A/N: Thank you to those who put the story on alert. Reviews are very much appreciated though, it helps me with my narrative to know that all the story elements are being conveyed cohesively. It also makes a story so much easier to write when you know there are people out there who like what they read.


One of the fundamental rules at the Sherwood Juvenile Correctional Center was to always play the part. When the guard's back was turned it was fair game, but as soon as a pair of eyes with a night stick were in view, you were an angel. The "nicest" girls were always the most dangerous.

Johanna Mason wore a bow in her hair. A bow. She would volunteer for laundry service and kitchen duty, she would be vulnerable and cry during group therapy sessions, she would even read the Bible aloud from her cell. Johanna Mason was the model prisoner, mere hours away from an early release when she stabbed another prisoner in the throat with a butter knife. All because the girl cut in front of her in line for stewed peas.

Johanna Mason is both an inspiration and a cautionary tale for me.

My next few weeks at Arena are this way. I smile until my cheeks hurt. I laugh lamely at jokes I don't find amusing. I even work through my lunch break to show my dedication. Always sure to flash my grin at that little red light that peers over my shoulder.

For all of my attempts, Peeta seems to negate them with his effortless charms. He bags groceries when my line grows too long. He loads heavy items into customer's carts that I'd never be able to lift. He sometimes brings me cookies, claiming the decorations are botched, but I never eat them. I make a point of turning to the camera every time I refuse to be sure that they see. By the time I've turned back to face him, there's always icing on his lips. He has no reason to fear insubordination and it shows.

In our down time, Peeta sits at the empty register across from me and flips through magazines, pointing out various articles or discussing school activities I have no interest in. I amuse him with curt nods, but am too focused on my own mission for survival to pay much attention. Once, while he's restocking the candy boxes at the checkout he says something that catches me off guard.

"Did you know our parents used to date?" He asks off hand, as if it were as simple as the state of the weather.

I'm incapable of comprehending this for a moment. My parents lived a lifetime before me. It's hard to remember that at times. It's strange to think that my mother could be with someone besides my father. That she could smile the way she used to when he'd nuzzle her neck in the privacy of our kitchen. I don't put much faith in love myself, but my mother stopped living when my father died. It's hard to imagine her sharing her heart with another when she loved him so completely.

"Why do you think that?" I ask him, even though I rarely engage in conversation.

"For yearbook," he explains. "It's a Quarter Quell for Panem High. They do one every twenty five years, like a special edition or something. I was going through the last Quell and came across the class couple. It was my father and your mother. Crazy, huh?"

I try to picture my mother holding the baker's hand. She'd be rich. My grandfather would certainly have approved. Inadvertently, I touch a hand to my braid. My hair would be blonde if the baker were my father and my eyes would be as blue as Prim's. But suddenly, I feel a pang in my heart that betrays my father. I try not to give into love, but there's no denying the love I feel towards my father and my sister, Prim.

"Your mother was really pretty in the picture," he says in the silence. "You look just like her."

I've never seen my mother's beauty, but I've heard many stories of it. She has fair skin, golden hair, and soft blue eyes; none of these features we share. Yet when Peeta says it, it seems so genuine that I feel my cheeks burn. "That's not true," I say with a shyness I hadn't known I possessed.

"It's subtle," he says. "The coloring is off, but your smile. It's the same."

He leaves then and I find myself watching. Is that why the Mellarks are kind to me? Because I resemble a love that Mr. Mellark has not forgotten? But the fondness that Peeta shows for me, it seems unique. Not a debt that he's inherited from his father's loss. It flatters me, yet at the same time leaves me on edge.

"You know for a girl who can track an animal through the woods based off instinct alone, you are deaf, dumb, and blind when it comes to basic human psychology," Gale had told me when I confided in him.

Sunday morning was when we hunted now. The mines were open again and Gale was working from dawn till dusk during the week. I was at Arena only a few days during the week, but on the weekends I worked double shifts. On Saturdays this began at 6AM On Sundays, however I didn't start work until 9.

The woods had been kind in the last few weeks as spring had begun to awaken from the uninviting depths of winter. There still weren't many plants to collect, but the animals weren't as alert, having just awoken from their season long slumber, making them easy pickings.

I looked up from the rabbit I was cleaning, setting aside the entrails for Buttercup and Greasy Sae to battle over later. "What do you mean by that?"

"He's sniffing around you all the time because he likes you," he replied with a chuckle.

The idea was preposterous. Peeta wasn't in need of company, especially mine. At school he was rarely alone. Caps traveled in packs after all and he was no exception to the rule. There must have been at least one Capitol girl who fancied him. He was kind after all and if I chose to indulge in such thoughts, I'm sure he'd be considered attractive by most.

Besides that, why would he have any interest in me? Was it my glowing indifference towards him? Or my sparkling rap sheet? I'm not nice, I'm not particularly pretty, the only skill I possess that I find admirable is my hunting, something a Cap living the soft life would rarely appreciate.

"Guys aren't picky," Gale had explained. "They don't need much of an excuse to like a girl. Sometimes they don't even have to be pretty."

I'm not sure if he meant to imply it, but I began to think it. Caps were picky when it came to parading a girl on their arm down Main Street, but when it came to occupying the backseat of their car on an abandoned stretch of road, any old Seam would do. It's something about power, I'm sure. Cap girls don't need anything from them, they've got a limitless credit card that their daddy pays for. A Seam girl on the other hand will do anything if it means there will be food on the table.

Peeta's intentions have not been clear. If he wants something from me, he's yet to make it apparent. But the quick moments we share at my register, it makes me think he's inching towards something. It's the uncertainty of what that something is that haunts my thoughts.

The day can not end soon enough, but before closing comes, Haymitch appears.

"News?" I say before he can alter my mood with my somberness.

"They like you," he says dryly, cutting to the chase. "With the boy."

It's not surprising. My thoughts can not escape the boy with the bread today.

On top of that, the parole board is no doubt made up of Capitol residents. They take to their kind, and Peeta isn't unlikable. He has a way with the crowd, probably from his years in front of a camera for his father's show. Obviously the parole board would take to him.

"What does that mean?" I question.

"You alone? Forced," he explains. "You with the boy? Vulnerable. They like that." He buys a pack of gum for my troubles, and with that he leaves.

I lock up my register and sweep the area around it. Arena's only open till ten, but there's rarely a soul that passes through the doors past dinner time. It makes closing easy because you're not shooing customers towards the exit while going through the cleanup routine. I head towards Mr. Undersee's office to drop off the cash bag. He's huddled over his desk, bathed in a dim light, reviewing purchase orders. He smiles warmly at me and I nod.

A soft flicker catches my eye in the corner of the room. It's an image of the checkout stand. I recognize my register under the sign for aisle twelve. The image holds for a minute and then flashes to another corner of the store, produce this time. Then the deli counter. Then the butcher.

"May I help you Miss Everdeen?" Mr. Undersee asks.

I jump and my eyes snap back towards him. I want to see all the vantage points. I want to know where I'm being watched. My tongue stumbles over words for a moment and I glance back at the security feed. It's my register again. "No," I say, the moment lost. "Have a good evening."

I'm overly alert as I pass through the aisles of the empty store. Every corner my eyes catch seem to flash the red light of the Captiols watching me. Their eyes sniveling red beams that lurk over my every move.

I've been good, I remind myself. I haven't done anything wrong. Not within the walls of Arena anyway. There was nothing for me to be worried about. But what if it wasn't enough? What if the corruption that's swept through Panem swallows me whole. Who else will it take? Prim? My mother?

The market is mostly dark, but a light pours out from behind the door to the bakery kitchen. Peeta sometimes works past closing when he has a large order to fill. They like you, I hear Haymitch say again. With the boy.

I hate that my life depends on Peeta. I have a hard time relying on anyone. My mother and I relied so completely on my father that we could barely put the pieces back together once he was gone. I'll never be that broken again.

The light taunts me as I attempt to pass. What did Haymitch mean by with him? That they like when Peeta talks to me? If that's the case, there's nothing that I need to change. Peeta talks to me all the time. But what if Peeta grows tiresome of the waiting game he's playing? I haven't been very receptive towards his advances, he'll take the hint eventually and back off. But where will that leave me?

And what if I do engage him? What will he expect of me? Will I be his friend? His girlfriend? The girl that he only meets within the depths of night? I don't have a choice on the terms. It's Peeta who holds the rules of the playbook and he's kept those pages close to the vest.

My hands ball into fists at the thought of selling myself. But haven't I already? I've sold my labor to Arena, my privacy to the parole board, my spirit to Snow. What's my body worth? Not much, I assume.

I approach the door to the kitchen, my hand lingering against the metal surface.

Your move, I hear the camera over my shoulder sneer.

Peeta is hard at work preparing dough for tomorrow's sale, his arms covered in flour to his elbows. He rolls vigorously, his muscles tightening under his white tee shirt before he folds the dough in thirds and begins to roll again.

"Hey," he says, startled to see me.

My eyes reflexively scan the room for cameras, but there aren't any back here. "Hi," I reply.

Silence quickly falls between us and I feel as if I'm losing my opportunity. "Closing time," I say awkwardly.

"Not for me," he says with a broad smile. "I've got an early morning order to fill."

My feet are frozen in place at the doorway. How do people carry on inane conversations? Gale and I talk all the time, but it's about things we have in common like hunting or survival. Peeta and I have so little in common I have no idea what to say to him. I scan my brain for possible questions. Things that Peeta would ask me if we were sitting at my register. "What are you making?" I finally land on.

"Cheese danishes," he says. "Circenex has this big meeting the first Monday of every month. They always order fifty dozen cheese danishes because they were King Leir's favorite," he frowns then because he realizes he has said something he probably shouldn't have.

I shake the reference to my grandfather and take a few steps towards the stainless steel counter top. "Need any help?"

"It's okay," he says. His eyes are cautious, sizing me up. "You don't have to."

I approach him, dig my hands into the dough. "You're always helping me," I say as sweetly as my inexperience can muster.

"Fine," he says with a nod. "On one condition," our eyes meet and I notice that Peeta's confidence and easy charm have returned, "you have to try one when they're done."

We continue to fold dough and roll dough until it is a tiny square of infinite layers. Next we prepare a silky filling of sweet cheeses and small bits of apple. "Secret ingredient," Peeta explains, then holds a finger to his lips to indicate the confidentiality.

Once the dough is chilled, Peeta rolls it out for the thousandth time. "Why do you still work here?" I ask him once he's begun scoring the pattern for the danishes. "Why don't you work at your father's shop?"

"It's no fun there," he says with a shrug. "They don't even use the original bakery anymore. They make everything at this huge warehouse and then ship it to the store as if they were just in the oven. The only time my dad bakes anymore is for the cameras." He frowns, "Besides, when people are paying five grand for a cake, they don't want some kid baking it."

"Your dad is very good," I tell him. "I remember the cakes he used to display in the windows, before everyone started ordering silly shaped cakes of shoes and dogs and things. He used to make beautiful six layer cakes covered with the most incredible flowers I had ever seen."

"That was me," Peeta says sheepishly. "I used to decorate all the cakes."

I feel my cheeks turn pink and hope that he assumes it's from the heat of the ovens and not from my embarrassment. "Still," I say. "Why here? Long hours and minimum wadge? Seems like hard work for money you don't need."

"Because I don't want to play the town's games," he says. "There are so many rules. Who can be friends with whom. Who deserves luxuries over others. Who should have walls placed in front of every opportunity because they live on the wrong side of town. It all seems silly to me. I don't want to be a part of that."

I don't know how to respond. Perhaps I had misjudged this boy.

We finish preparing the pastries. I scoop heaping spoonfuls of the cheese filling onto the dough and Peeta folds them neatly and brushes on a buttery glaze.

When everything is in the oven he approaches me. "Thanks," he says, as if he couldn't have done it without me.

I don't let anything happen in the kitchen. There isn't any proof back there. He leans in to kiss me, but I turn away. "I left my jacket at the register," I tell him, when everything has been cooled.

I sit and wait at my podium for Peeta to arrive. The red light in the corner blinks, alerting me of its presence. I close my eyes tightly and force it out of existence.

He's pulling on his jacket when he follows me out of the kitchen. There's a smear of flour across his brow. It's cute. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says shyly.

I'm no good at this game and I'm losing my opportunity. I have to figure out a way to make him stay. He seems to recognize my terror because he approaches me then. "You okay?"

My lips feel impossibly dry and I bite my bottom lip between my teeth. Peeta's better at this than me and I hope he picks up my cue. Kiss me, my body screams, but no words form. He lingers closely but makes no move to close the distance. He's leaving that choice with me. Challenging me almost.

"I'm fine," I say, but my breath catches in my throat. I've never kissed a boy before. Never even considered it. I've had so many other concerns in my life, there hasn't been the time.

Peeta's lips are pink and smooth. They curl into a grin that causes a burst of air to explode in my chest. Foreign, but warm and not unpleasant. My hand shivers as I lift it to trace my finger along the streak of flour on his forehead. His head chases after the contact, leaning his cheek against my palm.

My throat is tight, making it impossible to swallow. I chase my fear. Closing my eyes tightly to take the leap. My lips quiver before they find his. Firm, sturdy, warm. I'm not sure what the next move is, I was hoping that he'd take the lead, so I just hold my mouth pressed to his for a long moment. I draw away, leaving my head bowed.

I can feel his fingers tangled in the hairs at the base of my neck. "Can I drive you home?" His murmur is a strangled whisper.

He expects more, I realize, but I don't let my worries show. "And risk getting coal dust on your rims?"

"I'll take my chances," he chuckles.

The ride to the Seam isn't very long. It's only about a mile's drive. I keep my eyes trained out the window, my teeth chewing nervously on my finger nails. Every side street we pass I expect him to pull over. To dim the headlights and demand that I earn my keep. But it never happens. He pulls up to the edge of the lot where the Seam meets the meadow.

"Should I walk you in?" He asks. I shake my head. Offering him a shy smile as I slip out the door.

"Katniss wait," he say, clearing his throat expectantly. Terror spreads to the tips of my fingers as I turn and duck my head back into the door. "We had a deal, remember?" He says.

My heart drops and my lips go dry. I thought I had misjudged Peeta Mellark, perhaps I was wrong. I crawl across the passengers seat of his SUV, unsure of the terms of our deal. He stills me however when he holds up a white paper bag. "Your danish," he says.

My cheeks flush and I retrieve the bag, my eyes unable to meet his. "Thanks," I mumble, ashamed that I've judged him again.

It continues like this. Peeta remains in my orbit but he never pushes for anything. He only follows my lead. He holds my hand when I reach for it, he kisses me back when I kiss him, but that's where it ends. It only exacerbates my suspicions of him.

I wonder if he even wants the physical aspect I've engaged or if he's just humoring me to keep my friendship. That Gale was all wrong about him and his crush, and Peeta only shows me unconditional kindness because of his father's fondness for my mother and his distaste of the Caps versus the Seam. I've all but convinced myself that this is the case, putting my mind at ease until he abruptly kisses me right in front of Gale.

"What was that about?" Gale asks, his eyes, like mine following Peeta as he marches back to the bakery department with his broad chest puffed out.

"I have no idea," I answer honestly.

"That kid was marking his territory," he explains, and I can't tell if he's amused or annoyed.

I'm not sure how to respond. I feel guilty for some reason. We've discussed Peeta in the past, but that was before the kissing began. Now it feels wrong. Like I'm betraying Gale. Throughout our entire friendship, Gale and I have always been strictly platonic, but I can't deny the part of me that assumed we'd one day settle together. I never planned on love or marriage or children, but Gale's companionship has always been important to me.

At the same time I also feel ashamed. I'm playing a sick game, using Peeta for my own gain and it makes me feel dirty. My skin crawls when I feel the security camera breathing on my neck, the way my body moves to please it.

Gale recognizes my discomfort and shrugs with a sad chuckle. "I just didn't realize you were that kind of girl, is all," he says.

He says what is on my mind and I'm enraged for it. I lock up my register and flick off the light above it in a hurry. I can't even look him in the eye, I'm so angered by his accusations. I take off down the cereal aisle, but am stalled when he catches my arm.

"Katniss," he pleads.

"What kind of girl?" I bark, my arms flapping wildly causing him to retreat a few steps. "The kind of girl that spreads her legs to the highest bidder?"

He holds up his hands in defense and lowers his voice to calm me. "I was going to say the marrying kind," he explains, and risks a step closer. "I didn't think you were interested in all that romance stuff."

"I'm not," I confirm. My body relaxes, no longer on the attack. The weight of guilt still consumes me and I can only drop my gaze to the white tile floor. "It's nothing serious," I mumble almost inaudibly.

"Is it?" He asks, but this time there's a lilt of accusation to his voice. This time he is realizing my true intentions. Gale takes another step closer until our toes are nearly touching. He bows his head to speak with discretion. "Katniss, what are you getting yourself messed up in?"

I know I've been caught. Gale knows me too well. But I'm too stubborn to reveal my hand. "You didn't seem to think it was a big deal before," I say, referring to his teasing out in the meadow a few Sundays ago.

"I never thought you were seriously considering it," he reasons. "Joking about that kind of stuff is different than acting on it. You know how people talk about girls like you mixing with guys like him." He frowns and shakes his head. "He's one of the richest guys in Panem," he says, his voice incredulous. "You know what they'll say."

"He's not like that," I say, and I find myself putting space between us. Because every word of gossip that is spread will be true.

"He's a Cap, why should I think otherwise?" He demands. "They're already holding you prisoner!" I've told Gale about the parole board, but I haven't mentioned anything of Snow. Gale's more passionate about politics and social injustices, he'd never approve of me playing along with Snow's games. He'd take action because that's the kind of guy he is. I can't afford to take those sorts of risks though, I try to pick my battles wisely and this one doesn't seem worth the fight. "Did you know they want to turn the meadow into a country club? It's part on their whole incorporate Panem plans."

I freeze. "You know about that?"

"They've been talking about it down in the mines," Gale explains. If they're talking about it in the mines, then word will be spreading fast throughout the Seam. Snow would be watching me closely through this crucial turning point. "A lot of guys are talking about moving to the thirteenth district before our land becomes worthless."

"Worthless?" The land of the Seam has never been prime real estate and I don't understand how incorporating will make it any different.

"The lines have been drawn," says Gale. "We're getting cut out."

"That's good though, right?" I ask. No extra taxes. No private police force breathing down our necks. No additional restrictions.

"Not even close," he chuckles bitterly. "They're basically building a wall, all the poorer districts like the eleventh and twelfth, their value is going to plummet when Panem leaves them behind. All the county's wealth is centered on the northern districts and the thirteenth and their county seat wants nothing to do with Snow's plans."

"What are you getting at?" I demand.

Gale squares his shoulders. "That hopefully once they turn the Seam into a parking lot when they can buy it up for cheap, that Loverboy will let you park your trailer on his seven acre estate."

He turns to leave, and when I open my mouth to speak, I'm left speechless.

This wasn't a part of the deal. I was to behave and my reward was to be returned to a life of poverty and squalor uninterrupted. The worst outcome was some additional taxes. Never were we to become homeless.

I wonder why I'm allowing Snow to play the puppet master when there is no positive outcome for me. If I push his agenda I may not be put away, but at the same time I won't have a place to call home. I'm damned if I challenge him and I'm damned if I play his game.

And why had Haymitch not warned me of this outcome?