I expect Peeta to come over that night but he doesn't. I expect him at breakfast but he's not there. I try to give him his space. It's what he wants, obviously, but I've never been good at prioritizing what he wants. By noon I'm trudging my way across the lawn. My hand grabs the doorknob but I pause. I shouldn't assume things. I ball up my first and knock.

The door creaks open and I'm greeted by a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy, just not the one I want.

"Hey Katniss," Rye Mellark says, keeping his voice low.

"Hey," I say. I don't offer more than that. I stand there expectantly, but Rye doesn't move.

"He doesn't want company right now," Rye says, trying not to make eye contact.

"I'm not company," I respond. He doesn't budge. "Come on, Rye." I'm frustrated. Visibly frustrated. I don't know why Rye is suddenly so emboldened but he is not having it. His eyes lock with mine.

"How many times have you pushed him out of your life? Did he show up on your doorstep all demanding and needy? He just wants some space to figure stuff out, Katniss. You can give him that," Rye answers.

Peeta has never wanted space. Not unless he thought he would hurt me.

"Did he flash yesterday? After?" I ask. Rye stares at the door frame, my eyes trace his jaw. He looks so similar to Peeta sometimes.

"Fine," I answer tersely, spinning on my heel and stepping off the porch.

"Katniss!" Rye calls out in a loud whisper. He looks over his shoulder and then closes the door quietly. "He's sleeping. He doesn't even know you're here."

"And last night?" I ask.

"He came home and called me. By the time I got here he'd already flashed. He locked himself in a closet in the front hall and threw the key somewhere out in the lawn. It took me two hours to get him out. After that he passed out and he hasn't woken up since," Rye says. "He doesn't want you around when he… you know…."

I run my hands over my face. I thought we were past this. He hasn't flashed in so long. And he's been able to keep control before. Maybe he's out of practice. Ugh. I don't know what to do with this. I need advice. I need… Prim. Cinna. Someone.

"Okay. Just… when he wakes up…. Tell him I said hi," I answer. Hi? I'm so stupid sometimes. I step off the porch and start to walk away.

"Katniss, one other thing," Rye starts. I look up at him and I can tell he feels awful about what he's about to say.

"Just spit it out," I say, meeting his eye.

"Peeta said… lock your doors. That's all," Rye blurts out quickly, as if it will make it hurt less.

I don't respond, I just turn around and start the walk home, but a thought pushes its way into my mind. Cinna. When you see you are being selfish, change it. Make a different choice. So my feet take me to the market instead. I manage to find most of what I need. Some of the items aren't exactly what I'm looking for, but they'll do. I stop by the work site and bargain for the last of the supplies. By the time I'm back in Victor's Village it's nearly dark. I take my loot up to my room.

My mother doesn't bother me.

I take position by my window and watch the house across the way. The light's on in the kitchen. Through the thin, white cotton curtain I can see two shadows move about in measured and familiar paths between the sink, the counter, the oven. They're baking together.

Rye hates baking. He's never been very good at it. Not like his father, not like Peeta. He doesn't have the patience. Baking takes calm, it takes time. Rye is too busy juggling the eggs and hiding spoons in the flour to follow his recipes correctly. In the bakery, Rye mostly ran the frontend. Customers found his wide smile and cavalier attitude charming. Peeta was shy, like his father. He stayed in the back and focused his hands on the dough. When Peeta was reaped, there were murmurs of relief that it was Peeta and not Rye. No one cared what happened to Peeta. Even watching their shadows, I know who is who. Rye is playful, erratic even. Peeta has a steadiness about how he moves.

I drift off and wake up hours later, my neck cramped from leaning against the windowsill. There's just one shadow now, still at the counter. The shadow turns and walks toward the window, opening the curtain. He looks up toward me. At Peeta's face I drop hurriedly to the floor, hiding below the windowsill. I'm surprised I don't wake my mother with the crash. I'm caught. I think I'm caught. I creep my face up slowly, peeking out the window until I make eye contact with the boy across the lawn. His lips are caught in a half-smirk. He waves.

My face burns red with embarrassment. Peeta turns away from the window and walks across the kitchen. I'm startled when I hear the phone ring loudly. I leap from my bed and race down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen. I rip it off the receiver before a third ring drives my mother from her bed.

"Hi," I say awkwardly, winded and out of breath. At first he doesn't say anything. I wait as my stomach clenches.

"Hey," he finally offers.

"Hi," I say again. Well this is going well. "Did you… um… did you want something?"

"I just wanted to hear your voice," Peeta answers.

"Well, this is my voice," I reply, and I hear him chuckle softly on the other end of the line. We're quiet for a moment. "Peeta, come over," I say softly. I hear him sigh.

"I can't."

"Peeta, come over," I repeat.

"I flashed after the fight. I think it was the blood but I don't know. I just… I don't know how we are ever supposed to be together if I might kill you at the sound of a random word or the sight of blood," Peeta says, his voice heavy.

"That's not fair," I say, a rock forming in the base of my throat as I force myself not to cry. I sound like a child, but it's not fair. None of this is fair.

"I know, Kat. I don't think so either. But –"

"It's been months since the last time you flashed. You are getting control of it. It just takes time," I ramble. "It takes practice." I flinch at the word. I remember his doctors from 13. The desensitization sessions. Treatment protocols. Pills in orange bottles with stubborn caps. Peeta still talks to a therapist on the phone at least once a week. It's not that he's not trying.

"Tell me a story," he says softly into the receiver. He's changing the subject. Our immediate focus is getting through the night.

"Come over and I'll tell you a story," I retort. He's silent. This time I sigh. "Okay. Um…" I try to think of something light. I remember all the stories Peeta used to tell me to help me sleep. Stories of Rye's antics in the bakery. Wrestling matches gone wrong. "There was this one time that I was mad at Gale," I start.

"One time?" Peeta teases. I smile.

"Yes. This one time I was mad at Gale because he pretended like he was teaching me a new snare, but instead I ended up with wire wrapped around my thumbs and the harder I pulled, the tighter it got. I had to beg him to cut me free with his hunting knife. He said he learned it from a kid at school. It was called a finger trap," I say. Peeta hums to indicate he's listening, but he's already so tired. "So anyway, I wanted to get back at him, so Madge stole her mom's clear nail polish for me. The next day after hunting, I stopped at the Hawthorne's to use the bathroom, but instead I painted their bar of soap so it was encased in clear polish. It wouldn't lather, and none of the boys could figure out what was wrong. It was days of those smelly teenage boys not bathing with soap. Gale reeked. He was pursuing this girl at school at the time…. Oh, what was her name?" I pause for a moment. I wonder if Peeta will offer suggestions, but on the other end I just hear the steady breath of weariness. "Kara. Kara Mayberry. Gale went up to talk to her and she plugged her nose and ran the other way." I start laughing to myself, but it's quiet on the other line. "Peeta?" I ask. I am greeted only with silence.

I wait a little while.

Okay, long enough. I leave the phone off the hook and lay it on the floor. I pad up to my room, throw on some pants, and grab my bag of supplies. I sneak across the lawn to Peeta's. The door is locked, but I take a paperclip from my pocket and start finagling in the keyhole. Gale took lock picking in District 13. I helped him study. I try to find the release, but the pick swirls fruitlessly around. Maybe I should have taken more classes and spent less time feuding with Coin. When I hear the lock click, though, I grin widely, gratified.

I push the door open quietly. To my left, I can see Peeta sleeping on the floor of the kitchen, phone receiver in hand. I walk straight forward and creep up the stairs silently. To the left is Peeta's room. To the right is where my room is in my house, straight forward is Prim's. I don't know where Rye is sleeping. I gamble and go straight, pushing the door open quietly.

The room is empty. I know Peeta used to paint in here, but they never returned any of his supplies following the Victory Tour. I reach in my bag. I pull out the wooden easel that was displaying Sae's sign in the Market. I got it off her for a rabbit and a jar of pickled green beans. There's some canvas from the seamstress. It's not painter's quality, but it will do until we can order more than food and staples from on the Capitol train. I pull out the small cans of paint I bartered off Thom at the worksite. It's wall paint, not oil paint. I hope it's enough. I put the paint brushes I made from a soft bristle hairbrush and some straight, sturdy sticks I found in the woods. I step back and eye my work. It's not professional by any means, but if it lets him get out the demons in his head, that's all he needs.

I sneak out and quietly close the door. I tiptoe down the stairs, stealing one last look at the sleeping baker before I dart back into the night. I spend the rest of the evening on my kitchen floor next to the phone, just in case Peeta wakes up and needs to talk. I finally doze off soon after the sun starts breaking through the kitchen window. I'm awoken by a pounding on my front door.

I open it and find Peeta, cheeks flushed on my front porch.

"I told you to lock this door," he says, winded and with a half-smile.

"I don't recall you saying that," I say, my expression mirroring his.

"Rye said he told you," Peeta says, his grin growing.

"Oh Rye. Yeah, since when have I listened to anything Rye told me?" I answer.

I look to Peeta's hands. There are speckles of blue and green paint. He steps up from the porch and into the doorframe with me.

"You got me paint," he says, his hand sliding to my hip.

"Mhmm," I confirm, biting my lip.

"You made me a studio," Peeta says, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. It's almost past my chin now. He's fascinated with it.

"Mhmm," I nod my head. He leans forward and my back presses against the door frame. His thumb strokes my hip and I feel as though I might melt.

"I can't stay away from you. I should, but I can't," he whispers.

"Good," I murmur back. He presses his forehead to mine. I let my eyes fall closed and feel him here with me.

"Thank you," he breathes. "For helping me find my way."

My mother clears her throat loudly and we shoot away from each other. Peeta nearly trips over himself, blushing feverishly.

"Sorry, Mrs. Everdeen!" Peeta spatters.

She smirks as she walks into the kitchen and takes the coffee from the cupboard. "Aren't you joining us? Or are you going to keep gawking at my daughter from the porch?" she asks Peeta without turning around.

"Yeah, um... Yes. Ma'am," he stammers.

"Go get your brother. I'm making my kids breakfast," my mother says. Peeta smiles. I can't help it, I smile too.

I've decided I'm not running. Peeta finally decides too.