A/N I'm so excited that people are into this story. You guys have no idea. I revel in every single review, so, you know. Keep them coming! I've had some questions about backstories...patience, gentle readers. All will be revealed.

4. How Can I Turn Away?

Just like that, I have a group.

It's Peeta's fault. People gather around him like he's the Pied Piper. Our Friday night hangout, once just reserved for Gale, Madge, Prim and me, grows to 9 people; in addition to Peeta and Annie, there is the redhead from our seminar class, Diana. She was paired with Peeta for group work one day during class, and after that, there she was, a fixture on Friday nights and in the dining hall. The four of us join Gale and Peeta's friend Mitch, who lives downtown and also has a car (a hilarious old Lincoln that he calls his 'old lady car'); Gale picks up Prim from the bus stop on the way through town, and we all meet Madge and Finn for dinner.

We used to fit into a single booth at Ripper's, with room to spare; now, we take up two tables pushed together. And...I like everyone. I never like people, but I like these people. We're a little rowdy, which is hard to get used to; but, everywhere I turn, there is a friend. It's new.

Diana is quiet, but she smiles easily and is whip-smart and fun. And Annie has turned into a good friend; I spend almost as much time in her room as I do in Peeta's, after classes. And I have to say, I've visited both rooms quite a bit. People are always popping in and out of Peeta's; he's on first-name terms with everyone on his floor and most of Gale's, too. Even Marvel made an appearance during the second week of classes, barging into the room to borrow something and stopping short at the sight of me cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with Peeta's Ipod.

The look on his face made my own face flame red. I wish people wouldn't assume things. Just because we hang out, Peeta and I, does not mean there's anything going on. Really, we barely touch.

I've taken to eating in the dining hall with everyone, a few times a week. I'm regularly on the last shuttle of the night, going back to Portland and my empty apartment.

Sometimes it gets too busy for me in Peeta's room, but Annie's room is always quiet. She loves classical music and has very tasteful photographs on her walls, and things are always very neat. She's wryly funny when you get her going, and quite observant, but there are times when you just...lose her. She'll drift off in the middle of a sentence, staring at nothing.

I haven't been able to get much out of her, about her own life. Her parents seem to have more than enough resources, but as far as I can tell, they're rather distant. Annie gets white-knuckled when she starts talking about them, so I don't bring it up, and she doesn't ask me questions either. It's a quiet, cautious friendship. But I like her. We normally hang out on Tuesday afternoons after my seminar, lounging around on her bed, reading and talking, and laughing as the second-floor RA, Johanna, bellows at the crowd in Peeta's room to Keep it the hell down, it's the Quiet Floor, assholes.

We all look forward to Friday evenings, maybe for different reasons. Diana has taken to riding into Portland with Mitch, and Annie, Peeta and I always ride with Gale. By unspoken agreement, Annie sits in front. Sometimes she and Gale talk quietly; more often, she gazes out the window at the leaves, which have by now begun to bloom into a riot of oranges, yellows and reds. Gale respects when she doesn't want to talk. I can tell he hasn't quite figured her out yet, but...I guess I'm happy they're friends.

Once we pick up Prim, I usually move over into the middle of the back seat so she can have the window. Because I'm a nice sister. Not because I want to sit next to Peeta.

Madge and Finn still show up together on Fridays, but according to Madge, it was apparent after a few days' acquaintance that they wouldn't be romantically involved. "He's just...too much," she explained, frowning, while I laughed at her behind my hand.

It's true. He does come off as too much, at first. But after a week or two, he cut back on the bravado and inappropriate gestures (well, a little bit), and he actually turned out to be a decent guy. I don't completely know his story, and I'm sure we'll hear an explanation of the California plates sooner or later. But for now, I'm content to enjoy the antics of the surprisingly-nice manchild that is Finn Odair.

...

One Friday evening at Ripper's, Finn slides a handful of what seem to be concert tickets across the table at me and Annie; Peeta, sitting next to him, cranes his head to see what they are. I grab one and my mouth falls open, then spreads into a grin as Finn says, "Arctic Monkeys, State Theater, October 4th."

I bounce in my seat, then count the pile; eight tickets. "Finn." I'm grinning so hard my face hurts. Peeta is watching me, his head tilted to the side and his expression puzzled as he feeds himself fries like they're on a conveyor belt. "This is amazing."

"I know."

"This is one of my favorite groups."

"I know."

"But this show is next week. And it's sold out. How did you get these?"

He raises his eyebrows and strokes his chin. "I've got valuable connections in this town. I could tell you more...but then I'd have to kill you."

"He works at WCYY, and they've been giving the tickets out as a promotion," says Annie. She's so soft-spoken you wouldn't think you'd be able to hear her in this crowd, but Finn zeroes in on her immediately. I turn, and she's smiling calmly at him, not intimidated in the least, her green eyes meeting his steadily.

"True," he says, nodding, his voice as soft as hers, probably unconsciously. "And you never forget a thing, do you?"

She merely goes on smiling.

"Yeah, I got them from work." He kind of shakes himself, then turns to me again. "They bought too many, and now they have to unload the seats to make sure the show is full next week. And you can't tell them you got these from me. It's supposed to be publicity for the station; they specifically told me not to just give them out to my friends."

"Oh, it's okay, Finn. We can pretend to not be your friends." He kicks me under the table, but his attention is back on Annie again. She's picking at her salad, simply moving it about her plate, but I don't miss the way her eyes flick up to study Finn, and then quickly down again, so fast that you wouldn't catch it if you didn't know to look.

Wow. So Annie has a thing for...Finn? Two more polar opposites, I cannot imagine. I catch Peeta's eye across the table, and I see that he's noticed it too, smiling softly between Annie and me. I look down quickly.

Finn clears his throat, gathers up three tickets and slides them down to the end of the table. "Hey, did you guys see these?" he shouts to Gale, Mitch and Diana. "We're all going. Thursday." He turns to Prim. "Except you, Ducky." He reaches for her hand, and I slap his away; he shakes it and grimaces like he's really hurt. "It's an 18-plus show, sorry."

"What?" Prim's head pops up; she's been having a super-secret conference with Madge all during dinner, and Madge pops up too, grinning. "Oh, that's okay," she says vaguely, catching sight of the tickets as they're distributed around. "I don't really like them much."

"What are you two gabbing about down there?" I ask.

"Something very serious," Madge assures me, a twinkle in her eye.

Prim sighs and turns to me. "What do you think, Kat? Are you still Team Jacob, or did you come over to Team Edward after the last movie, like a sane person would?"

I just stare at her, and all of my neighbors erupt into muffled laughter. "How about Team I-don't-give-a-shit? Is that an option?"

Prim snorts in disgust as the laughter around me escalates. I sneak a glance at Peeta, and he's leaning over his plate of fries, chortling into his hand.

"How could you not give a shit?" Prim asks.

"I'm not fourteen. Sorry."

"Okay," Madge says. "But you'd better have an opinion soon. You're gonna have a houseful of fourteen-year-olds tomorrow, who give more than a shit about Edward Cullen."

I bury my face in my hands; I'd completely forgotten. "Prim," I say, looking up. "Please tell me you guys are not still doing the Twilight-fest."

Prim's face falls. "Ohmygod, you promised! You promised I could. We have to catch up on all the movies before the new one comes out!"

I look to Madge, open-mouthed, but she just shrugs and shakes her head. I narrow my eyes at her for encouraging this. "Our living room is not that big. And you're watching...all those movies? And how am I supposed to feed seven people tomorrow?"

Prim grabs my hand. "I've only got four people coming. And we've got it all worked out. We're getting pizza, and if we each go in on it a little bit-"

"Oh, you don't have to do that," a voice pipes up across from me. A gentle, softly-accented voice. I look up and he locks eyes with me. "Homemade pizza is my specialty. I'll cook for your party."

I sit there in shock and panic, while beside me, Prim lets out a squeal that's so high-pitched I'm surprised our ears can register. "You will? You really will? Oh Peeta, thank you thank you thank you-"

What the hell is happening, here?

"Hold on." I put a hand on her shoulder. "Just hold on a second." Her face falls, and she slumps in her seat a bit, and I see the disappointment on her face. There she goes again: Kat, ruining everything. I shake my head and try to pretend it doesn't hurt, that I've made my sister look like that, and I turn to Peeta, who's got the cutest, most hopeful expression on his face. "We can't let you do that."

He shakes his head. "You'd be doing me a favor, actually. I've gotta flex my cooking muscles again, see if they still work after a month here." His smile softens. "I can get a ride over with Mitch. Right, Mitch?" He turns, and Mitch looks up, startled. "You're going to be around Gorham tomorrow morning, right? Can I get a ride over to Kat's place?"

Mitch's dark skin manages to turn a dusky beet-red, and stammers out that he guesses he can. I frown; doesn't Mitch live in town, not far from Finn? Then I catch sight of Diana, sitting next to Mitch with her own face as red as her hair; she's ducking her head and he leans over to whisper something to her. Oh. Oh. She definitely lives in the dorms over in Gorham, now that I think about it. And Mitch is...going to be there. With her.

Wow. What else have I missed, within this little group? Exactly how blind am I?

"So what do you think?" Peeta's leaning over the table, smiling up through his eyelashes, and between that and Prim's excited clutching of my arm, I really have no choice.

I nod. "Okay..."

Prim and Peeta lean together to hold an excited conference about ingredients and cooking implements, and I sit back, defeated, letting my gaze wander over the table, watching Madge attacking her mozzarella sticks in the corner, Annie and Finn pretending not to stare at one another, Mitch and Diana leaning together and smiling.

And Gale, frowning at us from the far end of the table, his eyes sliding back and forth between Peeta, Prim...and me.

I look down at my hands.

I try not to be completely terrified by the idea that, somehow, the boy that I have a secret crush on is coming over to my apartment tomorrow to cook pizza for my sister and four of her screaming, squealing friends.

Gale has to be back in Gorham early that night, so we all pile into his car after we leave Ripper's: Annie in the front, and Peeta, Madge, Prim and me in the back. Peeta's on my left, Madge is on my right, and Prim is in my lap, just until we get to Madge's. I wrap my arms around her waist; she and Madge continue to discuss all things Twilight-related, and I roll my eyes and rest my head back against the seat.

I think wistfully of the beach down the hill; there aren't going to be many more nights warm enough to hang out down there...

"Arctic Monkeys, huh?" I look to my left to find Peeta's head resting against the seat right next to mine.

Really close.

I roll my head away in what I hope is a casual manner, studying the ceiling, the view out the windshield, Prim's hair, anything but him. "Yeah. You know them?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

I look back at him. "Not at all?" He shakes his head again, smiling. "God, you're so sheltered."

"You'll have to play some for me before next week." We've been steadily sharing music whenever we get together; I've introduced him to metal and alt-punk, he's played me his indie and folk-rock. (I've put a moratorium on country music. Indefinitely.) We listen to music while we study; it's what we do. We call it the Music Exchange program.

I nod, my mouth suddenly very dry, our heads really close. "Bring your Ipod speakers tomorrow, we'll have another. You know. Exchange." I have to look away, then. Because, really. Who could be expected to think clearly? With Peeta looking at them like that.

We pull up outside Madge's house, and she gathers her purse from the floor of the car; Prim shifts her weight, getting ready to slide over into Madge's seat. Peeta leans closer and says, just low enough for me to hear and no one else, "I like our exchanges."

Gale taps on the brakes, making the car jump forward just as Madge is about to open her door, and we are all jostled, and I slide so close to Peeta that our shoulders bump and the end of my braid brushes his arm.

"Damnit, Gale," Madge mutters, and Prim giggles, steadying herself against Annie's headrest, and my body flushes hot all over and I'm having a horrible time catching my breath, because now I literally cannot look away from the boy next to me. The one with the smile in his eyes.

Madge opens her door and Gale lets up on the brakes again, snickering at Madge in the rear-view.

"Jesus! What the fuck…" Madge growls at him.

"Me, too," I say, low enough so only Peeta can hear me.

"What's the matter, sugar-pie?" Gale only calls Madge by a sweet nickname when he's really trying to rile her up.

"Annie, pull the e-brake for me, would you?" Madge has gone whiny.

Annie keeps her face forward, and I can hear the small smile in her voice: "I don't have a license, sorry, Madge. I'm not sure which one the e-brake is."

I really hope he can't hear my heart pounding. It's throbbing so loud in my chest and arms and legs and face that I'm sure you could hear it from across the street.

Gale claps a hand onto Annie's shoulder and barks out a laugh. "Kat, have I told you how much I really love your friends?" I tear my eyes away from Peeta's finally and face forward; I find Gale looking for me in the rear-view now, and I'm partially hidden behind Prim's shoulder, which is good, because I'm pretty sure my skin is flushed enough that he'd notice.

He catches sight of me, and I see his eyes flicking quickly back and forth between me and Peeta as he lets his foot off the brake again.

I'm not entirely sure it was intentional, this time.

Madge, who had been about to set her foot on the ground, groans in frustration.

"Oh my god, Gale," says Prim, and she lifts herself off my lap and pulls back on the e-brake lever herself. "There you go, Madge darling."

"Why thank you, ducky." Prim smiles sweetly at the old endearment, and sticks her tongue out at Gale as Madge exits the vehicle and she's able to slide over into the window seat.

"Bye! I think I'll walk home next time…" Madge calls, waving sarcastically as Gale takes the brake off and we pull away from the curb. Gale doesn't respond. He's still watching me, his eyebrows raised.

I look down at my hands; they are curled into loose fists, the nails bitten low.

I cannot, absolutely cannot look up.

Peeta doesn't speak again, but lets his hand fall loosely to his side, the knuckles grazing my leg. He keeps his hand there until we get to my apartment, a warm solid weight against my mid-thigh, and it's all I can do to keep the muscles from twitching.

I finally shift as the car slows in front of our place, and he moves his hand, and I carefully don't look at him. He slides over into Prim's seat after we've gotten out, and rolls the window down.

"I'll see you ladies tomorrow?"

Prim starts right in with her effusive "Yes, oh thank you so much, I can't wait…" and I nod and quickly turn away, only looking back as the car begins to pull away.

"Bye Gale!" I call, and he raises his hand in return, not looking away from the road. I can't read his expression.

I lock eyes with Peeta and mouth Bye, but no sound comes out, and he answers me with a smile.

….

We buzz Peeta into our building at 10 the next morning, and Prim runs down the stairs to meet him. I hear their chatter on the stairs, then in the hallway, and I grip my mug of coffee a little tighter and hook my feet together under the chair. We've spent the morning cleaning, and the place looks all right. Not fancy, but all right.

I smooth my hands down over my shirt: a simple white button-down, a little nicer than I'd normally wear on a Saturday. I smooth my hair: worn down, free from its braid for today.

Today, I guess I do give a shit.

Prim bursts back through the door, a grocery bag dangling from each hand, and Peeta follows, carrying two bags of his own plus a Dunkin Donuts box under one arm. I set my coffee down and run over to take one of the bags and the box from him; he smiles gratefully, and I look everywhere but at him as I set the stuff on the kitchen counter.

"How much stuff did you get?" I frown at the rest of the bags, which Prim has dropped on the floor.

Peeta sets his bag on the table and shrugs off his backpack, and I motion for him to hook it over the chair, as I've done with mine. "Oh, you know," he says, running a hand through his hair and letting his eyes wander, taking in our living space. "Just enough to…is that your kitchen?"

I laugh aloud as he gapes at our mini-kitchen. It's a four-by-eight section of tile bordered by a narrow fridge, an olive green oven with uneven burner coils and a tiny sink. There's a minimum of counter space, and no room for a table; we have our "kitchen" table next to the entryway, on the carpet, and it only seats two. "I told you there wasn't much to it…"

"I know, but…" He frowns at me. "How do you cook anything here?"

"Easy! We don't," Prim giggles, and digs into the donut box, pulling out a chocolate glazed. Her phone chimes from across the room, and she takes off like a shot, grabbing it from the couch and hurrying off to her room.

"She's right," I say, starting to open bags and put away what I can. The flour and Fleischman's yeast I leave on the counter, but I put away the ice cream, veggies and pepperoni and tomatoes. God, he really got a lot of stuff. "We tend to keep it really simple. Sandwiches, pasta…the occasional frozen lasagna."

"My god," he breathes. "That is tragic."

I half-grin at him and duck my head; I still don't want to meet his eye, for fear of the flushing and heart-pounding and whatnot. "Well, it was a choice between a full kitchen or a second bedroom. We'd had enough of sharing a room, growing up. So we went for it." I shrug. I ball up the shopping bags in one hand and stuff them in the recycling. "We're going to pay you back for this, by the way. This is ridiculous."

He waves me off, again. "No, you're not. I told you, you're doing me a favor. I miss cooking."

I frown at him. "Weirdo."

He chuckles at me. "Hey, can I use your washroom?"

"Yeah, down the hall to your left."

He disappears down the hall and I spend the next five minutes trying to get comfortable in my own home. I sit down at the table and pop right back up again, pace around the living room, close the curtains and open them again, fiddle with the books on the shelf. Finally I grab my coffee and chug the rest of it in two gulps, chasing it with a chocolate-coconut doughnut.

Finally I get tired of waiting and wander down the hallway, only to find him standing there outside my bedroom door, staring at the one picture I don't want to talk about.

It's the only photograph of my family, all together, that we own. It's the four of us: me, Prim, Mom and Dad, sitting on the deck of Dad's old boat, the Mocking Jay. It's a gorgeous day in late September, just like this one. It's about six months before he died.

Prim is five, and she's sitting on Mom's lap. They are like clones: blonde and blue-eyed with creamy, smooth skin and delicate-boned, sweet faces. Mom is smiling the way she used to, when Dad was around: like nothing mattered except us. The four of us. She's leaning in toward me, and Prim is giggling at someone off-camera. My sister's silky hair is in two pigtails, and my heart hurts a little to see that again.

I'm eleven, and I'm sitting between Mom and Dad, and he has his arm around me. If I close my eyes I can still feel it, the warmth of his strong arm against the thin cotton of my tee shirt, the way my hair was pulling out of its braid in the sea breeze and whipping against his face, how it made him chuckle as he brushed the dark brown strands away from his mouth. You can see his hand still lingering near his face, in this photo.

I'm smiling up at Dad like he's the only one there. Like he's the only one, anywhere.

"Hey," I say. I don't like the feeling of someone else, seeing this.

Peeta turns to me, all gentle blue eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets. "You look a lot like your mom."

I frown. "Most people say I look like Dad." My dad had Passamaquoddy blood, and I've always been proud that he passed it on to me in my smooth olive skin and dark hair. Only my eyes, light grey, don't fit the Native American profile, but they're his too.

I have my father's blood.

He shakes his head. "Well, your coloring, yes. Definitely. But your face...see?" He brushes his fingers over our faces, just inches from the picture, looking at us intently. I look too...and suddenly, I do see. Mom and I have the same high cheekbones, the same small pointed chin, and even the same smile, the corners of our mouths tucking up into dimples, the bottom lip puckered out slightly.

Of course Peeta, an artist, would see that.

I lean back against the wall, folding my arms across my chest. Peeta has turned back to the photo, smiling. "You were a cute kid," he says.

I don't like it. I don't like that I look like her, and I don't like that Peeta saw it so easily.

"I was eleven when he died," I say, shocking myself. Shocking him; he turns around, his smile falling. I can't meet his eyes, so I look at the floor instead, and I stupidly keep talking because I don't want any more observations from him today. "He was a lobsterman. That was his boat. He and Gale's dad used to work together." I clear my throat, which is tight and sore now. "They did okay, not great, but okay. It's a hard job. But we were..." I shuffle my feet, scrutinizing the carpet between my sneakers. "This one morning, it was a Sunday? They went out. And they were laying traps, and...my dad's hand got tangled in the trawl line. And he got pulled overboard and under the water."

Silence, and I won't look at the expression on his face, and I can't stop talking even though I want to. I've very seldom told this story.

"Gale's dad jumped in after him, and managed to cut him free from the line. But when they came back up, the boat had drifted away and...they couldn't reach it and...it was really early in the season, so the water was really cold and...they both died."

There's no more to tell. I press my lips together and look up, and his eyes blaze into mine, and I feel it like a punch in the gut.

"What happened then?" he whispers.

"My mom..." I have to stop and swallow a lump. "She just lost it. She couldn't...handle it. She started taking these pills." I look down again. "Her doctor gave them to her. She started taking them every day. And then she got another doctor, and more pills. And then she started taking...other stuff."

I don't use the word 'drugs,' when I talk about my mother. I don't say, 'My mother is a drug addict.' I say stuff. My mother takes stuff. My mother went out to get her stuff. My mother is...

"Anyway." I shrug. "She was there less and less. And even when she was there...she wasn't really there." I look up and he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I took care of Prim more and more. We don't have much family, and what we do have is pretty useless. The neighbors did what they could, and Gale and his mom became like a second family. But...let's just say, I learned how to frequent the St. Mary's food pantry, before I got old enough to work."

He moves closer, but I stiffen and lean away. "When Prim was in fifth grade, one of her school guidance counselors caught wind of our 'situation,' and...she lost us." I have to stop and swallow a lump again. "My mom lost custody of us. We were taken away. We had to go live with our uncle in North Deering. He..." I drift off. How to explain Uncle Hamish?

"Was he...did he treat you all right?" I hear his voice catch and I look up, and he's looking down at me so intensely...

"Yeah, no, it's..." I'll have to just come out with it. "He's a drunk." I raise an eyebrow at him, and he grins with absolutely no humor behind it.

"Oh."

"Yeah. So instead of him taking care of us..."

"...You ended up taking care of him, too?" he finishes, and I nod. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen. So," I say, wanting this story to be over now as much as I had wanted it back then. "The year I graduated high school, my mom was caught trying to steal...stuff...from a hospital pharmacy. She showed up for her first hearing wasted, and the judge found out...and so, that was that. She went to prison. And a year later, I'd saved up enough money to move out of Hamish's and get a place of my own. And a year after that..." I shrug again. "Here I am. Insurance money from Dad is putting me through USM and Prim through private school. But she's still with Hamish most of the time, because her school is close to where he lives. I hate that she has to be there so much, but honestly, it could be worse..."

"Peeta!" Prim bursts through her bedroom door, startling us both. "Let's cook, the movie fest starts at 2." She skips down the hallway, oblivious to the fact that she's just interrupted us talking about her.

I look after her as she breezes by us, her silky hair rippling down her back. I glance at Peeta, but he's still looking at me with that intense concentration. Very quickly he steps closer to me and runs his thumb down the outside of my arm; the touch reverberates in waves all over my body and I bite the inside of my cheek.

"Thanks," he whispers, and follows Prim into the kitchen area. "So. Prim. The first thing we have to do is find two large bowls, a cutting board, and some saran wrap."

I follow Peeta after I've caught my breath. I don't know what just happened, or what he was thanking me for. For telling him about myself? It's not like I did him a favor. He probably just feels bad for me now.

I'm digging one of my Accounting textbooks out of my bag when Prim pipes up, "So Peeta. Have you seen Twilight yet?"

I laugh out loud. I can't help it. Peeta's expression is so helpless and panicked, and Prim looks so eager, bouncing on her toes. "I'm just...gonna get some reading done, while you two talk about...that." He throws me a wide-eyed glare which clearly says I hate you, and I muffle my laughter into my hand.

As they work, my sister treats Peeta to an abbreviated synopsis of all 4 books in the series, the movie adaptations, and why the whole franchise is so awesome. He suffers in silence. Once they have the dough rising, Prim's phone rings again and she runs off to answer it, slamming her door. Peeta wanders over to the table, rubbing his forehead with his palm. "Didn't you promise to play me some music today?"

"Oh yeah." He sets up his speakers while I find the appropriate songs on my phone. I feel him watching me while I plug it in and start playing Arctic Monkeys for him, but when I look up, he's turned away already, setting up another cutting board and cleaning a knife to prep the vegetables.

I catch him tapping his foot to a few songs. Next, he plays me some Neutral Milk Hotel, and I admit that I like it, strange as it is. I play him some Queens of the Stone Age, and when I start softly singing along to Hanging Tree because it's my favorite, I catch him staring at me, the knife forgotten behind him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says. "That just...may be my favorite song, now." I roll my eyes, but he says, "If I turn around and pretend to ignore you, will you keep singing?"

I shake my head, so he plays me some songs by The Decemberists. And I have to admit, I really love them. We are sitting at the table together and talking about the music when Prim emerges from the bedroom. We look up and both lean away from each other, like we've been caught doing something other than talking, and Prim looks quickly between the two of us.

Peeta jumps up. "Hey, our dough is almost ready, so let's get some cookie sheets out..."

I take a deep breath and turn the music up. And I don't get another word of Accounting read.

...

The five of them are crowded into our tiny living room: Prim and Rue, Amanda and Leevy and Julia. Three on the sofa, two on pillows on the floor. All of them squealing.

The pizza has been eaten and the girls are halfway through the second movie; Peeta has stacked the dishes and pans in the sink, to be washed later by me, at my insistence. He glances at the screen and calls to the girls as he passes by, "Man, that guy takes his shirt off a lot, doesn't he?" It prompts a flurry of giggles and whispers and an evil look from me as he sits down opposite me at the table, and pretends to turn his attention to his book.

I, in turn, pretend to read mine.

Talking or music-listening is impossible with the din from the TV. So we try to ignore the screams and foot-stomping of the girls every time something vaguely romantic happens on the screen, and we make a valiant effort to do homework. I'm leaning my head on my left hand and resting my right on the table.

I can't help but notice that, though his head is bent over his own book, Peeta's hand creeps closer and closer to mine. He does it subtly; he shifts in his chair and moves his fingers a few inches toward mine, he turns a page and moves a few more inches. I glance over at the girls every minute or so, to make certain they're oblivious, but they only have eyes for the screen.

Our hands are only about an inch away from one another, and my fingers start to twitch.

"Awwwwwww..." comes a loud chorus from the couch, and the music swells.

I glance up at Peeta and then quickly down again; his eyes are on his book, but he's biting his lower lip really hard.

Closer. Closer, and I will myself not to move, not to snatch my hand back.

"That's so sweet!" Prim gushes, and I hear Rue muffling her squeal into a pillow.

Our fingertips touch.

And it's like an electric current is running through my arm. My mouth pops open, and I can't look away from the spot where our forefingers and middle fingers are touching on the tabletop. Just the lightest touch.

"I can't stand it! You guys, the new movie is going to be so good." I think that's Amanda.

His forefinger moves to carress lightly against mine. My breath is coming fast, and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

"I know! We have to go to the midnight premiere. Promise me," says Rue.

Peeta curls his fingers and pushes them under mine in one smooth movement. He hesitates, then threads his fingers through the spaces between mine, so that my fingertips are splayed over his knuckles.

I look up to find him watching me; his head is still lowered so that he's looking at me through his eyelashes again. As soon as our eyes meet, my hand convulses and I'm squeezing his hand, my fingernails digging into his skin in a way that has to be painful; but, he only raises his eyebrows at me and squeezes my hand back.

And then he smiles; just a small, gentle smile, but it sends a jolt of warmth all through me.

"You brought cookies, right?" It's Prim, and she's clambering up from the floor and passing right by us on the way to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Where are they?"

"Next to the fridge," Rue calls.

Peeta and I spring back, breaking the contact between us, and I snap a glance over to Prim, but she hasn't noticed. She hasn't looked our way, and now she's sitting back down, plate of cookies in hand, and they are all gushing once more over some fool thing. And I don't know exactly what I'm so worked up about. But my heart is pounding and when I look back at Peeta-

Oh. My. God. He is still smiling, and I bolt up from the table. I feel sure my entire body is flushed, and it's ridiculous. It's completely ludicrous, but my hand darts out again and grabs his, and this time I feel how warm and solid he is, and I give one final glance to the girls in front of the TV, and I tug on his hand so that he'll get up from the table, so that he'll follow me as I quickly walk down the hall.

I'm trembling as I pull him into my bedroom and shut the door behind us, as softly as possible so the girls won't hear. I turn around and he's so close to me. My heart is pounding. He threads his fingers through my hair and pulls me to him and our lips crash together, too clumsy and eager, and we pull apart, both laughing softly at the absurdity of this.

It's ridiculous, really, but-

But then he runs his hands down the length of my arms, skimming my fingertips before trailing them back up again and resting them on the back of my neck. I cup his elbows in my palms and snake my way up his back until my hands are hooked behind his shoulders.

This time when we come together it's more deliberate, our lips molding together gently, then insistently, then hungrily, soft little bites. He licks my bottom lip and we let our tongues touch, just the tips, just like our fingertips touched, and I dig my nails into his shoulders.

I feel my eyes roll back and flutter closed as he trails kisses down to my chin, my jaw, the line of my throat and the hollow on top of my collarbone, sucking the skin in between his teeth-

"Kat!"

Shit. It's Prim. Right outside my door.

"Kat, do we have any more soda?"

I let out a ragged gasp and tear myself away from him; he's wearing a dazed expression, like he's not quite sure if he's dreaming.

I'm not quite sure, myself.

"I'll be right...back." I reach up and touch his cheek; he kisses my palm before I draw it away. His eyes don't leave mine, and it makes me feel like I'm drowning. "Don't move."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispers, with a grin.

I grin back. I grin like a maniac as I turn away, and I try to pull my face back into seriousness as I open the door and quickly shut it behind me.

Prim just stands there, gaping. "Did you hear me? Do we have..." She trails off, her eye caught by something on the front of my shirt. I look down, but there's nothing.

"What? Do I have something..."

"Never mind." Prim is now wearing a grin to match mine and Peeta's. Her eyes are trained not on my shirt, but on my neck, just above my collarbone-

Oh crap.

I pull my shirt up, but she's seen the hickie. I look away.

"Go on," she whispers. "Go back in. I'll keep everybody busy."

"No, Prim, I..." This is wrong. This is selfish. This is just for me, for my own pleasure, there's no other reason for it. She needs me more. She needs...

"Go." She pushes me. Leans in and whispers, "He really likes you, you know." She skips off down the hallway, to join the rest of the girls.

It takes me maybe a second's thought before I'm back in the room. I close the door behind me and lean back against it. He's sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees (knee, I remind myself), hands clasped. He sits up straighter when I come in.

We just gaze at each other for a while. Then he holds up his hands to me and says, "Come here? Please?"

I'm there in an instant, kneeling down between his legs, and his arms are around me, pulling me close. He buries his face in my hair and I breathe in lungfulls of his shirt, and we stay that way for a while. I don't know quite what to do next, or what this means, or how anything will change. I feel stupidly unprepared for this.

"Hey," I finally say. I pull back a bit and so does he; he smiles at me and runs his fingers down through my hair over and over. "Why did you..." His lips on my neck again, just below my ear, distract me momentarily, and I lose my train of thought.

"Why did I? What?" His voice is a low burring in my ear, and I have to pull further away so I can concentrate.

"Why did you thank me, earlier?"

He plants a kiss on my forehead, and lets his words come out against my skin. "I know how hard that was for you, to say all that. I just..." He kisses my cheek, just next to my mouth. He can't seem to get enough of kissing me. "I appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me things like that."

I pull back again, to look into his eyes, to see whether he's bullshitting. He's not. He's right; I trust him. And I don't know why.

But I don't feel much like analyzing things right now.

This time, I'm the one who moves in and catches his lips with mine, who flicks my tongue against his lips, clutches at his hair to bring him closer. His hands surge around to my back, sweeping up and down, trying to quell my urgency, or, failing that, just slow me back to our earlier pace. But I'm having none of it.

I am on fire for this boy.