Author's Note: I promise I have not abandoned Rebuilding After the Rebellion. A bad combination of work and writer's block has slowed me down, but I've got ideas, and more is coming very soon. :) In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this short oneshot. Thanks for reading. Reviews appreciated. Disclaimer: As always, I do not own the Hunger Games.

I watch from the kitchen doorway as Peeta tries to show the boy how to whisk cream for a pie of some kind that's cooling on the counter. His mother sits at the kitchen table watching him with a small smile. Every once in a while her eyes still glaze over or her hands will go to her ears, but these episodes are few and far between like the times Peeta grabs the back of a chair and clinches his eyes shut tight. His knuckles go so white I think he's going to break the chair before he snaps out of it, but so far we haven't lost a single piece of furniture, and with every passing year, the risk goes down considerably.

The boy's face is screwed up in concentration but his hands are unsteady and the bowl scoots around on the counter. I can tell Peeta is torn between helping him out and letting him do it on his own. The boy looks exactly like his father except, of course, he is shorter and skinnier right now, but he will grow into it. He has his mother's personality though, or what I assume his mother was like before her reaping, the part that comes out when she's having a good day. He is shy but kind.

He is a little awkward, too, I realize as he splatters some cream across the counter. It's almost humorous to see him blush as he scrambles to clean it up. Humorous because I don't think his father ever blushed, and he definitely wasn't clumsy. Peeta gently takes the bowl from his hands with a smile. Using the whisk he plops a dollop of the new whipped cream on the pie. The boy really didn't do that bad of a job. It's definitely not a smooth and airy as Peeta's whipped cream but not bad.

I join his mother at the kitchen table as Peeta starts slicing the pie. He hands the plates to the boy to carry to the table. He serves me first then his mother. He and Peeta join us at the table with their own pieces. Once he has finished eating, he gets tired, his full belly winning out over the sugar and the excitement of being away from home. His mother excuses herself to tuck him into bed despite his protests that he doesn't need her help. He probably doesn't, but I don't blame her for wanting to kiss his forehead goodnight.

I tell Peeta to just leave the dishes in the sink. We can clean them tomorrow. We climb the stairs to our bedroom. We prepare for bed, changing into our nightclothes, and we meet at the bathroom sink to brush out teeth. When I finish brushing, I fill a small cup with water and reach for my packet of daily pills. Each pack has twenty eight. Twenty one active pills. 7 placebo pills. I'm only a pill or two into this package. Tonight though instead of popping one out and swallowing it down, I pause.

Peeta puts his toothbrush back in the holder and stops to watch me, noticing my hesitation. I hold the package of pills in my hand, twisting it gently so the foil crinkles slightly. With a final breath, I toss them into the wastebasket in the corner.

I hear Peeta's intake of breath. I see his expression in the mirror—surprised, excited, cautious, but hopeful. I turn to face him. Seeing the question in his face, I nod, and offer a week smile. Although I am sure of my decision, I can't help but still be scared, but the look of absolute joy which spreads over his face helps to quiet my fears.

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. He pressed his lips to mine, softly but urgently. Not breaking the kiss, we back up into our bedroom. When the back of my knees hit the bed, we topple onto it together. We laugh quietly, but resume kissing. There is no need to talk about this decision because we've spent a decade talking about it. There is nothing left to say.

Our nightclothes crumple in a pile on the floor. I feel Peeta's warm, familiar skin against mine. His lips find my neck and then my breasts. Our fingers intertwine above my head, and he thrusts into me. He rests his forehead against mine as our bodies move together. We breathe in tandem, labored breaths.

After, when I snuggle into his chest to listen to his heartbeat, I know that I am ready because Finnick Odair's son is twelve years old, and there is absolutely nothing to worry about.