Here's the second chapter guys! I'm so thankful for those who have read this story, reviewed it, and added it to their alerts and favorites. It makes me so happy. :)

I'll hold your hand when you are feeling mad at me.

I'm at Peeta's house for dinner. Being near him and seeing his blue eyes has helped me. I shower every day and I usually find something clean to wear. On good days, when it's sunny and crisp outside, when I can practically hear the quiet footsteps of fresh game in the forest, and when I feel like I can get through the day, I earn Peeta's smiles. He smiles at me of course, but rarely the wide, crinkly smile that lights up his cerulean-colored eyes and makes me feel a thump in the pit of my stomach. The ones that I saw every day that I took for granted.

I quickly cut up the fresh greens that Greasy Sae had dropped off while Peeta moves the cooked meat from the hot pan to a platter. I haven't hunted yet, despite Greasy Sae's quiet, well-placed hints. Instead, Greasy Sae drops off meat for Peeta that he pays her for.

Peeta and I sit down to eat quietly. He always sits on the end of the table and I sit next to him. I quickly grab a dinner roll from the basket in front of us and take a big bite.

"Hungry?' he asks as he watches me with amused eyes. He smiles lightly.

I stick my tongue out at him and take another bite, smaller this time.

He's still chuckling as he looks down to cut into his meat. I raise my eyes from my plate and glance at him. His wavy blonde hair is going to need a hair cut soon and his blonde lashes are thick. He doesn't look as gaunt as he did when he first arrived to the district. We've both put on some weight, although I still hardly eat at meals. I've seen Greasy Sae and Peeta take in the sight of my sticky-out elbows and frail arms before offering me more food.

It wasn't always like this. We've been having dinner together for about a week now. The first night, Greasy Sae was with us and commanded most of the conversation. Despite her attempts and general questions to get us talking, the dinner table was mostly silent. Peeta would often look at me and I would respond by staring straight into my plate of food and chewing without any expression. Then, on the third night, at dinner at Peeta's house, something changed. While Greasy Sae and Peeta cooked diligently in the kitchen, exchanging quiet, friendly remarks, I strolled into his living room. He had a painting of a small, chestnut-colored goat with a pink ribbon around its neck hanging by the window. My heart flooded with warmth. I could see Prim rushing out to our backyard to milk Lady, her goat. I remember how Prim had nursed Lady back to health when I brought her home for Prim's birthday.

And Peeta remembered.

The Peeta now, post-hijacking must have remembered a memory from the old Peeta, the Peeta from the cave. Maybe he remembers other things. Like how wonderful he thought I was. Or how he'd hold me every night on the train. Or how he used to love me.

Don't cry, the little voice in my head pleaded. Wait until you get home.

So I didn't. But when I walked into the dining room and sat down next to Peeta, I felt something new. New hope. Hope that even though we were both broken beyond repair, there were just enough pieces of both of us to come together, and make a new whole.

"The soup is really good," I had said quietly, looking up first at Greasy Sae, then Peeta. I let my spoon fall into the liquid again before bringing it to my lips and drinking appreciatively.

Greasy Sae's eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up before she regained her composure. The corners of her mouth turned up as she looked down. "Yes, the boy here made it."

I glanced at Peeta and flushed. He had already been gazing at me, his sapphire-colored eyes filled with questions. Questions I wasn't ready to answer. How are you feeling? Did you miss me? Why did you speak all of a sudden? Do you love me? Did I love you? "I like it." Peeta's eyes lit up before he stared down into his own bowl. "Thanks, Katniss."

And after that night, I slowly let down my wall. The next day, I asked Greasy Sae how her granddaughter was doing. On another night, I told Peeta I could cut the onions while he would finish cooking the rest of the greens. Then, I found myself asking Peeta how he was doing, and about his paintings. Greasy Sae stopped eating dinner with us, and to give us privacy, just left our meals in our kitchen of the night before leaving. It was progress.

I'm brought back to the present as Peeta stands up to put his dishes in the sink. He rejoins me at the table. "How have you been doing?" he asks me this question every night. And I reply the same every time.

"Alright."

He accepts it and the corners of his mouth turn down.

I say, "How about you?"

Peeta nods. "The same."

And that's how we describe our days to each other. We never mention nightmares or flashbacks. I don't even know if he's still having flashbacks. When we've had dinner together for the past week he never looked like he was in pain, or that he wanted to choke me because I was a mutt that killed his family.

I felt jealous. I felt like he was improving more than me. While he baked and talked to people in town, I sat at home staring into that same fireplace every day. While he was ready to move on, I was still living in the past. I think in order to move forward, I need him. But he doesn't need me, I see that.

Peeta stands up abruptly. "It's late. You should go." He takes my plate and puts it in his sink, then stands there with his back to me. He offers no more words of goodbye.

I blink once, twice, before flushing and pushing back my chair. It's obvious he doesn't want my company. Why would he want to have dinner with the sad, broken girl who doesn't seem to take any interest in him? I walk to his front door and leave quietly.

That night, I don't sleep at all. I find myself tangled in my sheets, thinking of the nights on the train with Peeta.

I had nightmares then, but Peeta would make them better, more bearable. We would lie in my bed, just us, protecting each other from the nightmares that would claim us. If I woke up, all it'd take would be a few, comforting words from Peeta and the strength of his arms for me to calm. I can still feel his strong arms around me. Those arms made me feel safe. I miss those arms. I miss his face. I miss his rosy cheeks in the cold, like before we left District 12 to depart for the Victory Tour. I miss how he'd smile at me like he'd be content to stare at me forever. And I miss how he'd kiss me, as if he was still surprised he had permission to do so.

All of a sudden, I hear the sound of plates breaking next door. I rush to my open window and I see that Peeta's is open too. Only his bedroom room is lit. I hear another crash of china before I run down to his house, still in my t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

I open his unlocked door and survey his house. It still smells like bread. I walk into his kitchen and see shattered plates lying beside the wall. My breathing hikes as I walk up the stairs. "Peeta?"

I stride down his hallway before pushing open the partly open door to his study. His study is filled with paintings. It's too dark for me to see anything, so I flip the light switch. A few of his canvases has been thrown down onto the floor. An easel lay snapped beside me. Peeta is sitting in the corner, his body curled into the fetal position. He doesn't seem to register my presence before I walk and sit on the floor next to him.

"Peeta." I try to say. He lifts his head and opens his eyes. They're cold and black.

"Stay away from me, mutt. Or I'll kill you." Peeta's eyes flash from black to blue repeatedly. He looks as if he's about to outstretch his arms around me, in that all to familiar position I remembered in his hospital room, before he wraps his arms around each other and tightens his jaw. He's fighting it.

"Peeta. This isn't real. I won't hurt you." I almost reach out to stroke his cheek, but then I think the better of it.

He looks up with, his eyes still flashing from blue to black. "Oh? Then why did you pretend to love me? Why did you kill my family?" There's a half-broken glass jar next to him that he must have used to put his paintbrushes in. Peeta picks it up by the unbroken side and leans forward, as if he's going to strike me with it. I flinch and lean back, not prepared to venture head-on into a battle. But apparently not, because he shuts his eyes once more and holds his breath.

My eyes flood with tears. It's true. Although I didn't kill his family, my actions did. If I hadn't fueled the rebellion maybe they'd still be here. Maybe Prim would still be here. "It's not real, Peeta. Please come back to me."

Peeta squeezes his eyes shut and I worry that he's still holding his breath. He's clenching his fists together so hard that his knuckles are white. Finally, after an agonizing two minutes, he lets out a gasping breath and opens his eyes. His eyes dart around the room first, then land on me and then widen. "Did I hurt you?" he scans over me quickly before wincing at examining the glass stuck in his hand.

I shake my head. Not physically.

He looks at me once more, then his eyes find the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that." He looks ashamed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I find myself saying. He could've come to me. I could've helped to calm him down.

"I don't want you to have to take care of me. I'm a mess," he responds.

"Well, I'm a mess too! I could've helped you! How often does this happen?"

Peeta hesitates. "Occasionally."

"How often this week?"

"Every night."

I pick myself up from the floor and head for the door. Peeta scrambles up to follow me. "Katniss, I don't want you to see me like this. You're already dealing with so much, and I don't think you can-"

"I can handle it, Peeta! I can handle your pain. The world can handle more pain. I can take it."

"Then why are you angry?" His eyebrows are scrunched together and there's anguish in his voice.

"I'm angry because you've been keeping so much of yourself from me lately.." I stop before I realize I'm a hypocrite. I had been keeping so much of myself from him during the games. Pretending to love him, not sharing my thoughts and feelings.

Peeta grabs my hand just as I reach for the door knob. "Please stay. I'm sorry, it's just." His blue eyes are teary. "I just.. hate how broken we are." He looks like a lost little boy. The blonde hair that once fell in soft waves is tangled, and a mess. He doesn't look like the sturdy, broad-shouldered boy that I made him out to be; instead he looks somewhat frail. He looks like a boy that just lost everything: his home, his family. And he has.

In that moment, I realize that Peeta is hurting just as much as I am. Sure, he bakes and talks to others, but he hasn't put himself back together yet. He can't. He's just putting on a better face than I am. I take Peeta's arm and lead him to the kitchen. I remove the shard of glass in his hand. He winces, but I continue to turn on the sink and run the cut over water. Then I bandage it up. I wordlessly hand him some bread on the counter and make him sit and drink a warm glass of milk, the same thing we drank on the Victory Tour. While he's eating, I sweep up the broken remains of his plates and throw them in his trash can. Then, I lead him up to his room and sit with him on his bed.

He lies down and I stroke his hair. I see a flash of blue glance up at me, before his eyelids slowly close and his hand finds mine. I flinch because I haven't felt any form of physical affection in a while, but then I enclose my fingers with his. He falls asleep soon after that and I don't want to wake him. Which is why I slipped off my shoes and pulled the covers over me. As I lie on my side and face him, examining every detail of his face from his smooth eyelids to his strong jawline, I try to think how we're ever going to piece ourselves back together again. And I slowly fall asleep, with Peeta's warm hand still wrapped in mine.

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TBC.