The sweltering heat inside of the arena made Peeta feel trapped.

He shouldn't have been surprised. These days, feeling trapped was the only thing Peeta was good at. Trapped in the arena. Trapped with the overwhelming desire to protect Katniss—to keep her safe above all else. Trapped with the beady eyes of President Snow watching his every move. Even here in the arena he could feel the president urging him to control the Girl on Fire as if he, Peeta, held the fire extinguisher in his hands.

So Peeta lay on the beach with the grainy sand imprinting against his slippery skin, his fingers twitching on his stomach, eyes closed, as he pretended to sleep. Sleep, he had realized a while ago, was something that never came easy to him.

Particularly after the Games.

Mainly because of his brain's need to show Peeta everything and nothing with overwhelming possibilities. How he let himself believe that there could still be a chance he and Katniss could escape again this time, despite it made him sick, thinking of things like that.

It was a wonder he wasn't as mad as Annie Cresta—the girl from the same district as Finnick who had reasonably gone crazy after her time in the arena.

The Games change people. And he was desperately clinging onto the hope that he'd be left unscathed with Katniss in tow. Although he knew his efforts were futile.

Everyone goes crazy in the end. He was just luckier than most to have her with him.

So that one night on the train, when Katniss told him to stay in her bed with her, as if he could possibly fend off her horrible nightmares that sounded worse than Peeta could imagine—really, it had been more of a blessing than a curse of having to deal with ice cold feet and stray arms smacking him in the middle of the night.

He didn't mind.

Really.

He liked being able to stroke her hair back from her face, his fingers lightly pressing against her skin. Her skin was always soft. He didn't know why. He liked being reassured that she was alive, that this was real, and that the Games were in the past.

He liked the way her face rested when—occasionally—sleep found her. The worry lines and the anger frowns were completely void from her face, making her seem years younger—like a child. Endless possibilities etched her face when she slept, and Peeta could never help but scoff when Katniss said she wasn't an artist.

The way she'd curl into a ball against his side, tiny baby hairs sticking out wildly and brushing against his face in a way that he really didn't mind…

Her hair smelled like pine even when she was away from District 12.

"Peeta?" she called now, her face swimming into view. He looked up, slightly surprised that she was calling for him. Finnick was on watch, and Katniss was supposed to be sleeping. Always sleeping. Sleep. Kill. Eat. Fight. Discuss possibly ally strategies. Repeat.

The life inside of the arena was not as glamorous as The Capitol made it seem.

"Yeah?" he asked, his eyes opening easily as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. She looked tiny. She looked scared. She looked alone.

She'd hate it. Seeing her face on a screen like that—she'd hate it.

"Is it the baby?" he demanded softly, his lips finding words before his brain could even comprehend what he was saying. The lies just flew out of his mouth these days before he had time to process it all. He had to protect her—to make her seem as strong as she really was.

Katniss just shrugged, her eyes catching on as she gestured to her stomach. "I'm worried….for her."

"Or him," Peeta interjected. Like he was supposed to.

She didn't smile. She just nodded and added softly, "Or…him." She placed her fingers on her nonexistent swollen belly uncomfortably. Peeta pursed his lips. He wanted it. He wanted all of it. He wanted Katniss and a baby and a nice house and a big yard.

But those types of things weren't exactly common once you've lived your life in the Games. Particularly when your life outside of the Games was in District 12.

The Games. The Games. The Games.

His life would be forever ruled by Them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Peeta asked, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face. Her skin was sticky with sweat as she leaned into his palm.

She shook her head firmly, her bottom lip catching under her teeth. "No."

Of course she didn't.

"I just want to sleep, Peeta," she murmured, seeming more vulnerable now than ever before. Again, her face was doing that thing. The thing where endless possibilities and hope and vulnerability crashed onto the surface, suffocating him with her talent.

She crawled next to him, breathing irregularly. "I just want to sleep and not dream about the horrible things I've done." She's next to him. They're both on their backs, and she's next to him, her head on his chest like so many times before. He wished they could be looking up at a starry night sky instead of the dome of the arena.

"You're not a horrible person, Katniss," he said quietly, his lips pressing against her temple. He lets his eyes close, a sigh rushing out of his stomach. It's a sigh that conveyed so much more than just the exhale of breath. It's a sigh that said this shouldn't be happening to us. "You're just a person that has had horrible things happen to you."

She didn't respond. Either because she's too far gone in a world of slumber he wished he could retreat to with her, or because she just didn't believe it and didn''t want to waste her breath in saying so.

He didn't care. He just tightened his grip around her back, fingers pressing lightly into her side. He let his head drift to the side, her hair scratching comfortingly at his cheek.

And with Katniss by his side and the audience, he could imagine, sobbing at his words and Finnick a little ways behind him, sharpening his trident in the humidity of the 75th Annual Hunger Games…sleep finally found him. Although he knew it'd never last.