mood is surprisingly upbeat, given that he spent the majority of the meal whinging about yet another runaway goose, and his eyes hold a knowing look. "Besides, it's still damn cold to be walking out late."

I shrug. "Okay. Well, I'll see you out," I say, untucking my feet from beneath me.

"No, stay in here," he says quickly, almost cutting off my words, and I look to Peeta questioningly. He simply shrugs and puts a hand on Haymitch's shoulder.

" Don't worry, Katniss, I got this," he says smoothly. "You stay here in the warm." And with that they leave, Haymitch throwing me a rare but genuine smile, for once only touched with the slightest hint of pain.

Something's going on, but I've learnt in the last few years that there's no sense in pushing Haymitch for details. He's just too stubborn, I think, shaking my head. But I know that he'll tell me when he's ready.

I rest my head onto the back of the lounge but Peeta returns almost immediately. I can't help but wince at the sound of his feet on the floorboards. I should be used to his heavy tread by now, but I'm still amazed at how much noise one man can make by simply walking. Surely the neighbours must hear him in the hallway, finding every creak on every board, as he makes his way back to the warmth of the living room. As his feet come to a stop I open my eyes, and find him shifting his feet in the doorway.

"You gunna stand there all night?" I smirk.

"Just thinking," he replies. "I might make some hot chocolate. It feels like that kind of night. What do you think?"

"Hot chocolate? Wow, what's the occasion?" I joke, as usually Peeta and I just drink water at home, still trying not to take for granted the fact that we can access free, running water on a daily basis.

"No occasion," he replies, but instead of heading out to the kitchen he steps closer, before perching himself on the arm of the lounge. I feel his fingertips pick up the end of my braid, softly touching the strands of hair at the end, and then he smoothes a stray hair from my face, his thumb gently brushing my cheek. This isn't unusual, and I normally find comfort from his small gestures, but tonight I feel slightly on edge, slightly anxious. The way that Haymitch left so suddenly after they looked so content together paired with the unexpected change of routine with the mention of a warm drink makes my heart rate increase slightly, and I look up into his face.

"Peeta, is there something wrong?"

He stiffens beside me. "Wrong? No, of course not," he responds. He bends to press his usual kiss into my forehead before standing again. "I'll just go and get us our drinks."

As the floorboards creak out the tune of his departure I scowl. I hate it when the two of them are keeping something from me. A slight movement in the doorway catches my attention and I turn, noticing that once again he is standing there.

"Uh, Katniss, I thought that maybe we could work on the book tonight."

"The book?"

"Yes, the book," he is strangely firm. "I thought of something the other day, and I want to add it."

"Okay, but wha-" I stop abruptly, noticing that he has left the doorway. Maybe he remembered something about his family, about his father perhaps. Maybe that is what he spoke to Haymitch about. Maybe that's why he was acting so strangely.

Yes, that must be it.

I don't know how long I sit there alone, staring into the flames, or what I think about. But I barely register the sound of a tray being placed on the floor and don't even notice that Peeta has gone to the shelf to retrieve the bound pages until he gently clears his throat.

"Are you tired?" he sounds wide awake, as if he hasn't been at the bakery since dawn, working and charming young children and their families.

"Not especially," I reply shaking my head for clarity, and take in the scene before me.

Peeta is sitting on the rug in front of me, legs stretched out to one side, with the book resting on his lap. The fire behind him turns his hair to spun gold, and the flickering light bounces off the bronzed skin of his biceps that peer out from below his navy t-shirt. I don't know what it is, perhaps the memory of watching him work this afternoon, but tonight he looks particularly beautiful. Once again, for what feels like the millionth time, I wonder what he sees in me and know that I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him.

And I wonder if Haymitch even remembered uttering those words to me. I feel certain that he can't have realised how great an impact they would have on me. Forever.

Blinking myself back to the moment, I notice that behind him lies a tray bearing two steaming cups of liquid chocolate, a flat box of playing cards and a plate holding a solitary cheese bun. I look pointedly at it before glancing at him, eye brow raised.

"What?" he laughs, knowing. "I wanted a snack!"

"You always want a snack, Mellark," I retort with a grin, slithering down to join him on the rug.

"Ah, you love me," he says simply, looking deep into my eyes.

"I suppose I do," I smile, eyes dropping, barely able to stand the intimacy of the moment even after all these years. But he doesn't let me off the hook that easily and instead reaches up and gently pulls my chin until I face him, before bringing our lips together. The familiar spark lights in the pit of my stomach as the kiss deepens and then all the emotion of the day is pouring out into him: the pain of the morning; the relief of his understanding; the joyful agony of watching him work; and the pleasant contentedness of dinner. My hands are everywhere; on his arms, running up his back and in his hair. The flame roars and, quite simply, I want him.

I'm surprised, though, to feel his kiss soften beneath my lips, and then to feel the air where his lips had been. I open my eyes to see him pull away and take a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. For a few moments we both simply look at one another.

He breaks the silence. "I want you to write about the pearl."

At his words my breath catches and I briefly squeeze my eyes shut tight.

The pearl. His gift to me in the second Arena. The piece of us that gave me hope in District 13 while he was held in the Capitol. The symbol of our connection.

I never knew quite how to write about it. I could never figure out how I wanted to express just how much that small item meant to me, and how much I have grieved its loss since we returned home. How I would grip it tightly in my fingers when I was certain that Peeta would never return to me, and how I would roll it softly across my lips and imagine that I was pressing them gently against his. And for years back in Twelve I held on to a blind hope that I would find it somewhere, that it actually wasn't lost in the war.

I didn't want to write about it until I could hold it in the palm of my hand again.

"Here, have some hot chocolate while you think about what to write," he presses the warm mug into my hand. "I'll be back in a second, but I've sketched out a picture of it already. I hope you don't mind. I had such a clear image in my mind of you in the early morning light, the pearl's white shell glistening with droplets of water. Despite where we were and everything that happened afterwards... I just wanted to capture that moment forever. All that it needs now is your thoughts."

As he stands and leaves, I absently pick a chunk of bread off the cheese bun and dunk it into the steaming liquid. It is sweet. It is good.

I am ready.

Taking a deep breath I move the book to lie in front of me, and open it. I have to flick a few pages to get to this newest entry.

I'm shocked to see the page filled, not only with the beautiful lines of his black ink sketch, but also line after line of his bold scrawl.

He lied. He didn't need my words, but now I see that he wanted me to read his. For the first time he has written a description of the item that he has drawn so perfectly. Placing my mug back on the tray and taking the book with both hands, I curl my legs beneath myself on the rug and take the words that he has written for me.

Katniss,

I will always be amazed at what goodness we can find among the rubble of darkness. In a world filled with fear and terror, we can get glimpses of light so bright that it can outshine everything.

The pearl was one of those glimpses. It came from a place so dark that we can't bear to think about it, but its iridescent beauty remained strong. It remained smooth and free of blemishes, despite the environment that formed it. From the outside, an oyster looks tough and impenetrable... but the beauty within is indescribable.

As soon as I pried this pearl from its shell I knew it was yours. After all, you are my pearl. So much beauty and light hidden behind such a toughened shell. But once I broke through you allowed me to see all that you are, and that made me love you even more. Until then, I hadn't thought that could even be possible.

I never knew that I could feel things as deeply as I did that night on the beach. I felt alive, energised and full to the brim with emotion. I could feel it in the tips of my fingers and toes, in my hair, my lips and the pit of my stomach. I knew that it was nearly the end for us. I couldn't bear to let you go but I knew that I had to. I knew that your survival was the most important thing in the world.

It still is.

The next morning, finding that pearl felt like it meant something. Finding it and being able to give it to you was a spontaneous and light-hearted moment; something that we had never been gifted with before. I was so immensely grateful that you would be able to return home and take a little piece of me with you. And a little piece of innocent happiness. So that maybe, one day, you'd be able to think of me and that night on the beach, and smile.

And now, knowing what we both went through in the months that followed, I'm even more grateful that you had something to keep us connected, something to hold onto when I couldn't hold you myself.

In this life, there are many things that I wish I had done differently. Decisions I would make differently, things I would take back or try to avoid entirely. I've loved you for as long as I can remember and sometimes feel sick with shame that I didn't go out in the rain and help you, instead of just tossing burnt loaves at your feet. Sometimes question the many times I walked past you in the school halls and never uttered a word; instead, I just admired you from afar.

But when I think of all that now, I can't help but think that if any of those things had been different, that maybe we wouldn't be here. That maybe, if we'd started to know one another before the Reaping, nothing between us would be the same. Our time in the cave would have been different. Our time on the beach would have been different. Our life here in Twelve would be different

And that is unimaginable.

Because here, everything between us is how it should be. Even in a world that is sometimes dark and often filled with fear, we have each other and that's enough. That's more than enough; it's everything, really.

You, Katniss Everdeen, are the pearl in my life. Beneath the rough exterior that it has at times, you bring the goodness to its heart. In times of normalcy and periods of difficulty, you make my days bright and warm and full of love. I know that you aren't perfect, but neither am I. And together we have something that is flawed and wonderful and everything to me. You remind me that, despite what we have lost, we have gained so much. Every day you remind me that there is goodness and light and spontaneity in this world.

You make me want to give it all to you. And I will try my hardest to do so, forever.

I love you. Always.

Peeta.

I drag my gaze away from his words, trying not to form a river of ink with the droplets streaming from my cheeks, and realise that somehow he has returned and is sitting alongside me.

Peeta has done the impossible. He's silently snuck up on me and caught me by surprise.

I fling my arms around his neck, sobbing openly into it, and feel him move closer before softening, and enveloping me in his embrace.

Sometime later he pulls away, before gently pressing his lips against mine. "There's one more thing," he breathes into my lips.

He has dropped one arm from around me and he wipes the tears from my cheeks before nudging a small box into my hands. I look at it and then back up to him, and he just gives a shrug and the beautifully crooked half-smile that I love. Pressing another kiss to his lips, I untie the string and loosen the lid with a gasp.

There, lying in a bed of cotton, is a pearl. It is attached to a faded leather strap with a silver clasp, but my eyes are immediately drawn to the iridescent sphere. My breath catches in my throat as I reach out to touch it and feel its cool, familiar kiss on my fingertips.

"How...?" It's all I can manage to mutter.

"I called Annie," Peeta explains. "It's not the same pearl," he adds hastily, and my heart sinks a little as his voice softens. "This one is brand new. Annie sent it from District Four. In fact, it's from the little town where Finnick grew up."

I smile gently, holding the leather band in one hand and running the little pearl across my fingers in the other.

"I know it's not the same," he continues in a rush. "I searched high and low – called everybody I knew in the Capitol and the other Districts – hoping that someone would have some information. But I didn't find anything. No one even knows what happened to your clothes after ...everything. It was a lost cause." His voice sounds like he is pleading with me to understand. I simply shake my head. Part of me can't believe that he's done this, that he's gone to so much trouble. Another part of me isn't surprised at all. It's Peeta. Thoughtful and caring. Heartfelt and personal. Beautiful.

"And my father used to wear the piece of leather around his neck when I was a child," he said, swallowing hard. "I found it in my house at the Victor's Village before we left. I thought it was the perfect way to keep the pearl safe."

I reach up and touch his cheek with my other hand, still finding it difficult to form words, still unsure how to accept a gift that he has put so much thought into. He's not just giving me a piece of Finnick and Annie. He's giving me a piece of his family. And our history, all in one.

"I've been reading," he continues, "about old customs." His voice is suddenly calm and steady as he carefully takes the strap from my hand.

"Years ago, men used to give diamond rings at times like these," he says gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. "But that didn't mean anything to us. And I want this to mean everything to us."

I can feel the fire burning steadily in the pit of my stomach give a flutter, and sparks shoot up my throat as I find enough voice to ask, "What do you mean, times like these?"

But Peeta doesn't answer. Instead, he takes my left wrist, fastens the faded brown strap around it and says, "Turn the page."

And there it is.

In his messy hand, scrawled across the underside of his image of our pearl, our first pearl, lie the words,

Will you marry me?

And with no hesitation I launch myself into his arms, kicking what's left of the forgotten cheese bun clear across the room as I go, and can barely answer before his mouth claims mine.

"Yes," I murmur into his lips. "Yes, yes yes."

I can feel his grin against mine as he lifts me up onto his lap, and as the fire in my stomach roars I can't believe that I'm here; that we are actually going to do this. And that, after all this time, I can still feel so strongly for the boy with the bread.

And with his arms around me and the pearl fastened securely around my wrist, suddenly the future has never looked brighter.