KATNISS

As I walk to class after lunch, Madge, Jo and our other friend April all catch up with me.

"Where were you at lunch?" April asks.

Jo eyes me as I replace my books from the first half of the day with the ones I'll need for my afternoon classes. "She was sitting with the new kid," she says.

"She was?" Madge asks.

"You were?" April echoes.

"His name's Peeta, guys," I say, and slam my locker shut with a loud clang.

As I walk, they all trail behind me and are left in a confused silence for a moment. "Why didn't you sit with us?" Madge asks. "We always sit together."

"He sits alone every single day," I say.

"But…" April begins. "No offense, but you're not that…nice."

I laugh. "Come on."

"Katniss," Jo says seriously. "You come on."

"Okay, okay, so I'm not that friendly, and?" I say. "I have a heart."

"Why him?" April asks.

"What do you mean, why him?" I ask, as we ascend the stairs to the second floor.

"There've been tons of new kids every year. You haven't ever cared about them before," April says.

I shrug, my eyes widening. "I don't know. I also don't know why you're like, grilling me right now."

"We're just asking questions," Madge says.

"That's called grilling," I snap back.

"Whoa," Jo says. "Bitch much?"

"Sorry," I grumble. "Me and Peeta, we're kind of friends. He came into my work."

"The sewing shop?" Madge says, too loudly.

"Shut up," I hiss, glancing around. I'm not a huge fan of people knowing I work there; it's embarrassing. The reputation I've upheld at school isn't exactly one that holds true to who I really am.

"Oh, sorry," she says.

"Yes, duh, the tailor shop," I say, much quieter. "He needed a shirt fixed. A couple of them. And I met him before, over the summer."

"You did?" Jo asks. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because it didn't matter?" I say, and now my classroom is in sight. "It was the stupid theater camp thing that I ditched. We had it together for like, a day. But he's cool. He's really nice. And he works at that new bakery. His dad owns it."

April raises her eyebrows dubiously. "The bakery?"

"Stop looking like that," I say. "What's wrong with the bakery?"

"Seems girly," Jo says.

"Well, it's not," I say defensively. "He bakes shit better than you ever could. And he can lift like, 100 pounds of flour over his head." That last part I totally made up, but they all buy it.

"Okay, random," Madge says.

I sigh exasperatedly. "I gotta go," I say. "See you guys later."

I find myself looking up every few minutes as I sit behind the desk at the tailor shop on Wednesday evening, waiting for Peeta to show up. He comes just when I'm not expecting him, but I hear him come in the door as I'm in the back gathering my next project. I can tell it's him just by his heavy footsteps.

"Be right there!" I call out, and then come around the corner with a pile of clothes stacked high in my arms.

"Need help?" he asks, and then comes around to take half of it from me. We both set the load down on the counter and come up with smiles on our faces.

"Thanks," I say, and lean forward on my hands. "Oh, right, your shirt!" I don't know why I pretended like I forgot why he came in when I'd been looking forward to his arrival all night. I shake my head at myself as I go into the back and grab his shirt, which I fixed up almost perfectly. "I got most of it," I say, as I hand it back to him.

"Looks good to me," he says, and tucks it under his arm. "I actually, uh, I brought another one, too, if that's okay."

I chuckle a little bit, raising my eyebrows as I make strong eye contact with him. "I'm starting to think that you're just finding these random ass shirts," I say. "Just so you can come see me."

I've never seen a blush so powerful as the one that floods his cheeks. "No," he says, much too quickly. "That's so…Katniss, come on." He rolls his eyes. "That's stupid. My shirts are shitty quality and you're…good at fixing them. Who else am I supposed to bring them to? I'm not…" He scoffs. "I'm not bringing them just to see you. I don't even…" He shakes his head. "No. No."

"Uh-huh," I say, shifting my weight dramatically to one hip. "Sounds legit."

"It is!" he insists, his voice rising in pitch drastically. He clears his throat. "It is."

"Hand it over, then," I say, and snap my fingers towards the balled up shirt in his hands. He tosses it to me and I snap it out, to see that it's a mechanic's shirt with the name 'Randy' stitched in cursive above the chest pocket. I start to laugh. "I bet this color looks great on you, Randy," I say amidst my giggles.

His eyebrows screw up in confusion. "What?"

I turn the shirt around so he can see the name. "I didn't know Peeta was short for Randy," I say. "Interesting."

His blush is back, and I'm secretly loving it. "It's…" He searches for something to say, and I can see him struggling. "My dad's," he finally comes up with.

"Your dad's name isn't Randy," I say. I remember that much from when my dad told me about their family. "It's like, Steve or something."

"They just gave it to him randomly," he covers. "He used to work at a garage for a few months before the bakery really got off the ground, you know, in our old town. It was an extra shirt laying around."

"And you really need the moth-eaten holes stitched up because it has that much sentimental value to you?" I ask, getting his goat.

He furrows his blonde brows. "Yes," he says, trying to sound sincere. "I like it."

"Like I said," I say. "I'm sure this color looks great on you…Randy."

He fake-glowers at me and hands over his debit card for the last shirt I fixed. "Shut up," he says.

"Keep your damn money," I say, and push his hand back. "That banana-yellow monstrosity is on the house."

He smiles, but still avoids my eyes. He obviously hadn't expected for me to call him out, I can tell that much. It's not a bad uncomfortable though, I discover that it's pretty fun to rile him up. "Thanks," he says.

"Anything for Randy, my number one customer," I say, and then reach across the counter to punch his shoulder.

"Leave me alone," he says, throwing the words over his shoulders with a laughing tone in his voice as he heads out of my little shop.

"See you tomorrow!" I call out, and he turns around and smirks at me before getting in his car and driving away.

For the next couple days, Peeta and I fall into the routine of running together in gym and then sitting together at lunch. He brings me a cheese bun on Wednesday, and then two on Thursday. One for me and one to bring home and give to Prim, of course.

"So are you coming to pick up your shirt tonight, Randy?" I ask, getting up just as the lunch warning bell rings.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Yes," he says. "I'll be there. I just have to work my shift after school first."

"Sounds good," I say, and give him a big smile as we go our separate ways.

I practically jump out of my skin when Johanna appears beside me. "I haven't seen you smile this much in your entire life," she says, walking with me into the crowd of students as passing time starts.

"This just in," I say sarcastically. "It is now a crime to be happy."

"For you, it might as well be," she says, scrutinizing. "Do you like him?"

"Yeah, he's great," I say, switching out my books for my afternoon classes.

"Don't be a dumbass," she says. "Do you likelike him?"

I let my forehead clang against the closed locker next to mine for dramatic effect. "Are we in middle school?" I ask. "Actually, you know what, my sister says that. And she's in third grade. We're in third grade now." I point above Jo's head. "Johanna's a third grader, everyone."

She pulls my arm down. "Subject changer."

I widen my eyes. "Good one."

"You so have a crush on this guy," she says, looking smug. "Avoiding the question like a fucking pro."

"I'm not," I say nonchalantly. "He's my friend. He's really sweet, smart and funny. That's all, okay? That's all. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Fine," she says. "Just know that I'm right."

"Whatever," I say in a singsong tone. "Bye, Jo. Time for bio."

That night, I have Peeta's Randy shirt waiting and ready for him on the counter the whole night, but he takes forever to come in. He takes so long, that it gets close to closing time and I'm left with nothing to do. I end up finding a hole in the shirt that I'm wearing, so I take it off and head to the back dressed in just my bra and work on stitching it.

I don't hear the door when he comes in, and for the first time I don't hear his footsteps, either. He's gotten pretty comfortable in the little shop, so the only way I know he's arrived is when he appears right in front of me in the back room.

"Hey, Katn- oh, god, I'm sorry!" he says, and immediately covers his eyes and turns his back to me.

I drop my sewing supplies and grapple for something to cover myself with. I end up with a men's dress shirt hanging on the rack, and pull it on over my head hastily.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "I should've just waited; I didn't think you heard me…"

"I didn't," I say. "It's okay. Wow, you just really scared me. I'm sorry. Didn't meant to be, um, indecent."

"I didn't mean to see you," he says, and even as we go back to the front of the store he won't look at me. "I didn't mean to, gah, I'm really sorry."

I take one look at him; head ducked, shoulders hunched, hands pressed to his face, and start chuckling.

"Stop laughing at me," he says.

"I'm not laughing at you," I say.

If I'm not mistaken, he presses his hands harder against his face. "Making it worse."

"I'm not mad," I say. "Stop being sorry. It was accident. I mean, it could've been worse. At least I was wearing a bra."

"God, don't say it," he says.

"What?" I ask. "Bra?" He laughs and nods his head. "Bra, really? Come on, Peeta. So immature."

"I feel bad!" he says.

"Well, stop," I say. "Just pretend it was a bathing suit. I'm fine."

He uncovers his face and I see that his skin is blotchy all over. "Sorry," he says.

"One more sorry and I'm ripping the Randy shirt in half. After all the hard work I did."

That gets another laugh out of him. "But that's my favorite shirt."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I say. "Don't worry about paying for it. The fixes were tiny. Probably because there wasn't really anything to fix in the first place."

"Yes, there was," he insists. "The moth holes. You said it yourself."

"Hm," I say, humoring him. "Whatever." He still won't look at me. "Peeta," I say, and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat but doesn't look up. "Peeta, you have to look at me eventually."

He lifts his chin up but his eyes don't meet mine.

"I'm clothed," I say. "Promise."

He sighs. "I feel like a total creep," he says.

I lock eyes with him and start to turn the lights off. "It was just an accident!" I say. "Calm down. I'm not mad, so you don't have any reason to be upset. You're not a creep. You're very stealthy and I was very zoned out."

"Okay, okay," he says, and walks me to the door. "And if you aren't letting me pay, at least let me give you a ride home."

I look at him warily as I lock the door behind us and stand out in the desolate parking lot next to him. The air has a bite to it that's reminiscent of fall. It's just started to get colder outside.

We live on the same street, there's no reason for him not to drive me. But for some reason, I feel inexplicably nervous about getting in the car with him. Not bad nervous, either. Butterflies nervous. And that scares me more.

"Okay," I agree, and get in on the passenger's side. His car is nice; it's a black Ford Fusion with plenty of legroom and clean seats. It's the cleanest guy's car I've ever seen, and it even smells good.

"I have an idea," I say only a few minutes into our ride. The only other sound interrupting the silence was 24K Magic by Bruno Mars playing quietly on the radio, and Peeta had been bobbing his head along to the beat.

"What?" he asks.

"How about instead of hanging out in the crusty tailor shop every other day, we actually do something fun together?"

He seems interested. "Like what?" he asks.

I say the first thing that comes into my head. "There's a football game tomorrow night. Do you want to go with me?" He gives me a look and I continue. "Just me. Not any of my crazy friends or anything. It'll just be like, us hanging out. Chilling and stuff, watching the game."

"Yeah," he says, nodding and smiling. "That sounds fun."

"Awesome!" I say, and can't keep the smile away.

I tell him what time it starts and he tells me that he'll be by my house after his shift at the bakery so he can drive us both back to the school. He pulls up into my driveway after we've solidified our plans and shifts the car into park while watching me get unbuckled. "Excited for tomorrow," he says, and I bend in half as I stand outside the car so I can see his eyes.

"Me, too!" I say enthusiastically. "See you in gym." I trot into my house to find Prim sitting on the bottom step with a suspicious look on her face.

"You were in a car with a boy," she states.

"And?" I ask, kicking my shoes off. "You're up too late. Where's dad?"

"He fell asleep early," she says. "I was waiting for you."

"Jeez," I say, rolling my eyes to myself. "Did you eat anything?" She shakes her head, so I grab her gently by the shoulder and lead her to the kitchen. "Well, come on then. Let's have some dinner."

I tell her about Peeta over macaroni and cheese, and she soaks in my words with the amount of care only a little sister would have.

"Do you have a crush on him?" she asks, mirroring Johanna's words from just hours ago.

But I look at Prim differently than I do Johanna. I carefully consider her question and let myself mull over my answer, because I'm really not sure. My emotions have always been difficult to reason with and hard to read. There's no telling with them. "I don't know," I say, but I'm smiling. "I think. Maybe? I don't know."

She squeals and claps her hands together, excited by my excitement. "You have a crush; you have a crush!" she sings.

"Shut up," I say. "Don't get all crazy. We'll just see. Who knows, maybe I don't. I'm just going to take things one step at a time and see how it goes."

I help Prim get ready for bed and then tuck her in, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before shutting off her light and telling her not to read for too long. I head to my own room after brushing my teeth and, once I'm changed into my mismatched pajamas, lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I'm unable to keep my thoughts from wandering to Peeta.

A few weeks ago I barely knew who he was, and now I'm thinking about him before I fall asleep. I can't help but smile as I picture his mortified face when he caught me changing earlier, and even chuckle a little bit out loud.

I'm pretty popular at school; it'd be naïve of me not to realize that. Even though we don't have much money, no one really knows that or cares too much. I've always been well-liked, even though I'm not the nicest person you'll ever meet. Because of this, plenty of guys have had crushes on me before. I know what a crush looks like, all different kinds of them. The guys act on them in different ways, and there have even been times that I've entertained a few of them. But with Peeta…this is the first time that I've ever been nervous about someone having feelings for me.

I think it might be because I feel something real for him in return.

When Peeta looks at me, he doesn't see what everyone already thinks I am. He's new, so he doesn't know anything about me and I like that. He looks at me for what I really am; just imagining his blue eyes settling on me sends my heart into a tizzy and I have to screw my eyes shut as my cheeks heat up. He doesn't look through me. He sees me.

Prim sits on the front porch with me the next evening as I wait for Peeta to come pick me up for the game. I'm wearing black leggings, tan winter boots and a navy blue Otsego sweatshirt with gold lettering – a soccer one of mine from last season, but spirited nonetheless. I French braided my hair and tied the end with a gold ribbon, which Prim is now running between her thumb and first finger.

"Is he late?" she asks, peering down the street. We can almost see his house from where we sit, so I don't know why I don't just walk over. I guess I'm not really sure if he's coming from there, and I'm also feeling a little shy.

"No," I say truthfully. "We're early."

"But we're just sitting here."

"You can go back inside if you want to," I say. "I told you that."

"I want to be with you," she insists.

"Well then, okay," I say.

"Can I come with?" she asks.

"Not this time," I say for the tenth time, and lean forward with my elbows on my knees.

"Why?"

I sigh, trying to keep my exasperation in check. "Because," I say. "I'm going with Peeta. Not Madge and Jo."

"So?" she asks. "I know him."

"It's just not the same," I say.

"Because you guys are going on a date?" she asks.

"No," I say, then reword. "I don't know. Can you just…" I roll my eyes and gesture with my hand. "With all the questions."

She huffs. "I'm not even asking that much."

We're quiet for a few minutes until I see the black Ford Fusion cruising toward us. It pulls up in our driveway and when Peeta steps out, Prim beats me to the punch in greeting him.

"Hi, Peeta!" she says enthusiastically, bolting up from her spot on the steps and skipping over to him. She stands in front of him with her hands clasped behind her back, and I'm suddenly conscious of the dingy outfit she's wearing. A pair of faded jeans with a hole in the knee that are just a little too long and a hoodie of mine from eighth grade that's huge on her. She looks like the epitome of a scraggly kid, and I hope Peeta isn't judging her. When I look at his face, though, I know I'm stupid for thinking he'd do such a thing. He's wearing a huge grin as he looks down at my sister, and he pats her back when she hugs him.

"Sorry about her," I say under my breath, walking up to him. "Ready to go?"

"Sure," he says.

"Bye, Prim," I say, and physically recoil with the force she huge me with.

"Will you come kiss me goodnight when you get home?" she asks, knowing that football games get out late.

"Yes," I say. "But do not wait up for me. Go to bed at 8 if Dad doesn't tell you. I left a couple DVDs out for you to pick from, and don't go crazy on sugar. Promise?"

"Yeah, yeah," she says, and gives me another hug before running back to the front step. "Bye!" she calls out as we drive away, waving one hand maniacally.

Peeta chuckles as we pull away from my house. "You sure went drill sergeant on her," he says.

I stare out the window, my stomach jumping. "Sometimes our dad isn't home at night. He works a lot. And she's only eight, so…" I shrug. "She needs it."

"So she really depends on you, huh?"

"I guess," I say. "It's always been like that. We're used to it."

"It's sweet," he says. "What about your mom?" Almost as soon as he says it, I can tell he wants to take it back. "That was pushy. I'm sorry, if you wanted to talk about it, you would have, and I-"

"Peeta," I say, cutting him off. "It's fine. I don't care. My mom has bipolar," I say. "Crash course on my life. She's in bed a lot; she has more downs than ups. Honestly I prefer the downs. The ups can be scary, and they used to get Prim way too excited. They don't really happen that much anymore." He nods pensively. "We're used to that, too. She's never been good at taking her meds." I shrug. "I'm not close to her on purpose. I never really was."

He bites his lower lip. "I'm sorry."

"Don't need to say sorry," I say. "It's my life." I turn towards him. "So what's your ten-second sob story?" He laughs softly, still facing the road. "What? We all have one."

He grips the steering wheel tight and twists it under his hands as he thinks. "Um, well…" His forehead crinkles. "I don't really have the best track record with my mom, either."

"Oh really?" I ask. "Twins."

"Yeah," he says. "We don't get along pretty much ever. She's always on my ass about one thing or another." He shakes his head. "I know everyone says that. But it's different with her. She's just…she can be pretty mean."

"Why would anyone have a reason to be mean to you?" I ask, truly curious. He's the kindest, most considerate person I've ever met.

"She could give you a list of about a hundred reasons," he says, sounding defeated. My heart hurts just hearing his voice change in the way it did. Now I wish I'd never asked.

There's a beat of silence between us. "Okay, let's forget that just happened," I say, in attempt to lighten the mood back up. "I'm so excited to bring you to your very first Otsego football game. I can't wait to show you how much we suck."

He laughs, and I'm comforted in seeing the smile return to his face. It lights it right back up. "It's that bad?" he asks as we pull up into the school parking lot.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "We haven't won in like, a thousand years." I chuckle. "A little less than that, but not by much." I step out of the car when he parks and pump my fists into the air. "We're still spirited, though!"

We stop at the concession stand before finding a spot in the bleachers, and it turns out that my friend Bristel is working behind the counter tonight. "Hey, Katniss," she says, and hands me a pop and a bag of M&Ms. It's what I always get, usually for free depending on who's working.

"Hey, B," I say, then touch Peeta's forearm. "This is Peeta."

"Hey," she says nonchalantly, a breezy smile appearing on her face. She's probably the most laidback friend that I have, and the least nosy, too.

"What are you gonna get?" I ask him, tipping my chin up so I can look him in the eyes. He studies the menu board, and I can sense that he feels put on the spot. "The nachos are pretty good," I say. "But messy. Popcorn is safe. I'd recommend extra salt though. Or, you know, you can be a kid like me and just get some candy." I shake the bag of M&Ms and laugh. He smiles down at me, and his eyes light my heart on fire. I have to look away before I combust.

"I'll get some Twizzlers," he says. "And Sprite."

Bristel turns around to fill up a cup of pop and then hands it back to us. When Peeta starts to pull out his money, she stops his hand after making sure her boss is nowhere in sight. "Don't worry about it," she says. "If you're good with Katniss, you're good with me."

His hand pauses. "Wait… are you sure?" he asks. She nods. "Okay," he says. "Thank you so much."

As we walk towards the bleachers, he says, "Why am I getting the feeling that you have this school wrapped around your finger?"

I crack up. "I guess I kind of do," I say. "Hopefully not in a bad way."

"No, no," he says. "I mean, if I get free candy and pop from it, it's definitely not bad."

We find a place to sit and notice that the game is already in the very beginning of the second quarter and the sun is almost finished setting.

I wrap my arms around myself as we sit hip-to-hip and rub my hands over them to generate some sort of warmth. "Are you cold?" I ask, looking over to him as he sips his drink.

"A little," he says. "I brought this." He digs in his backpack and then fans out a tartan-patterned blanket. When I fan it over my shoulders, I lift up one side of it and lay it down over him, too.

"You said you were a little cold," I say, when he looks at me for a little too long. "We can share."

"Okay," he says, and then pulls it around himself in the same way that I have my side. We sit as close as we can so the blanket covers as much of us as possible, and I find myself really wanting to lay my head down on his shoulder. For some reason, though, I don't. I can't make myself. I feel too shy and too nervous, which is a first.

"You weren't kidding," Peeta says after a while of watching the game. "This team is really bad."

I laugh and turn to face him. "See, I told you," I say. "I almost never pay attention when I go to games. Because it's just sad."

He chuckles. "Do you come to games a lot?"

"Eh, sometimes," I say. "I came a lot last year because my ex played varsity then. He doesn't anymore." Peeta gives me a curious look. "We broke up before school started."

"What happened?" he asks. I feel the warmth of his body radiating onto mine, and I wish there was room for me to scoot even closer. Without his arms wrapped around me, we're as close as we could possibly be, though.

"I know I'm better than how he was treating me." I shake my head, not wanting to get into it. "It was a lot of stuff. You don't want to hear it."

"I do," he says. "I'm a good listener. But if you don't wanna talk about it, I get it."

"It's just a lot of shit that I'd have to dig back up," I say. "He's not even worth it."

"Totally understandable," he says, then faces back toward the field. "He's an idiot to have lost you, though."

I smile at him, though he isn't looking my way. "You think so?" I ask.

A smirk teases the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't look over at me. He stays looking at the uneventful game. "Definitely," he says.

Ruining our moment, a brash voice sounds from the aisle next to us. "What the fuck is this?" I look up and see Marvel, who is Cato's right-hand man. If it's possible for anyone to be dumber than Cato, it's him.

He scoffs. "This is something I never thought I'd see," he says.

"Fuck off, Marvel," I say under my breath, looking over at him with narrowed eyes.

"I'm surprised, Everdeen," he says, ignoring me. "I didn't know you were a lesbian."

My skin bristles and my face heats up. I stare daggers down at the ground and clench my fists, hoping by not reacting that it will force Marvel to get bored and walk away.

"If you're looking for a dick under that blanket, it's gonna take you a while," he continues, and I clench my fists tighter.

"Just ignore him," I mutter, glancing up at Peeta. His eyes are dead-set on the game, refusing to look anywhere else.

"I'm surprised," Marvel continues. "And honestly offended. You'll fuck that, but not me? Jesus. Standards are lower than ever, Everdeen. How does it feel to be dating someone who's even more of a girl than you are?"

I can't hold in my anger anymore. I jump up from my seat on the bleachers and leave the blanket behind, stepping around Peeta's legs so I'm nose-to-nose with the fuckhead who won't leave us alone.

"Fuck off, Marvel," I say, raising my voice from a growl to a near-shout. "I'm surprised you can take time away from your busy schedule of sucking Cato's dick to even talk to us." I stare him down for a beat that feels like it lasts forever.

"Good one," he counters, but doesn't have anything more than that.

"Come on, Peeta, this is stupid. Let's go." I help him gather our things and then take his hand to walk out of the throng of students together. I turn back before we've walked very far away and shout, "Go get fucked by a cactus, Marvel!"

I'm not sure how many people saw that, but I know that it's in our best interest to get out of there before anything else happens.

We don't speak until we get to his car. And even then, when both of our doors close we just sit there in the silence for a while. The car is running, but Peeta makes no move to go anywhere.

"I'm sorry that happened," I finally say. "Don't listen to him. Or Cato. They're both just worthless pieces of shit."

"I know," he says, and rubs his temples.

"All that stuff he said, it doesn't matter," I say. "They're just overcompensating for their tiny dicks and the fact that they're gay for each other. Which, I mean, there would be nothing wrong with that if they didn't take it out on everyone else."

He's still shaking his head.

"What's wrong?" I ask, turning my head to look at him closer.

"Nothing," he says, sighing. "I just hate that it happened. And that it keeps happening. They never leave me alone. And now…" He lets his head fall back to hit the headrest with a slight thump. "I just feel like it's going to get worse."

I bunch my hands into fists again. I have a lot of anger that I don't know what to do with. "Can I see your keys?" I ask.

He looks at me pointedly. "You're not going to go key his car."

I slump back against the seat, and we're quiet for a long while just sitting the parked car as the night folds in around us.

"Can we talk about something else?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, and then bring up something I've noticed all night. "You smell like frosting."

He groans softly. "That's not helping my case with the shitheads."

"Fuck them," I say. "I like it. It's from the bakery, right?"

"Yeah," he says. "I had a shift before I came to get you."

I fold one leg under me so I can sit more comfortably. "Do you work tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he says. "In the morning."

"I'll come and see you," I say. "Me and my sister. I have a soccer game, but it's not until 2. She won't wanna go to that because she gets cold and pissy, but I definitely won't have to coerce her to coming to the bakery with me."

His face lights up a little bit. "Cool," he says. "I can have something ready for her."

"She's going to freak out," I say with a smile. "She'll die."

"Awesome," he says, and grins again. I'm happy to see it come back to his face. After a few seconds of being inside his own head, though, it disappears. "Maybe you and I shouldn't hang out around people anymore."

My stomach drops. "Why?" I ask, my voice on edge.

"If you being seen with me gets a reaction like…that, I don't wanna subject you to it," he says. "People like you. They don't like me."

"I don't give a shit, Peeta," I say. "I like you. I'm not ashamed of hanging out with you. That's stupid."

He sends a small puff of air out of his nose. "Okay," he says.

"Wanna go for a drive?" I ask. "I can show you all the cool places around here. AKA, the, like, two that exist."

He starts the engine and puts the car in drive. "Just tell me where," he says.

We end up driving around the back roads of our tiny town for more than an hour, just making light conversation about seemingly anything. I learn a lot about him; he has two brothers who live pretty far away, he's kind of close with his dad, he's never been someone with a lot of friends and he gets really good grades because school comes easy for him. I tell him a little bit more about me, too; that I've lived in this godforsaken town my whole life, I feel an obligation to take care of my family, and school doesn't come that easy for me and I have to work really hard to end up with average grades. I dodge the topic of college and what will happen after high school. I've been trying to forget that real life is encroaching closer and closer with every passing minute of my senior year.

When he drops me off at my house, I see that the living room light is still on inside even though it's almost 10. "Prim…" I grumble under my breath, and turn to face him. "Didn't listen to me, obviously."

He grins. "Go get her," he says.

I lean in for a hug and bury my face in his neck once he wraps his arms around me. I'm overwhelmed with the sweet and spicy smell of him, and feel like I could drown in it forever if he'd let me. If that wasn't really damn weird.

"See you tomorrow," I breathe once I pull away. I swipe a tendril of hair out of my face and give him a bashful smile. I can't help myself; I go in for one more hug and he holds me twice as tight.

"Bye," he says, and I wave at him from the front porch as he drives away.

I unlock the front door and push it open, expecting to find Prim wide-eyed on the couch with an expectant look on her face, ready to hear everything. I wasn't planning on being mad at her, but I'm met with a much different picture.

The TV is still on, playing the title sequence for The Hannah Montana Movie over and over again. The house is cold and Prim is asleep in her pajamas; fuzzy white pants with blue polka dots and an oversized t-shirt of mine from last year's choir festival. She's curled into a ball in the corner of the couch; her mouth opened just slightly and her twin braids flyaway and askew. I smile slightly looking at her, and then walk quietly over and shut the TV off. I have no idea where Dad is, but I assume he's in bed. I wonder if he saw Prim at all tonight or if she was alone to entertain herself the entire time, and feel incredibly guilty that I left my eight-year-old baby sister on her own for the whole night.

I pick her up easily, cradling her small body in my arms, and carry her up the stairs to her room. I lay her down in her unmade bed and pull the covers up to her chin, then kiss her temple once she's settled. I change into my pajamas and then crawl into bed with her to keep warm. I'm not sure what the thermostat is set at, but it's too cold for the changing seasons and it's something I might have to spar with dad for in the morning. Laying here with her, I'm reminded of an old nickname she used to call me: sister mama. When she was little and Mom was holed up for days on end, I became Prim's mother in her place. My role has shifted slightly since then, but I'll always feel that same pull towards her.

When I wake up, Prim is still sound asleep and the sun is high in the sky. I look over and see that it's almost noon, and we both slept for much longer than I had intended.

I don't bother her yet, though; I get in the shower and dry my hair, then get dressed in my soccer stuff so I can just go straight to my game after I drop her back at home once we're done at the bakery. It's not bath time for her until tonight, so she'll take approximately three seconds to get ready opposed to my half hour.

"Wake up," I say softly, my hand on her shoulder. "Wake up, Prim, we're gonna go get a special treat at the bakery."

Her blue eyes blink open at the sound of that and she instantly looks interested. "Where are we going?" she asks.

"The bakery," I say. "So get up and find some clothes."

She sits on the edge of her bed and rubs her eyes. "But you're in soccer stuff," she says groggily.

"I know," I say, digging through her drawers for her. I toss her a purple skort, white tights and a black shirt with stars on it. "I have a game right after. But I want to take you to get a treat."

"And see Peeta," she says, slowly changing her clothes. At first I think she's teasing me, but realize she's just making a statement.

"Yeah, he's working," I say. "He said he'd make you something special. Something white chocolate."

Her face lights up even more and she speeds up the rate at which she's putting on her clothes. Within mere minutes she's ready, and I get us out the door and walking in the direction of the bakery in less than an hour of waking up.

"Was the game fun?" she asks.

"Yeah," I lie. I don't want to get into explaining it to her. She doesn't need to know about all that shit yet.

"Did we win?" she asks.

"Of course not," I respond. She giggles. "We never win."

"I know," she says, the laugh still present in her voice.

We get to the bakery by 12:30 and I see Peeta's car parked outside. Just by the Fusion coming into view, my stomach starts jumping with excitement. Prim rushes ahead of me and bursts through the door, and the welcome bell rings with her entrance. I go in shortly after and see Peeta behind the counter that holds the glass cases and decorative displays. His hair is more unkempt than usual; interlaced with dustings of flour and sticking up in certain places where it looks like his hands have run through it. He's in a form-fitting white t-shirt with Mellark's Bakery printed on it with an apron tied around his waist.

His face lights up when we come through the door and I'm delighted to see that we're his only customers at the moment. "Hey Katniss," he says, his blue eyes lingering on me. "Hi, Prim."

She presses her body up against the counter and looks up at him excitedly. "Did you make something for me?" she asks impatiently.

"Don't be greedy," I say, nudging her. "Say hi first, at least. Jeez."

"It's fine," he laughs. "I did make something. Hold on, let me go get it." He disappears into the back and then reappears with what looks like a big white chunk of something.

"What is it, what is it?" she asks, bouncing up and down in an effort to see what he has.

"It's a special cookie I made," he says. "Then I dipped it in melted white chocolate, then it hardened. Now it's all cased in white chocolate, the cookie still fresh on the inside."

I'm not a huge fan of white chocolate, but my mouth practically starts watering listening to him talk about it. "Whoa…" Prim says, carefully taking it from him.

"Here," I say, handing her a handful of napkins. "Go sit down at a table. And do not tell Dad that you had dessert for breakfast." She giddily obeys me and is completely silent as she enjoys her treat. "That's insane," I say to Peeta. "You made that just this morning?"

He nods proudly. "It wasn't hard," he says. "It was no big deal. I'm glad she likes it."

"She's gonna be talking about it for years now," I say. "You made her day. Thank you."

"Anytime," he says. "I mean that. Do you want anything?"

I shake my head. "No, no, I couldn't."

"You've got game clothes on," he says. "And my best guess is that you didn't eat breakfast this morning. You're gonna collapse out there on the field if you don't eat something." I just sit back and listen to him with a sly smirk on my face, arms crossed, weight slanted to one hip. "So I'm gonna go get you a few things for breakfast and you're going to eat them. Sound good?"

"Peeta…" I say, rolling my eyes.

"Great," he says. He comes back within minutes with a buttered croissant, a cheese bun, a banana, and a glass of orange juice all on a tray for me. "Go sit," he says. "I'll bring it to you."

"You don't need to…" I trail off, but I ultimately give in and sit across from my sister, who is still enjoying her much less healthy breakfast.

"Eat up," he says. "You need your strength."

"Thanks, Peeta," I say, giving him a poignant glance. I dig in while he goes back behind the counter when some other customers come in, and we continue to catch each other's eyes as I eat. I give him a thumbs up when I get to the cheese bun, and hold it close to my chest in a pretend hug.

"What are you doing?" Prim asks, glancing between the two of us as we communicate silently over the people buying bakery items.

"I just really like these," I tell her, popping the last bite into my mouth.

"You keep looking over at Peeta," she points out.

"I'm just thanking him," I say.

"You're saying more than that," she says. "You have a crush on him, right?"

"Prim," I say, my voice low under the sound of milling customers. "Don't say that. Not now."

She studies me and doesn't say anything more. As we sit at our small, circular table, the bakery gets busier and busier. I glance at the clock and know we need to get going so I can get Prim home with enough time for me to get to my game, but I don't want to leave without spending more time with Peeta. But even though I wish I could stay, I know I can't.

I lean on the glass display case as he rings up an elderly woman and helps her count her change. "We gotta go," I say. "My game. And I have to take Prim home. See you at school?"

"See you," he says, and gives me a short wave. "Good luck."

I throw a 'thanks' over my shoulder as we head out, and then hurry home to drop Prim off.