Author's Note-Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

This holiday tale is a humble offering to a lady who herself is a gift to this fandom. With her beautiful art that captures moments from canon and fanfic alike, she never fails to bring about joy and smiles, and I am very, very grateful for her friendship. Months ago when we giggled about the prospect of Peeta dressed as Santa Claus, I offered to write her such a story, but I did not plan on it being a post-Mockingjay fic as it wound up becoming.

So Everlart, my dear, I hope this meets your expectations. I'm sorry my illnesses delayed your present by a few days, or perhaps maybe you can look at it as an early Three Kings' Day gift! And thank you for the beautiful, beautiful art that will serve as the cover to this story.

Thanks to iLoVeRynMar and streetlightlove for reading, and for your pep talks and support and love.

Title comes from the old Shaker hymn. THG belongs to Suzanne Collins.

The snow begins to fall lightly, dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar. I stare out the window, glancing towards Haymitch's house, where the white flakes disappear into the grey puffs belching from the chimney. Twilight descends earlier and earlier now, as the days creep towards the winter solstice, and the snow-swollen sky had swallowed the sun hours ago.

A light burns in his front window, and I have half a mind to put on my coat and tromp across the street to invite our former mentor to dinner. I got a good haul when I ventured into the woods that morning, and there will be an abundance of venison and rabbit for the next week as a result.

But Peeta isn't home yet, and I always like to be here to greet him when he returns from work at the bakery. I expect him any minute.

I crane my neck to the left, as far as I can manage with the obstruction of the window, straining to see further up the street, where only speckled patches of paving stones were visible under the icy shawl. Nothing but the lacy swirl of snowflakes. I sigh. It's nearly four o'clock. He's later than usual, but I imagine the snow very well may having some kind of a hypnotic effect, not to mention it can bother his leg.

Drawing the curtains, I light a few candles and arrange some wood on the hearth. A cozy fire always seems to complement the snow, I think as I strike a match and watch the flame lick across the kindling. Fire and I have reconciled our differences over the years.

Rubbing my hands together in satisfaction, I busy myself straightening up the front room, which sometimes still feels a little too big, even though we are a family of three now. As if to affirm the fact, I notice a stub of yellow barely visible beneath the leg of the ottoman, where she likes to color, and I retrieve it with a wry smile.

A few moments later I hear his heavy footfalls and her squeals of delight just outside the door, and I toss the pastel stick into the basin of colorful nubs she keeps by the kitchen table, turning to greet them when the door opens with an arctic blast of winter air. I can't suppress the grin that steals across my face at the sight of her, held upside down over Peeta's left shoulder like the sacks of flour and sugar that he hauls around at the bakery. Her raven hair cascades down, whisking back and forth like a silken broom, until they're across the threshold and Peeta easily sets her back on solid ground.

"Mama!" she cries, launching herself at my legs, her spindly arms hugging my upper thighs.

"Hi, baby," I smile, brushing her tangled tresses—so like mine at that age—out of her face. Unlike me, however, she much prefers her hair flowing and loose, and it often takes several minutes of coaxing for her to allow me to plait it, which is not often.

Peeta shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door, then he begins unraveling his scarf and carefully stomps the snow off his boots on the doormat. "You're later than usual," I say, as he walks towards me and traps our daughter between us, descending on my mouth for a cold kiss. The sensation of his chilled lips on my warm ones only intensifies the pleasant tingle that his embrace never fails to elicit in me.

"Go hang up your coat, and then you can show Mama your surprise," he says, and she nods obediently, scampering back towards the door. He wraps his arms around me and lowers his mouth to mine again, and he tastes like peppermint when his tongue sweeps past my teeth briefly. As he draws back, his eyes sparkle mischievously.

"Surprise?" I ask, arching a brow at him.

He just grins. A few beads of moisture, likely melted snow, cling to his impossibly long lashes, and I reach up to glide the pad of my thumbs over each his eyelids just as they flutter shut. When he opens his eyes again, he gazes at me reverently, and I smile shyly.

"Mama, look!"

When I glance down at her, I see his eyes shining up at me, the same clear, intense shade of blue framed by a fringe of long, dark lashes. Her face is alight with excitement as she thrusts a book up at me.

"Ms. Cartwright gave it to me! She said I could keep it because I liked it so much!"

I take the book and glance at the cover. "'Twas the Night Before Christmas?"

She nods proudly, as if she is personally responsible for the book in my hands. I examine it more closely, running my fingers over the ornate script proclaiming the title, and I study the image of a fat man in a red suit, trimmed with white fur, sitting in a sleigh. My nose wrinkles and my brows slip down as I notice the eight reindeer pulling the sleigh. My first thought is that I wonder how different reindeer meat might taste from regular deer meat. My next thought is how are those animals flying? Really—flying deer?

"That's Saint Nicholas," she explains to me, her little face getting very serious. "But children called him Santa Claus. He flew all over the world delivering presents to boys and girls who were good." She crooks her finger at me, and I lean down closer. "But the naughty children would get a lump of coal in their stockings instead."

Coal. I think about how when I was her age, that would have been the only thing District 12 children would have had an abundance of—no matter if they were naughty or nice. And there would never have existed anyone as chubby and happy as this red-faced, smiling old man. Those lucky enough to live long lives were as scrawny and underfed as the rest of us.

A strange prickling sensation sparks in my belly, and warmth blooms in me. How different things are for my daughter.

"I know lots of other things about Christmas, Mama. And Hanukkah too," she chatters on while I flip through the pages of the beautifully illustrated poem.

Peeta adds, "Delly has been teaching the children about some of the holidays that used to be celebrated before the Dark Days." He clears his throat softly. "And I think Delly has a really fair point that enough time has passed. Panem could stand to revive some of these ancient celebrations, if not adopt some new ones. The Games are over," he reaches for my cheek and brushes his thumb along it, "and we shouldn't live in their shadows forever."

I remain quiet, staring at the drawing on the page of three sleeping children, nestled together under a blanket, stockings hung from the headboard of their bed, while the jolly man leans over them, some kind of a peppermint stick in one hand.

"You know why I like Christmas best out of all the special days that Ms. Cartwright teached us about?" she says.

"Taught," I correct her gently, gathering her hair and twisting it, smiling down at her. "Why?"

Her blue eyes dance as they reflect the firelight. "Because boys and girls were supposed to leave cookies and milk out for Santa Claus. And if there was really a Santa Claus and I left out cookies and milk, I know that he'd love my cookies the best, cause my daddy makes the best cookies."

"That he does," I look over to the kitchen to give Peeta an adoring smile, and from where he's rolling out dough for biscuits he looks between her and me—his two girls—and he returns it.

Once she's been bathed and her teeth have been brushed—the nighttime tasks that fall to me—Peeta tucks our daughter into bed, hands her a ratty plush goose that was her very first gift from Haymitch, and she curls into Peeta's side, as he perches on her bed and begins to read to her from an old volume of fairy tales.

Peeta is the dreamer, and we had a relatively healthy disagreement when she was born over the kind of bedtime stories that we would read to her. While I have grown infinitely more confident that the days of the Hunger Games and rebellion and war are behind us, I have also not yet come to terms with the fanciful worlds that these rosy stories paint. We will forever live in the shadows of our past, no matter what Peeta insists, and thus, I have not been in favor of filling her head with these idyllic, but false, fantasylands.

But Peeta is so damn persuasive, with his honeyed tone and his eloquently chosen words, and he has worn me down through the years, and now most evenings I hover in the doorway and listen to my husband and our daughter traipsing through forests with girls in red cloaks, or outsmarting witches by shoving them into cavernous ovens.

Her blue eyes start to slip closed, and her little head lolls from side to side, and Peeta catches my eye and gives me an amused smile as he closes the book and carefully extracts himself from beneath her tiny body. He cradles her and settles her amongst her pillows, nestling the goose in her arms, and I creep into the room to draw her quilt up to her chin, pressing a light kiss to her forehead, and Peeta does the same. He clicks off her lamp, and together we tiptoe from the room.

The fire crackles and sputters, slowly extinguishing as the log I lit earlier that evening starts to reach its end, and the dying embers glow and fade, glow and fade. Peeta asks if he should throw a new log on, and would I like to work on a new book with him tonight.

Intrigued, I agree, and while he's bringing the fire roaring back to life, I prepare us two mugs of tea, adding a liberal heaping of sugar and honey to mine, leaving his plain as always. As we sit down at the table, he pulls out a thick leather book and opens it, the creamy blank parchment staring back at us, blank, begging to be claimed by his expert strokes and pretty words.

"What is this book going to be about?" I ask, my eyes flitting to the plant book and memory book, both of which sit dormant on the large bookshelf opposite the hearth. Fortunately, we haven't had much cause to add to either one in recent months.

"She inspired me," he smiles, lining up his charcoals, pastels and paints, searching for the nib and ink that he uses to painstakingly letter the title pages. Even Peeta's penmanship is a work of art. He once tried to teach me calligraphy, but my patience wore thin quickly.

I blow across my tea and take a sip, watching him intently as his fingers grip the pen, repeatedly dipping it into the ink, and the letters begin to take shape on the page.

"'Mellark Family Traditions'?" I raise an eyebrow at Peeta, and he cleans off the pen's nib and sets it onto a cloth.

"It's about time we start celebrating some things in this District again, and we're going to start right here in this house. We were revolutionaries once, Katniss. We can be revolutionaries again."

I don't tell Peeta that I am a little more than dubious that people will simply jump at an idea simply because he and I are the two who propose it. There remains interest in us, yes, though the Capitol cameras don't come around nearly as often as they used to. Peeta is more beloved in District 12 for his bakery than his victor status, and I sometimes sense that people tolerate me solely because of him.

But his face is so awash in hope, so much like our little girl's that afternoon when she burst in, chattering about the holiday book, that I squeeze his hand and nod. "It sounds like a lovely idea, Peeta. Where shall we start?"

We let her decide, since she is the one who was the catalyst for this new book. I presume like any other child she will hone in on the legend of Santa Claus and his abundance of presents, and I cannot help but compare the idea of showering people with gifts to the overindulgence that I saw in the Capitol during the Games. I'm a little wary of such extravagance.

But she surprises us with the first thing she wants. She points earnestly to the lighted, beribboned tree in her book.

Peeta and I exchange a look when we ask her why, and she patiently explains to us that because Mama likes the forest best, we should have something that I love here in our house.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, and Peeta reaches for my hand, pride shining in those impossibly blue eyes. Where did this little person come from?

She is her father to the core.

I have yet to take her to the forest. It remains my haven, the place I go to be alone with my thoughts. Even Peeta only came with me a handful of times in the years before she was born, and less so ever since.

But this seems like as good a time as any for her first trip there.

Truthfully I am not too keen on chopping down a tree and taking it from its natural habitat, and I suggest perhaps we can find an artificial tree somewhere, but Peeta insists that it be real. He further reassures me that in the spring when the ground thaws, we can come back and plant one in its place, or even two, thus keeping the balance in the forest. With a smile, I give him a kiss and readily agree to this. He always has an answer.

Peeta reaches out to Beetee, and within days, a large box of lights arrives by train, along with instructions for usage and a note from our old ally—brief but stating that things are good in District 3.

On a crisp, clear morning with no sign of snow, we bundle up and walk, hand in hand, our daughter a bridge between us, to the forest. There is no longer a fence, no crackling of wires, no Peacekeepers to fear, but it seems that the people of 12 still largely remain in the center of the district, rarely venturing out beyond the old boundaries. That's fine with me, and it brings a certain peace to our family outing. Our boots crunch on the packed snow, and the occasional twig or branch snaps underfoot, but we otherwise walk in silence, our breaths punctuating the air with syncopated bursts of steam.

According to Peeta's research, the traditional Christmas tree was an evergreen. He takes great delight in teasing me about this—An evergreen for Ms. Everdeen, he repeats in a sing-song voice, making our girl giggle, until I silence him by reminding him that I am a Mellark now. I take greater pleasure in the smile that steals across his face, as well as the look that passes between us.

Her blue eyes round when we reach the meadow that stretches out ahead of the forest, and Peeta and I exchange another look, this one pregnant with joy at seeing the enchantment claiming her delicate features. I clasp her hand tighter, and when she looks up at me, I nod, and she releases her grip on both of us, tromping through the snow, twirling and spinning and laughing.

She's played in snow before, of course. But our yard, and Haymitch's yard, and the streets between the houses pales in comparison with the wide, white canvas spread in front of her.

Peeta and I let her romp for a while, and he wraps his arms around me, dragging his cold nose along my cheek, his hot breath tickling the skin that my scarf and hat leave exposed to the elements. I can't decide who I enjoy watching more: her, or him as he gazes lovingly at her.

When it comes time to choose a tree, he holds his hand above his head, explaining to her that the tree cannot be any taller than Daddy's hand. She nods solemnly, taking her job very seriously, and eventually she settles on a beautiful squat fir tree only a little bigger than Peeta.

Johanna would be useful today I think wryly, as Peeta and I take turns hacking away at the trunk with the ax he brought. The tree eventually falls to the ground with a soft thump, a powdery arc of snow spraying up from the impact.

Peeta insists on lugging the tree back to town, and she's too excited about the felled tree to even protest the lack of a piggyback ride from her daddy. I tote her tired body in my arms, and she dozes against my chest as we trudge through the snow and make our way home.

She's wide-awake, however, by the time we arrive at our house and stomp the snow from our boots. Peeta stands the tree against the side of the house until we can clear a spot for it in the front room. As he and I attempt to maneuver the thing through the front door, I notice Haymitch watching us from his front porch.

"Go see if he wants to come help," I tell her, and blue eyes shining excitedly, she nods and races across the street. I bite back a laugh as I regard her, arms flailing, as she attempts to explain what we are doing to Haymitch. She tugs at his shirt, and they make their way towards us, Haymitch not even bothering to go inside to throw on his coat.

I scold him for it when he reaches Peeta and me, and he grunts and dismisses my concern, muttering something about how soft I've gotten. I could say the same thing back to him, considering how easily he gives in to our girl. But I don't.

Haymitch and Peeta manage to get the tree into a makeshift stand of sorts, though it's quite a production to behold them trying to secure it and to ensure it remains upright. My eyes periodically dart up to observe them from my spot on the couch beside her. Together, she and I are stringing popcorn, though as many of the fluffy white kernels wind up in her mouth as they do on the thin wire.

Watching the two of them attempt to wrap the tree with lights is a sight to behold: Peeta with his endless patience, and Haymitch with his shorter fuse, and I'm certain our daughter learns a few new words courtesy of the expletives peppering Haymitch's speech. But when the strands are finally connected and plugged in, the candy-colored bulbs are mesmerizing. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth gaping like some kind of fish as she stares, captivated, and I gently nudge her so that Peeta can lift her up and help her add her popcorn string to the tree.

Once Haymitch says his goodbyes and has been sufficiently smothered with her hugs and kisses, she settles down at the table beside Peeta, and the two of them work on the first page of the new book. I am content to relinquish my spot beside him for this particular book, content to watch their heads dip, their matching eyes fix on the page, their hands—his large, hers so small—move so effortlessly in tandem. My heart lifts when I see both their tongues peek out from between chapped lips in quiet concentration.

Neither one of them notice when I slip away to the kitchen to prepare Peeta a mug of tea, and her a cup of hot chocolate.

When I return and place both drinks in front of them, Peeta glances up at me, his eyes soft and appreciative, and he sets down his colored pencil and winds his arm around my hip.

"It's beautiful," I remark, gesturing to the perfect rendition of the tree he's begun to sketch. She's shading in the lights on the boughs, and she's so attuned to her coloring that Peeta has to nudge her mug across directly into her line of vision. She frowns, pushing the mug away, and resumes her coloring. Peeta laughs.

"That scowl," he muses, his fingers clutching me tighter, pulling me down into his lap. "I wonder where I've seen that before." He gathers my hair off my neck and brushes his lips along the slope where it meets my shoulder. I shiver and slap at his wrist lightly, not wanting to get too wrapped up in him with her sitting right beside us.

He senses my hesitancy, and his teeth nip playfully at my ear lobe before his hot breath sends another pleasant shudder skittering down my spine. He whispers hoarsely, "Relax. Santa Claus himself could come down our chimney right now and she wouldn't notice. She's completely caught up in illustrating that page."

"She has your talent for art. She looks so natural…" I squirm in his lap when his fingers dance along the hem of my shirt, skimming the bare skin above the waistband of my pants.

"It's getting late. She should go to bed." Another nip at my neck.

"Peeta," I warn. That steady patience of his is always fleeting when it comes to me, and I can't deny that it thrills me to still have such an effect on him.

"I want to make love to you in front of that tree," he whispers huskily.

In spite of the desire coiling in my belly and the wetness pooling between my legs, I swat at him again and slide off his lap, crouching down beside our daughter. As I stroke her hair, watching her pencil move over the paper, she looks over at me and smiles, but her eyes are tired under weighty lids, and she can't stifle the yawn that stretches her mouth wide open.

"You did a beautiful job, baby," I appraise, kissing the crown of her head as I rise to stand.

"S'not done yet," she mumbles.

"No, but you are," Peeta replies, gently plucking the pencil from her hand, and he closes the book. "We can finish tomorrow. Mama will help us add the writing to our tree page, okay?"

She utters a weak protest, but she does not resist when Peeta scoops her into his arms.

Once we are both convinced she is sleeping soundly, Peeta makes good on his promise. Afterwards, we lie together, a blanket covering our sweaty, sated bodies, and we gaze up at the twinkling tree above us. I inhale deeply, and the fresh, sharp scent of pine right here in our home is surreal. I like it.

I burrow further into Peeta's embrace, feeling the rapid beating of his heart against my back, and my eyes begin to flutter closed, the delicious tendrils of sleep beckoning me. There were many nights before she was born where Peeta and I would fall asleep wherever it was we wound up having sex, but we no longer take that risk. She may be young, but she's wise enough—and curious enough—to ask questions should she find us sprawled out somewhere naked.

I nudge Peeta, whose even breathing tells me he's nodded off. We help each other up, and I tenderly rub his leg, knowing it got quite the workout today, and he smiles at me, capturing my lips in a sweet kiss.

"This idea of yours…I think it's going to work," I mumble as he grazes his knuckles along my mouth, and we climb the stairs to our bedroom.

Several days later, I ask Peeta what holiday tradition he thinks we should adopt next.

It's a good thing our daughter is already at school because for some inexplicable reason when he finishes talking and gazes at me hopefully, I can't suppress the tears that spill down my cheeks and the flood of emotion that bursts out of me.

I say some things to him that I know I'll regret later.

And then I flee up the stairs, as childish as it is, because I can't stand to see the stunned, remorseful look in those blue eyes for one more second, nor can I even begin to justify my behavior to him.

Over the sound of my muffled sobs, I hear the door close moments later, and I know that Peeta has left for the bakery. Ashamed, I lay on our bed, curled into a fetal position, replaying his words, uttered so innocently, over and over. He was completely unsuspecting of the tsunami they'd unleash in me.

A pounding on the front door some time later interrupts my self-loathing. And the hammering continues as I amble to my feet and wipe the tears from my eyes.

"You never learn do you?" Haymitch sneers when I open the door.

I roll my eyes at him and slump into the chair beside the tree, crossing my arms defiantly and giving him a stony stare. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture," I say curtly.

He snorts and fixes me with his own steely glare. "Moody about sums it up, sweetheart. Now tell me what you did to put that look in the boy's eyes, the one I haven't seen in years."

I know the exact look, and again I feel the sting of hot tears and a pit of shame opening in my stomach. With a great shuddering breath I confess everything to Haymitch. I tell him about Peeta's wish to adopt a tradition of lighting candles on eight subsequent nights, in remembrance of our loved ones, and how he wants to start sharing the memory book with our girl.

And my confession keeps pouring off my lips like a faucet—how I yelled at him, the cruel things I said about him wanting to bring pain upon our daughter, about haunting her with ghosts, about bringing about her own nightmares. The things I said were so foreign to my ears the first time I spat them at Peeta, and they sound even worse as I say them aloud to Haymitch. My shame mounts the longer I speak.

He listens mutely, and when I finally finish, his response is blunt: "So he's knocked you up again." When I merely gawk at him in reply, he smirks knowingly. "You know damn well Peeta would never do anything to harm his little girl—or you. It's the only logical explanation for your outburst. You sure had some moments last time." He coughs quietly and drops his gaze. "Plus you look…different."

Instinctively my hands lower to my belly. It's as flat as it usually is, but Haymitch's accusation gives me pause.

When Peeta and I first learned I was pregnant with our daughter, I had been terrified. It had not been a decision that we had made cavalierly. Peeta had never once pressured me to have children. I was not oblivious to his desire for a baby, however. It was impossible to miss the gleam in his eye when he'd discreetly sneak cookies to the children at the bakery, or how his line of vision always followed families walking through the town square. At night, when he suspected I was asleep, I would feel his fingers wandering over my abdomen, his palm splaying protectively across my empty womb.

Once I shared with him that I wanted a child too, I think I might have been more desperate for her than he was. We have never been reticent in our hunger for each other through the years; rarely a day passes without us making love. But trying for her we were relentless, and I was often the aggressor. It didn't take long before I missed my period, and we got confirmation that we were expecting.

But even then I had had my doubts. I had no bizarre food cravings and no nausea, and my body didn't seem to miss a beat. I wasn't tired, and my lust for Peeta did not wane. How was it possible that there was a new life growing inside me when I felt no signs of her?

So when the first flutters stirred in my belly, like a moth's wings tickling me from the inside, that's when I knew it was real—that she was real. Peeta had gaped at my stomach, his eyes lighting up each time he felt the little hiccups against his palm. He reveled in placing his hands on my swelling belly any chance he could, and he spent hours talking to our unborn child. I don't think there was ever a baby as loved as she was.

Is it possible that Haymitch is right? Peeta and I only recently began speaking about another baby, and it's been just several weeks since I skipped my visit to District 12's clinic for my quarterly birth control shot. There's no way that we've conceived so soon, without really even actively trying—is there?

Haymitch offers to pick her up from school, insisting that I go down to the bakery and apologize to Peeta immediately. He's right—and I hate it when he's right.

It's a bitterly cold day, much colder than the previous few, and my teeth are chattering by the time I reach the bakery, which to my surprise is bustling with activity. Peeta doesn't even realize I am there at first, as I linger in the doorway watching him chat amiably with customers, bagging items and exchanging money. I have to bite back a smile when I see him sneak a cookie to a chubby little boy in a stocking cap.

He finally notices me and startles a little, his countenance cautious. The line dies down, and I can approach him.

"Hi," I begin softly, and when I utter that one word, my regretful tone relaxes him, because I can practically see the tension leave his shoulders, and a smile lights his face.

"Hi. What are you doing here?"

But something on the counter steals my attention, and I motion to the plates of elaborately decorated cookies. "What are these?"

He flushes slightly. "Oh, they're cookies."

"I know they're cookies, Peeta," I roll my eyes playfully at him. "They're beautiful." The cookies are shaped like little men, with white frosting piped around the edges. Some kind of black icing forms a face on them, and little multi-colored candies march in a row down the middle of the cookie's torso.

"They're gingerbread," he explains, offering one to me. "They were traditional at this time of year, before the Dark Days. They also used to craft houses from sheets of it." He clears his throat and hesitates. "I thought making a gingerbread house could be the next thing I do with her, since you didn't seem too keen on my candle idea."

"Peeta," I murmur, moving around the counter to cup his cheek tenderly. "I loved your idea. I wish I could tell you what made me say those things to you, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"Katniss, I love you," he whispers. "And I've said some equally hurtful things in the past when I've had my episodes. You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm sorry if I did anything to upset you."

I stare back at him, this man who has loved me for nearly his entire life, and for the second time that day, I have to admit that Haymitch is right. There are times when I still fear that I don't deserve him, and right now is one of those moments.

And I owe him some kind of an explanation.

On the walk to the bakery I had contemplated what I'd say to him in my apology, and while I still can't fathom why I voiced my worries to him in such a vicious manner, I do know part of the reason I reacted as I did.

I take a deep breath. "It just scared me, Peeta. We've been good for a while. You haven't had any episodes in a long time, and…I think…I just…she's growing up too fast already, and—" I feel the emotions welling in me again, and I chew on my lip to prevent it from trembling. He presses a finger to it, causing my teeth to release it. He lowers his mouth and grazes my lips with his. "I just wasn't sure I'm ready to have to remind her of the bad things that are out there. But…"

He hesitates, his eyes probing mine, and I know that he's choosing his words carefully. "You really liked the idea?"

"I did…I do. I really do. It's a lovely way to introduce her to the memory book. I'm so sorry I yelled at you, and that I said the things I said." I run my thumb along his jaw. He leans into my touch and shakes his head.

"I would never hurt you, Katniss. Not you, and not her."

"I know," I rise up and press my lips to his, sealing my affirmation with a kiss.

I stay at the bakery with him for the rest of the afternoon, helping him package orders, ringing up customers, and occasionally, just admiring him at work. The years have been kind to Peeta, and he is as boyishly handsome now as he was at sixteen.

As he's closing up and gathering the day's unsold bread to drop off at the community home, I place a hand on his forearm and motion to the sheets of gingerbread that he had wrapped.

"You should bring that home. I know a little girl who would love to build a house with her daddy."

We light the first candle for my father. It seems the safest place to start, as he's been gone the longest, and she knows that mama's daddy died when I was younger.

She clambers into my lap, and Peeta settles beside us, the memory book propped open on his knees. He flips past the beginning to the page where he so vividly captured the likeness of my father. I let my fingers trace the lines on the paper, unable to subdue the smile that surfaces as I begin to tell my daughter about the grandfather she will never know.

Memories descend on me swiftly, and like falling snow, it's impossible to catch them all. Peeta wraps an arm around me and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, and as he always does, he steadies me, and I realize there is no rush to tell her everything. We have more than enough time for stories.

Peeta presses a kiss to my temple and one to our daughter's head as I begin to tell her about a voice that caused the birds to stop singing in the trees.

Peeta's father…his mother…his two brothers… Rue… Cinna…Finnick…

For the next seven nights, the three of us sit together on the couch in the glow of flickering candlelight, and we introduce her to her family and her extended family, bringing them back to life briefly with carefully chosen words and Peeta's vivid images. We don't give her details about what took our loved ones from us—the time for that will come when she's older. And of course there are many others whose faces and stories are trapped in the memory book. There will be time for them as well.

On the night that we are to light the final candle and share Prim's page with her, he senses my anxiety. There is a plate of cheese buns on the table after dinner, and I can only shake my head in disbelief at my husband's kindness.

We light the candle and retrieve the book, and Peeta's hand stroking my hair grounds me.

"This is your Aunt Primrose," I begin quietly, closing my eyes briefly when her face peers up at me.

"She looks like Daddy," she replies thoughtfully, and her little finger reaches out to run over the page, "and like the doll Miss Effie sent me last year on my birthday."

I smile wistfully. Prim does look a little like a doll, with her delicate features only just beginning to show signs of the woman she did not have the chance to become.

"Do you miss her, Mama?" she asks when I finish telling her some of my happiest memories of my sister.

I swallow and look at Peeta. He nods, and his fingers massage my scalp slowly, tenderly.

"Every day, baby. She would have loved you. She would have spoiled you."

As we are closing the book, the pages flip and something catches her eye. It's one that Peeta and I finished just days before I went into labor with her.

"You had a cat!" she cries, pointing at the portrait of Buttercup before us.

"That was Prim's cat," I correct, and it hits me hard that that stupid, mangy, resilient tabby outlived his beloved owner. For as much as I hated that cat, in the years after Prim's death he was a comfort—a small, tangible way, along with the primrose bushes that Peeta planted, for me to hold onto her. When he died several months before our daughter's birth, I did not take it well, and it was weeks before I could allow Peeta to work on that damn cat's page.

"I'd like a cat. Or a dog," she says. "If there was a Santa Claus, I think that's what I'd ask him for. A pet. I help Haymitch with his geese all the time."

Just like that, she's lightened the mood, and I hug her to me, closing the book, as Peeta hugs us both against him.

When Peeta and I make love later that night, there is a feverish, desperate edge to his kisses, and he makes me come first with his hands, then with his mouth before settling over me and sheathing himself inside me. His thrusts are commanding, and he clutches me to him almost possessively when we climax simultaneously.

"Thank you," he murmurs against my neck moments later when we are spooned together, recovering our breath and coming back down to earth.

"For what?" I mumble, feeling blissfully sleepy in the warmth of his arms.

"For loving me," he replies simply, and then he falls quiet for a little while. "Katniss, what we talked about…a few months ago…" he trails off, his fingers meandering divergent paths along my hip and across my abdomen. He probes the skin gently, and I know exactly what he is thinking—the conversation we had about giving her a sibling.

I'm not ready to tell him yet. In the days since Haymitch told me he suspects that I might be pregnant, I have come to think he might be right. But I need to know for certain before I see that awed, ecstatic look in Peeta's eyes for the second time. I never, ever want to disappoint this man.

"Lighting the candles for them…showing her the book…" He tightens his arms around me, the thumb of his other hand tracing the curve of my brow then down the slope of my nose. "I don't want her to be—"

"I know, Peeta," I assure him, pivoting my body so that we are face to face, inches from one another. "I know."

No more words need to be spoken. His lips find mine again, and we let our bodies do the talking for us until we are exhausted and sleep claims us both.

Peeta and I have wanted for very little since we returned to District 12 and started our life together. Things are certainly better here now than they were when he and I were children, and most residents are not starving and struggling day to day.

Not everyone has it easy in spite of the improved conditions in our district, though, and Twelve's community home houses a fair amount of adults and children on any given day. The home was built with the intention that those who are struggling would have a place to go until they can get back on their feet.

But one thing that will apparently never change is there will always be unwanted children, no matter how good things get, and thus the home has also become something of an orphanage.

So the next morning when I come downstairs after waking alone in our bed, I am surprised to find Peeta sitting at the table with her, both of them already dressed, the holiday traditions book spread open before them.

"Good morning," I say and move to kiss Peeta, but he quickly closes the book and gives me a guilty smile. I arch a brow at him, but he's saved when she springs to her feet, tugging at my shirt insistently.

"Mama, guess what! Daddy is gonna be Santa Claus today!"

"He doesn't look like Santa Claus to me." I drag my palms along his smooth, freshly-shaven cheeks. "No beard here, and Daddy's sure not chubby enough to be Santa."

Peeta rubs at the back of his neck, grinning more broadly now. "We're going to improvise."

"What are you two up to?" I ask, my eyes flicking between my husband and my daughter.

"Just a little something we thought we'd do for the community home, kind of our version of the old tradition of exchanging gifts." His eyes twinkle with mirth, and he squeezes my hand. "Would you like to join us?"

She pulls me to the little back room that Peeta uses as a studio, and my mouth drops at the bags of wrapped parcels that fill the small space.

"What is all this?" I murmur as I feel Peeta's arms wind around my waist, and I lean against his broad chest.

"Hopefully it's a lovely surprise for the kids at the home," he says, brushing my hair back from my neck. "We had a little help from Effie. She sent lots of dolls and toy trains and clothes and things. And I packaged up some cookies and pastries from the bakery to bring with us too."

"And you're going to deliver these things dressed as…"

"Santa Claus," he nods. "Effie, surprise surprise, was completely in favor of the idea when I explained things to her, and she had an elaborate suit made, and there's a fake beard and everything."

"Well, this I have to see. I thought the years of us dressing in costumes and parading around were behind us."

"I think that's the first time you've ever been able to reference the Games in a joking manner, Katniss," he says. He strokes my cheek with his palm and tilts my chin up to slant his mouth over mine. "We have come a long way in almost twenty years, huh?"

Yes, we have. But some things never change, and this selfless, generous idea of Peeta's reminds me that in spite of everything that we have endured, he is the same boy who threw me that bread so many years ago. He is all that is good and right with this world.

"You never cease to amaze me, Peeta," I murmur softly, kissing him back, gently at first, but nipping at my bottom lip with his teeth when he reluctantly pulls away.

He asks her to run into the front room and fetch the last box that Miss Effie sent, the box he says holds the Santa costume.

While she is out of his studio, he confesses that he also had Effie send two gifts for her, special gifts that he had commissioned and that he hopes I am okay with. He leads me to the back corner of the studio where there is a white sheet draped over something. When he briefly yanks the sheet up, he reveals a beautiful wooden easel that's about as high as my hip.

"So she has her own place to draw and paint next to me," he whispers, snapping the sheet back down to settle over it and hide it from view.

"Oh, Peeta," I shake my head, "she will love it."

"The second one I thought you could give her," he says, and he hesitates, listening for her footsteps before he motions for me to open the narrow closet door where he stores his supplies. When I do so, I gasp. Staring back at me is an exquisitely crafted bow and a miniature quiver of arrows—sized exactly for her. He looks at me cautiously, and I know he's seeking my approval.

It takes some effort, but I find my voice. "It's perfect."

His face relaxes in relief, and he slams the door just as she scampers back into the room.

I'm struck with an inspiration looking at the gifts, and I explain to the two of them that they should visit the home without me. While they are gone, I will prepare a nice dinner, and I'll see to it that Haymitch joins us.

She and I dissolve into giggles as we help Peeta into the white fur-trimmed, plush red suit, and he fastens the black belt buckle over the two pillows that we strap beneath the coat. He struggles to pull on the black boots, his girth making it difficult for him to bend at the waist, and he playfully admonishes me when I can't stop snickering.

She peppers his cheeks with kisses above the edge of the cottony white beard once it's in place, and when I reach up to rest the fur-lined hat atop his blond waves, he catches me around the waist and seizes my lips in a heated kiss that leaves me hungering for more when he releases me, a wicked smirk flitting across his face.

I pause and look down at our daughter, and she's watching us with what can only be described as delight in her eyes, and I'm reminded of myself as a child. I remember seeing my parents gaze at each other with the same kind of love and reverence that I know she can see between her father and me, and it fills me with such happiness that before I can stop myself, my hand automatically finds my belly, and just as quickly, I jerk it away so that Peeta doesn't see.

We decide that we will give her the gifts that evening, after dinner, and Peeta says we should really have something small for Haymitch, which is fine because I can stop in town and get him some white liquor on my way back from the woods.

I leave when they do, giving them each a kiss goodbye, and the ridiculous sight of Peeta in the costume, clutching her tiny hand, should make me shake with laughter again, but it has the opposite effect. I am frozen in place, watching them walk off in the direction of the community home, my heart swelling with pride.

And I realize that I don't want to wait any longer. I want to be able to tell him tonight.

So before I head into the woods, I make a quick detour, and though I sit for quite some time, anxiously toying with the paper gown and thumping my feet against the exam table, by the end of the morning, I hold in my hands the small sheet of paper that affirms I indeed have the best gift possible for Peeta.

They arrive home when it is nearly dark, both with cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and Peeta carrying the costume under his arm, just the tiniest limp to his gait. She sheds her coat and hat and mittens in a flash, gushing about how the boys and girls loved Daddy and how some of them cried when they got their presents.

She eventually collapses into a heap on the chair near the tree, slipping under for a late-afternoon nap, which allows Peeta to help me finish preparing dinner. He relates—much calmer, of course, but with the same excitement in his voice as she had—the day's events at the home to me in more detail. It's safe to say that Peeta clearly feels this visit should be an annual one, and I am in agreement.

I'm in the middle of carving the wild turkey while Peeta prepares the gravy when we hear knocking on the front door. It must rouse her, because her feet patter across the floor, and Peeta chides her to be certain it's Haymitch before opening the door.

Her sharp squeal frightens us both at first, but the peals of laughter that follow quell our fears. However, almost instantaneously we are startled again by a blur of golden fur that darts between our feet. She races through the kitchen, in pursuit of the blur.

"Mama! Look!" she cries when she tackles the thing and scoops it into her arms.

Peeta and I stare at her then look at each other, and with a measured sigh we both mutter, "Haymitch."

He smirks at us as he strides into the kitchen. "Wasn't gonna come empty handed. You said something about gifts, so I brought her a gift."

The puppy squirms in her grasp and lathes her cheeks with its tongue, eliciting more squeals of delight, and Peeta and I can only share another look of disbelief when it bolts from her arms, and she tears off after it, Haymitch ambling behind, his grey eyes gleaming.

She has to be coaxed to the dinner table with the promise that the puppy—which she names Daisy—can sit at her feet.

But Daisy has a mind of her own, and once she sufficiently tires herself out running laps around our chairs, she curls up in a ball beneath Peeta, and I have to laugh. Even the animals are charmed by him.

Haymitch shoots me a curious glance when I pour a glass of wine for him, and one for Peeta, but do not imbibe myself. I give him the subtlest nod of my head, and his mouth curves imperceptibly before he gives me a discreet salute and takes a generous sip of his wine.

After dinner, we gift Haymitch with a more generous than usual stash of his white liquor, and she presents him with a watercolor painting depicting her holding his hand as they feed his geese. Peeta had framed it for her, and I swear I can see Haymitch wipe a tear from his eye as he thanks her and kisses her temple gently. We give her the easel, and she kisses us and excitedly babbles how she's going to paint next to Daddy. When I hand her the bow and arrows, her jaw drops, and she hugs me fiercely, begging me to take her into the woods right away the next morning. I stroke her hair and promise her that we will take a little trip, just her and me, very soon.

She allows Haymitch to tuck her in tonight, though she can barely keep her eyes open as she cleans up and changes into her pajamas. She pouts when the puppy will not cooperate and burrow under her covers with her, and Peeta and I hear him patiently explains to her that when Daisy is a little bigger she will probably love to cuddle at night.

Haymitch actually takes Daisy home with him, reasoning that we don't need a demanding, energetic puppy interrupting us tonight, and I thank him with my eyes. He assures us that he will bring the dog back tomorrow morning before she even realizes Daisy was gone for the night.

We've barely closed the door when Peeta's lips are on mine, and I am trapped against the front door by the delicious weight of his body. Impatiently, we stumble through the living room, our mouths still fused together, our tongues dueling fiercely, as we make our way to our bedroom. His hands tug at the hem of my shirt, my fingers kneading at his shoulders, and our torsos bump, the contact sparking a conflagration in my veins.

He has me naked in no time, and he spends what must be an hour worshipping every inch of me with his lips and his hands, and each time that he passes near my navel I hold my breath. His mouth finds that sweet spot between my legs, and I have to bury my face in the pillow to keep from screaming his name in ecstasy.

His eyes are primal when he laces our fingers together and shifts me atop him, hissing with pleasure when he eases me down on him until our pelvises are flush. Then he releases my hands and claims my waist with his fingers, guiding the sinuous revolutions of my hips as he juts up into me again and again.

He keeps us teetering on the precipice by alternating the pace of our lovemaking—every time it feels as if we are going to crash over the edge he changes the rhythm of his thrusts, or slows my undulations, and so when we finally climax together, it feels as if the earth falls away beneath us.

When we open our eyes to gaze at each other, he grins at me lazily, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"Peeta…that…I can't…I don't think we've ever…" I struggle to find both my breath and the proper words.

"Well, dressing as Santa Claus inspired me," he laughs. "Let's say it's easy to be in the giving spirit when it comes to you." He presses a chaste kiss to my lips, and my heart stutters as I realize this is the perfect time for his gift.

"Give me one second." I rise from the bed and cross our room, opening the bottom drawer of the bureau where a small box wrapped in simple brown paper sits.

"Oh, Katniss, I don't need anything. You're my gift, Always," he whispers, clasping my hand and bringing it to his lips.

I shake my head at him, thrusting the package at him. "It's just a little something I saw when I got Haymitch's liquor today." I settle back next to him on the bed, drawing the sheet up over my breasts as I prop myself up on one arm to watch him.

He gives me a curious smile, studying the box in his hands carefully. When he begins to unwrap it, I hold my breath again.

He lifts the simple, shimmering orange ball from the tissue paper, and his face breaks into a broad smile when he reads her name emblazoned across it in elaborate script. "It's beautiful," he says, stretching over to kiss me.

"We can hang it from the tree. An ornament," I suggest coyly, and he nods.

"So you really like the tree tradition, huh?"

But it's then that he sees the second ball, and his brows knit as he turns it over several times. "This one's blank," he says slowly.

"We will have to wait to put a name on this one until the summer," I whisper, taking his other hand and placing it directly over my abdomen.

"Katniss…" My name leaves his lips in a breathless huff. He gazes at me expectantly; his face is so hopeful that a laugh bubbles up in me, and I feel the tears spring to my eyes. "Are you…are we…?"

I can only nod as the first tears slide down my cheeks, and this—this—is a moment that I could freeze and live in forever when he understands that this is real, that another piece of each of us is growing inside me—the best gift we could ever hope for.

He kisses me again and again, murmuring my name, and 'thank you' and 'I love you' over and over, his hand never leaving my belly.

"Peeta?" I murmur, and he stills his hand on my stomach, waiting for me to continue. "What were you hiding from me in the holiday book this morning, when you closed it?"

He chuckles softly and resumes moving his palm in slow circles below my navel. "She and I were starting a page for resolutions. It was another old tradition when the New Year arrived. People used to make promises and resolve to change things, like a fresh start."

"And what resolution were you working on?" I ask, my fingers trailing up and down his pelvic bone.

"I resolved to make us a family of four next year," he confesses.

I reply, "I think you're going to have to fix that page a little."

He seals his mouth over mine, mumbling, "That's why they make erasers."

I smile and give in to his euphoric kisses again, excited by all that we have to look forward to in the coming months, and how many more pages wait to be filled with new Mellark family traditions.

Thank you for reading. ~C~