“I’m cold,” I mutter, and Peeta comes closer under the blankets. His clothes are still wet, but his skin is warm to the touch. It’s like we’re sharing a sleeping bag again in the cave while the rain falls mercilessly. I must have been talking to Peeta in my sleep, because I hear his voice in my ears as if there was still morphling in my blood.
“Always,” he whispers. The storm subsides. I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or awake. And I honestly forget if that even matters in my mind’s fragile state. (x) (x)
What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.
So after, when he whispers, You love me. Real or not real? I tell him, Real.
“And then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.”
