Remember that "THE END" at the end of part two? Just kidding! The idea for a third part to this story came to me at 2am while I was trying to sleep one night and I knew I had to start writing it, right then and there.

The sound of the shower's stream crashing down against the sand-toned tiles is hypnotic. I step in, interrupting the almost rhythmic cadence and allow the steam that's rising to engulf me. The scalding water pelts my back and rolls across my skin. I welcome the sensation in hopes that it'll replace the traces of heat that Peeta's fingers and lips left behind on my body. There are no marks on my skin, but I can still feel his fingers on me like they've been imprinted there for eternity. It's as though the tips of his fingers are still digging into my hips, pulling my body back to meet his heedless thrusts. Every spot along my back where he dropped open mouthed kisses and nipped at my skin with his teeth are on fire and have been long before the water ever touched me.

It's been seven days since the Victory Tour's last stop. Seven days since the Capitol train pulled away and left me and Peeta in District 12 once again. Seven days without sleep. Seven days of staring out of my bedroom window, waiting to see Peeta's bedroom light flicker on at 2am sharp and the first floor of his house light up shortly after.

I was halfway to his house in the dead of night before I realized that one week of trying to resist going to him was all that I could stand. The night replays in my mind on a loop now, becoming clearer each time.

The window seat underneath my bedroom window has become my place of solace at night. Long after Prim and my mother have gone to bed, I remain awake. The living room is too quiet and the study brings back memories I don't dare think of. I spent the first two nights awake in the kitchen, parked in the chair nearest to the oven that I turned up to a scorching five-hundred degrees. I basked in the warmth that emanated from the front while I drank kettle after kettle of tea.

The relaxation was almost enough, at first. My thoughts didn't wander to the dangers that were now facing my family or those nights with Peeta on the train. The bright fluorescent lighting in the kitchen ensured I wouldn't fall asleep and wake the house with my screams when the nightmares hit. But after two nights of that, the novelty wore off and the same feelings of unease returned. And from that day forward, I've taken to curling into this window seat in the dark. I sit curled under my comforter now, my head propped up against the cold glass of the window. My eyes go in and out of focus as I watch the snowflakes flutter down from the blackened sky.

The light from Peeta's bedroom window catches my eye, and I look just in time to see his silhouette behind the thin curtains. He's slouching slightly, and he appears to have his arms tucked in close to his chest. I jump in my seat when his silhouette unexpectedly walks closer to the window. But the curtains barely move. All I see are his hands forcing the window closed. Even the sight of his shadow brings me back to the train immediately and stays with me long after Peeta's form has disappeared from the window.

Soon, and as I've done for the last five nights, I begin wondering what it was that pulled Peeta from his bed again. Was he still struggling to find sleep? Does he roam around his house the way he roamed around the train during the early stops on the tour? Or was it worse than that? Had he finally managed to pull himself from the darkness of a nightmare and was too afraid to go back to sleep - like me?

After five nights of the same thing, you'd think I'd learn my lesson. Leave the window, slip in bed, and spend the hours until sunrise staring at the ceiling. It was easier. Safer. But the harder I tried to will myself out of the window seat, the more insistent my body was to stay there watching the lit windows on Peeta's first floor for any sign of him. Height and distance are not forgiving, though. Beyond the occasional shadow moving across the half drawn curtains, I've yet to see a thing.

A few times this week, after I've managed to pull myself away from from the window and slip into bed, I tried to recreate the way Peeta's hands felt on my body. With hopes that I'd be able to find the contented rest I managed on the train, I'd let my hands roam. Caressing, rubbing, and tweaking all of the places that Peeta's fingers managed to find to coax his name from my lips and a trembling completion throughout my body.

It never feels the same as it did with Peeta. In the dark bedroom, I'd screw my eyes shut and whisper his name, trying to beckon the feelings his touch incited. I'd bring myself to the brink and let myself fall, no longer whispering but panting his name into a pillow with each shiver of bliss that ran across my skin. But the serenity never came.

I'm not even going to bother trying tonight. I'll sit by this window, knowing that I'd be far better off away from it, and wait for a glimpse of him that I shouldn't be craving. The consequences of my failure to convince President Snow would be coming for us soon enough, and we agreed that what happened on the train couldn't continue at home.

And then suddenly, he's there. In the window, framed by the golden hue of the living room lights. My breath hitches in my throat as I watch him stare out of the window at the snow that's started to fall harder. The light from Peeta's window illuminates the smallest section of ground, and when the strong wind kicks up, the snow dances across the concrete in a motion that's almost too fluid to believe. The flakes swirl around each other in perfect synchronization like they're part of a choreographed dance.

"Please leave the window, Peeta," I whisper, my breath leaving a fog on the window.

I never expected to see more than his shadow. Even when I tried to see through the windows into his kitchen I never expected to actually see him. And now that I have, the need I have to go to him pulls at me like I'm a fish caught on an invisible hook while an unseen force reels me in.

I bunch up the comforter and throw it onto my bed on my way out of the bedroom, descending the steps with the quickest pace I can manage while still remaining quiet. My coat and boots stay put at the entrance of the house, and it's not until I'm standing frozen on the path between mine and Peeta's houses that I realize I came out here in my slippers and nothing but a thin, long sleeved shirt and pajama pants.

It's a good excuse to turn around. Go back into my house and stay there until the sun rises and I can slip away into the woods for the day. Peeta's gone from the window now. He'd never know I was out here. He'd never know I was considering going to him. I know that's the right decision, but the longer I stand here with the snow whipping around my body and the wind cutting through me like knives, the less I want to make the right decision. And so, with chattering teeth and snow covered slippers, I continue forward to Peeta's house and tap on the door as lightly as I can and hope that he hears it.

The door is pulled open in a hurry. For a second, I want to run, but my legs ignore my thoughts and stay firmly planted on the porch while my eyes give Peeta a once over. Light sweatpants, white undershirt, sleep tousled hair. And his hands. Those hands that spent most of those nights on the train touching me in places I never knew I wanted touched are now covered in flour from the tips of his fingers to the middle of his forearm.

"Haymitch, I already told you I don't have-"

I don't wait for him to finish his sentence. My arms are around his neck and pulling his lips down to mine without a second thought. His words muffle and disappear in my mouth, replaced a second later by his tongue. I meet him eagerly, basking in how good it feels to be consumed by him again - until he stops.

There are so many questions, I know. But he doesn't ask a single one. He only searches my eyes for the answers and all I can do is hope that he's able to find them there. And just as the silence is filling me with a hollowness even greater than before, Peeta grabs my arm and pulls me into his house.

The rest happens in a blur. His body pushing me back against the door, his mouth covering mine again, and flour covered hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks as we devour each other. But those hands seem to have a need to touch me just as much as I crave them to, and it's not long before my cheeks are feeling cold in their absence only to feel their warmth on my breasts through the thin fabric of my night shirt.

This. This is what I've needed. His touch that sets my skin on fire and his mouth that breathes life back into me, reminding me that I'm still alive.

When I push him forward in the direction of the stairs, he responds by grabbing my waist and spinning me around. His hands stay firmly planted on my hips as he walks me backwards, but just when I expect to hit the stairs he veers me off into the living room, stops, and captures my lips again.

His next movements are slow, calculated, and silent. Pulling his hands from my waist, he drops to his knees and goes straight for the slippers on my feet. They're soaked through, and it's not until he begins to pull one off that I realize that I can hardly feel my toes. He pulls off the second slipper and sets both in front of the roaring fireplace next to us. Words rise up in my throat and I croak out the only thing I can think of to fill the silence.

"It's snowing…"

"I noticed," Peeta replies, placing one hand over my bare foot while the other checks the bottom of my pants.

Of course they're soaked through, too. The cold, wet fabric extends up to my calf and I look down at Peeta, knowing that we're both thinking the same thing.

"Should probably dry these too," he utters, clearing his throat when his voice hitches. "I can get you a pair of mine to wear if you want…"

"Sure. Thanks," I say with a nod, licking what remains of him from my lips.

But he doesn't make a move to retrieve a dry pair of pants. He only watches me hook my fingers into my waistband and slide the wet pants down my thighs. Eventually, he reaches out and takes the pants, setting them next to the slippers in front of the fire. And then he's right back in front of me, still unwilling to leave.

His brief moment of weakness seems to have passed. He won't touch me again if I don't ask him to. I know this. There's no doubt that he's thinking about our talk after the tour. And unless I do something, something that'll confirm what both of us are thinking - that we'll never be able to go hungry again now that we've had a taste of each other - we'll stay this way all night.

I move first and make sure Peeta's looking at me when I start to shimmy out of my underwear. His eyes follow the trail my hands make down my thighs and finally meet mine when I kneel down in front of him and take his hand. Leaning forward, I find his ear.

"Touch me again, Peeta," I whisper, letting go of his hand. "I want you to."

The next move is his to decide, and he takes his time. His hand stays hovering between us while the sound of the crackling fire behind us drowns out the sounds of my breathing. Then he makes his move. He's no longer lingering, and he's anything but hesitant. His hand disappears between my legs and his fingers are sliding between my folds in a way that's no longer unknown. My body is familiar to him now and I allow myself to show him just how much I've needed his touch.

In that dark compartment on the train, the thought of giving myself over to the thrill of our actions was terrifying at first. Every move I made was met with my own judgement. How did I sound? Was I being too loud? What if guiding his hand back to my swollen nerve or his mouth to my nipple was too much? But I soon learned it was only myself doing the judging. And when I rise up higher on my knees to allow Peeta's fingers to tease my center, his sigh as his fingers push into me is all I need to hear to leave those fears behind for the night.

It's me that reaches for the hem of Peeta's shirt and forces it over his head and to the floor. It's me who lies back against the carpeted floor to allow Peeta's fingers to go deeper, so I can feel the pads of each digit push against my walls when he curls them, and I have to bite my lip to keep myself from crying out at the delicious, throbbing pressure that builds with his movements.

But I can feel something else building, too. A yearning that exceeds anything I've ever felt before. Greater than the need I felt for him on the train, greater than the longing I felt for him at home. And I can feel that same yearning in the way Peeta touches me now. He teases me with his fingers as though he's been thinking about it for days. And as he flicks his thumb against my nerve, my only thoughts are of him in this house, locked away from the world while his hand runs up and down his length, his eyes screwed shut as he tries desperately to find a release that'll bring him rest - just like I've been doing for the last week.

It's now that I truly realize that we'll never be able to go back. We've taken steps that can never be untaken and brought upon a need for each other that's so great, the thought of not having him is terrifying. But I refuse to think about that right now. Not when Peeta's fingers have me so close to the release I've been searching for.

He keeps my legs trapped under his arms to stop me from squirming too far from his reach and curls his fingers again, adding to the pressure that's building between my legs. The more he does it, the less I'm able to keep the sounds trapped behind my lips, and our eyes meet when I let out a noticeably loud moan. Though his expression doesn't change, there's a determination in Peeta's eyes that bores into me, daring me to look away - but I don't. I won't.

My eyes are still locked on his when I feel the rush of throbbing culminate and burst at my core, traveling in spastic waves down my legs and to my toes. My body collapses against the floor as the last of my release subsides and Peeta slips his hand out from between my legs, trailing it up my thigh and down my leg.

He stays silent, but his hands continue to drift higher until they're both resting on my hips and he eases my lower half up just enough to coax my body to turn onto my stomach. Quickly, he follows by straddling my legs and pushing my shirt up, easing it over my head before dropping his head down to my neck.

One kiss against the crook of my neck turns into two, and then a third placed a little lower than the first two. He continues this pattern and leaves a hot trail all the way down my back until he's off my legs completely and has moved far enough down to reach my ass. His hands squeeze once and then slide to the front, gently lifting my lower half up so that I'm on my knees and completely exposed to him.

I gasp when his mouth is suddenly on me, warm and covering my center while his tongue laps at the wetness that's been steadily gathering all night. I can't be sure, but I think I hear a satisfied moan rumble from the back of his throat as he drinks me in, and I return it with fervor, enjoying how every part of me is enveloped by his mouth. Then, just as suddenly as that mouth was there, it's gone and I'm left with a cold ache that has nothing to do with frozen slippers and damp pant legs.

Peeta doesn't give me time to think. Just as I'm starting to move out of the position he put me into, his hands are gripping my hips to keep me there, and I'm grateful. I refuse to let my thoughts gets the best of me. I'll have plenty of time later to wonder how foolish I looked hoisted up on my knees in the middle of Peeta's living room floor. But for now, all I want is to focus on the strong hands that are now squeezing my hips and ass, and the hardness that I can feel pressing against me through his pants. I press back against it, eliciting a hiss from Peeta that gives me the courage to continue doing it until we're working on tandem. I push back against him as he simultaneously pulls and squeezes my hips.

I don't look back when I feel one of his hands let go of me, and I'm not surprised when I finally feel him - all of him - rubbing against my ass. The barrier of his cotton pants are gone now, and it's just skin on skin while we continue in our back and forth motion, but this time Peeta's moves are less erratic and more precise. His erection finds a place in the cleft of my ass. He slides it through the space in slow, teasing thrusts, and I find myself enjoying the sensation more than I ever expected to.

The slow rhythm that Peeta has worked our bodies into falls apart when the feeling of his arousal sliding across my skin causes me to drive back against him harder and harder. I can't figure out what it is that makes it feel so good, but it does. And the huffing breaths coming from Peeta's mouth only eggs me on.

Peeta's next transition is almost seamless. One minute he's pulling me back, sliding his erection between my ass, the next he's pushed him length down near my center. And in one backwards thrust from me, he enters me and I cry out at the sudden feeling of him filling me.

It doesn't hurt much. Not like it did the first time or even the second time the morning we arrived home, just before the train pulled into the District 12 station. But there's a little discomfort as I get used to him being inside of me again. Peeta guides me, pulling my hips toward him and pushing them away, slowly at first so I can get used to his girth and then faster as my walls begin to relax around him and I join him once more.

There's something about the sounds all around me that only add to my growing arousal. My voice mingling with Peeta's, neither of us forced to keep our whimpers low and stifled this time. It creates a delicious melody throughout the room, accompanied by the sounds of skin on skin each time Peeta pulls my hips back to meet him. I can feel my legs growing weaker as we move, but I don't want this to end. The grip Peeta has on me and the angle that I'm lying in has him hitting all of the right spots.

I can feel another climax building, and with each thrust Peeta makes, the deeper he seems to go. Without thinking, my hand dips underneath me to my front, and I tease my swollen nerve as Peeta drives into me. With the added stimulation from my fingers, I reach the edge quickly, my voice a mixture of heaving sighs and whimpering moans. I try to stay up on my knees, but after several particularly forceful thrusts my legs give out and I'm completely flat on my stomach on the floor. Peeta slows down immediately and lowers his body down against my back, holding himself up with his arms.

"You ok?" He whispers in my ear.

"Yes," I breathe, writhing underneath him and enjoying how tight my grip seems to be on him at this new angle. "Keep going."

My confirmation to continue is all he needs, but his quick pace has slowed and he stays hovered over me, nipping at my ear as he moves inside me. His hands find mine on the floor and our fingers link together before he squeezes my hands hard.

It's as if he's afraid to let me go, and I completely understand why. I have no interest in letting him go, either. But I can tell Peeta's close to finishing. I've become very familiar with the way his breathing grows more rapid the closer he gets to reaching his climax. Many nights in that dark compartment, it was the only thing that told me he was about to come, because telling me himself and holding his satisfied moans in were too much for him to do at once.

And he's very close now. Those rapid breaths are mixed with the some of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard, amplified due to the fact that his mouth is still hovering close to my ear. But we both know once it happens, reality will creep its way back in soon after, so his grip remains tight on my hands as he tries to preserve this frozen moment in time before it slips away again.

Though I'm expecting it, I still feel empty when I feel Peeta suddenly pulls himself out of me. There's a warmth on my lower back where he spills onto me, and his groans are far more subdued than I expected them to be. Louder than they were on the train, but still held back by tight lips that refuse to let the sounds escape.

Something keeps me rooted to the floor. It's not Peeta, and it's not the fact that my legs are still weak. There's something else, something that isn't physical. I hear Peeta behind me. He's shuffling with something, but I don't look back. It's not until he starts to walk out of the living room that I realize he's put his pants back on. And yet.. I still don't move. I rest my head on my arms and close my eyes, feeling drowsy for the first time in days.

I hear Peeta climb the stairs, and I hear his heavy footsteps in the room above me - his room. And then they move further to the back of the house before I can finally hear the footsteps growing louder and he comes back into the living room, a crooked smile on his face when I crack my eyes open to look at him.

"I brought you some dry clothes," he says, holding up the pair of pants and undershirt in one hand, and a damp wash cloth in the other. "And something to clean you up with."

He takes it upon himself to wipe down my back, another thing we're both familiar with from those nights on the train. This time though he takes his time. I turn around to watch him trail a clean corner of the cloth over the curve of my ass and back up again before I hear a slight chuckle escape from his mouth.

"What?" I ask.

He pulls me up to sit. "You've got flour on your cheeks," he says, swiping his damp thumb over each one. "Sorry about that."

"Why were you making bread this early anyway?" I ask, pulling the fresh shirt over my head. Pants can wait.

Peeta shrugs. "Bakers hours. I've been abiding by them more and more lately."

"Because you can't sleep," I murmur.

"Yeah." He gathers the shirt I arrived in and sets it down by the fireplace with the rest of my stuff, though it's only slightly wet from the snow that fell on me. "Sometimes I'll catch a nap down here, though. While the bread's cooling."

He motions toward the couch where I see a folded blanket and pillows set on one side. There's really nothing stopping us from trying to catch a few hours sleep. My mother and Prim won't be awake until after sunrise, and the thought of sleeping with Peeta again has been on my mind all week.

"It looks comfortable," I say, slapping my hand over my mouth when an unexpected yawn escapes.

"It's not so bad," Peeta smiles, tugging the blanket and pillows down. He hands one of the pillows to me. "If I'm lucky, sometimes I'll stay asleep until just before sunrise."

"I wish I could do that," I say, helping Peeta unfold the blanket.

We don't talk about it or call attention to it, but somehow during the course of our conversation we end up curled together on the floor under the blanket. Peeta's protective embrace is something I've missed since the tour ended, and it's not long before I drift asleep.

I don't know what time it is when I wake up, but Peeta's already awake when I turn my body to face him. We don't speak, but our hands roam. Peeta's find their way under my shirt and he casually teases my nipples as our lips connect. My hands run down his bare back and just as casually, I slip his pants down passed his ass, just low enough for me to pull his erection from them. We lose ourselves in each other again. Slower, more deliberate this time, neither one of us in any hurry to admit that it's time for me to go. The sun will rise soon and with it, my mother and Prim. I don't want to have to explain to them what I was doing out before dawn, or why I returned wearing Peeta's clothes.

"Take these," Peeta says, grabbing a pair of boots that'll never fit me and raising them to eye level. "Your slippers aren't dry yet, and even if they were, you shouldn't be walking through the snow in them anyway."

I take the boots without argument and tie them as tightly as I can, wrapping the laces around my ankles for extra support.

"I'll bring your stuff back to you," I say, blindly searching for the doorknob behind me. "Later tonight?"

"Yeah," Peeta agrees. "Later tonight. And I'll have your stuff dried by then too."

"I'll see you then." My hand finally finds the doorknob and I pull the door open, shocked at the gust of wind that tears through my body. Peeta jumps to the coat rack.

"Take this, too," he says, draping one of his coats over my shoulders. "And Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch for Haymitch. He's usually out on his porch at this time."

"Thanks.."

"And put your bedroom light on when you get in, so I know you got home ok."

"I will."

I move forward and place a quick kiss to his lips before I walk out the door, letting it slam behind me as I pull the sides of the coat tighter around my body.

I hear Haymitch's throaty chuckle almost instantly, and I know that even with Peeta's warning, making it back to my house without Haymitch seeing me was impossible, so I just keep walking, struggling to keep Peeta's boots on my feet in the ankle deep snow.

"Be careful, Sweetheart," Haymitch calls out.

"I know how to walk!" I snap back, cursing under my breath when the boot almost comes completely off.

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it." Haymitch's voice has grown serious, but I refuse to turn around.

"Mind your business!" I say back before I continue toward my house.

"I am," Haymitch sighs. "I am."

He starts to say something else, but I dip into my house and shut the door as quietly as possible, hoping that my mother and Prim are still asleep. The kitchen is still empty, and I don't hear anyone in the bathroom, so odds are I've made it back in time to shower and change before they'd ever notice I was out.

After taking off Peeta's boots, I bring them up to my room and strip out of his clothes, making sure to flip my light on so he knows I got in safely. I wanted to keep the clothes on all day, but it was clear they're not mine. The questions I'd have to try and answer is not worth the comfort the clothing would bring. I fold them up and hide all of it away until I can bring them back over to him later, shrug into my bathrobe, and slip into the bathroom.

And that's how I ended up here, standing idly under the hot shower stream where each droplet of water seems to pelt the areas of my skin that Peeta touched the most. I have to wash the reminders away - the physical ones, at least. What other choice do I have? Besides, it's not the remnants of his touches that I'll think about the rest of the day. It'll be the knowledge that I have a reason to go back there again tonight and the thought of getting a few hours of restful sleep in his arms again that'll keep me going. The rest is fleeting.

As I pull out my clothes for the day, I'm struck with an idea. The pile of Peeta's clothes that sit tucked under my pillow seem to call out to me, and I swipe the undershirt he gave me and slip it over my head, immediately throwing a heavier sweater over top of it. It's winter, and between this and my coat, nobody will know I'm wearing Peeta's undershirt but me. And maybe him later on when he pulls the sweater over my head and sees that I've kept his shirt on all day.

All of this is far from ideal, but it's a comfort that'll keep me going until I can see him again, and that's all I can ask for right now. I'll try not to focus on the worry that one day, he won't be there when I go to him.