Hey guys! I'm really sorry about how long this took me. I worked a lot over break, and my grandpa passed away right before Christmas, so it's been a rather chaotic couple weeks. But I don't think it'll take me this long to update again, so woo! Hope you guys had good holidays :)

For a quick recap (because I don't even know what's going on in my story without re-reading), Peeta's aware that Katniss still resorts to SI, but he made a deal with her that, if she tries to get better, he won't tell like he's supposed to. Oh, and some kid got beat up and was in the hospital. Any guesses who it is? Last chance to predict, because (I think) it's coming up in the next chapter.

Thanks so much to everyone who subscribed and favorited. Special kudos to CapitvatedButHollowHungerGam es, Chanceawakening, VMars lover, Thynerdgurl, the Guest, and Beautiful Lie 5105 for reviewing for me! I honestly really do appreciate any feedback, follows, or favorites.

Suzanne Collins still owns the Hunger Games.

XXX

On Tuesday night, I go to the library because Johanna has some guy in the room.

Sitting at a table in the corner of the library, I pull out my highlighter, glance at the Gov. reading for tomorrow, and immediately feel a strong urge to cry. No one's looking at me, but I bite my cheek—hard. Hard enough to leave teeth marks along the skin, but it's also enough to quiet the anxiety.

I make it halfway through the first chapter before the bad feelings start to creep back in. The words on the page begin to blur and tangle, and it's suddenly impossible focus to over the sounds of whispering and typing and pages turning in the room.

My leg starts to bounce, and I scratch at my arm. I focus my energy into the movement and the feeling, and it slowly erases the world around me. There's a rushing sound in my ears that drowns out the other sounds, until—

"Hey!"

A voice that's far too loud for a library interrupts me. My head shoots up and I find Delly standing in front of me, backpack slung around both of her shoulders. She smiles at me, as always, and I try not to wonder how much she saw.

"Hey, Delly," I return, somewhat dazed.

She touches the back of the chair that's across from me. "Can I sit?"

I look around. There are plenty of empty tables, particularly those in the middle of the room, but she must think I'm sitting here, wishing I had company. Sometimes I do, but right now, I couldn't care less.

I give her a short nod. "Sure."

Her bag hits the floor with a thud and she takes a seat. She lets out her breath in a heavy sigh, taking a stack of papers out of her bag, along with a red pen.

"Psych essay due tomorrow," she explains, noticing the way I watch her.

There's a long pause, mostly because I don't have anything to say in response. But any normal person would at least try to have some kind of conversation, so I slowly ask, "What's yours about?"

"Effects of the different bullying-prevention methods in middle schools." She shrugs. "Didn't turn out as well as I hoped, but maybe Peeta can save it."

In spite of myself, I perk up. "Peeta?"

Delly lifts the essay to show me. "I'm editing his. Awful at it, but he pretends I'm not."

I nod, glance down at the textbook in my hands, then back at Delly. "What's his about?" Some paranoid part of me thinks it's suicide, depression, anything that'd make me feel like a case study for him.

Delly hesitates, her smile slipping a little, then answers, "Child abuse."

I don't have to fake any interest now. "What about it?"

"Reasons people do it, how and why they stop, that kind of thing."

I pause and furl my eyebrows, thinking this over. It doesn't seem to fit. "He wrote about child abusers? Peeta?"

Her head drops, and she starts to read the essay. "Mmhm."

Apparently I've said something wrong, though I don't have any idea what it is. But I've never seen Delly quiet like this in my life. I'm always the one who ends our conversations.

I try my best to read again, but it's no use. My heart is still pounding in my throat.

I can't imagine the Peeta I know choosing to write about a topic like that, but that isn't saying much. For the first time, I realize I know much less about him than he knows about me.

"Were you told what you had to write about?"

"No," Delly says, smiling at me again, before she dives back into the essay.

By the time I start in on the third chapter, Delly finishes her math. She shuffles the sheets of paper into a neat pile and places it in her blue binder. "I've got a Skype date with my dad," she tells me lightly, getting to her feet. "Then I've got to hunt down Peeta."

Half-heartedly, I suggest, "I can just give the essay to him in Government tomorrow if you want me to. Unless he needs it tonight."

She gives me a smile that's a lot more grateful than it needs to be. "Sure! It isn't due until Friday, and he's working tonight anyway."

Delly rummages around in her backpack until she finds the essay, then she hands it to me. I glance at it and notice that nearly every criticism she's written is followed by a smiley face of some kind.

Apparently she notices me looking, because she hesitates before standing up. "Don't read it, though," she says, and I frown. I wasn't planning on it in the first place. But she misreads my expression and continues, "He gets self-conscious since English isn't really his thing. He wouldn't like it if I let anyone else read his writing. Especially you."

I'm not sure what to make of that comment, so I don't say anything beyond, "I won't." She gets up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, and I nod at her. "See you around, Delly."

XXX

I keep my word about the paper. With a gruff, "Here," I hand Peeta the essay during Government, tell him how I got it, and promise I didn't read anything.

"Thanks for bringing it," Peeta says quickly, stashing it away in his backpack. I notice the corner of the essay is instantly crushed in the corner of his bag underneath some other textbook, but he doesn't seem too concerned. Absently, I lean forward to see further in his bag and notice that the essay's not the only loose paper bent up in side.

Peeta's voice brings me back: "If you see my Bio lab in there, let me know. I need it for my next class."

My head jerks up to look at him, cheeks burning red. I'd be irritated if anyone tried to peek inside something of mine, but I notice the hint of a slightly amused smile on his face.

I start to shuffle past him. "Sorry."

It's my first class back, and I'm completely behind on the reading, so I can hardly wait to move to my normal, back-of-the-room desk.

Unsurprisingly, he tries to stop me. Or "reach out," as the Counseling Department's pamphlet reads. "You can—"

"Thanks, but I don't like sitting in the front."

Without giving him a chance to try some other tactic, I make my way to the back, or as far back as I'm allowed to go. Plenty of kids have dropped out of the class by now, leaving a number of empty seats, but Brown won't let anyone sit in the last two rows.

I've barely had time to start looking for a notebook when I hear Peeta's backpacking flopping down on the aisle desk next to me. Somehow, I don't have to look up to know that it's him—maybe he's the only one who'd choose to sit by me, maybe I completely understand Peeta and his mentoring tactics by this point. Or maybe, after spending so much time wandering around campus and that mental home by myself, I've found a way to tell when I'm near someone who actually recognizes me.

Slowly, I turn my head to face him, biting back a sigh. On the positive side, I don't have to worry about someone worse taking the seat. But he's drawing attention to me, or at least it feels that way. I can see a girl up front, who I've never talked to in my life, staring up at us.

"I'm fine by myself," I tell him, watching as he sits down and mirrors my movements, pulling out a notebook of his own.

His eyebrows furl, but the expression's gone almost immediately after. "I know," he replies. "I've been waiting for the chance to move seats since the second week of class. Professor Brown always stares at me when she's giving her lectures." He lowers his voice, tilting his head closer to mine. "I think she can tell I'm not really taking many notes. I don't know how. She just knows."

"Then why bother with a notebook?" I ask, pointing at his.

Peeta opens his mouth, sucks in a breath, then closes it again. "No reason."

I blink.

He looks at me, apparently waiting for me to say something else, but nothing comes to mind. His finger tapping starts again. After a few more seconds of this, he frowns. In a more serious, quiet tone, he says, "I draw."

"You what?"

"Draw. That's why I bring my notebook."

"Draw what?"

He pulls the notebook closer to him, like he thinks I'll pry it out from under his fingers. "Nothing. Shapes, people, trees, whatever comes to mind." His grip on the paper tightens. "They're not very good."

I don't get the chance to see any for myself because, right on time, Brown starts to lecture.

Peeta doesn't bother with any note-taking pretenses now that he's sitting in the back. His notebook remains tightly shut on his desk, and he twirls a pen up and down between his thumb and index finger. This entertains me for about two minutes after I stop trying to follow the lecture, then I feel my concentration slipping.

Frustrated, I lean back against my chair, slumping down, and close my eyes. I've been sleeping better compared to my first week back, so it's nearly impossible to slip into unconsciousness, even with the lull of Brown's voice and the bubbling anxiety that reminds me how terribly behind I am.

At that thought, my stomach lurches, and my hand instantly jumps to cover it. Peeta casts me a sideways glance. My fingers return to my desk, and he looks back towards the front. I don't think he's any more focused than I am, but he's much better at pretending.

Shortly after that, he catches me pinching the bridge of bridge of my nose, eyes shut tight, "You okay?" he asks.

"Can I look at your pictures?"

He coughs, fingers tapping the top of the notebook. "I told you they aren't very good."

"I don't care. I just need to do something."

Frowning at me, he thinks on it, then turns to the very last page. I sit up and lean over, trying to get a good look, and find that it's blank.

"I'll show you some on Monday, when we meet," he says, drawing lines across the blank sheet. Once he's done, I see that it's a grid. Smirking, he moves his pen to draw a thick 'X' in the corner.

He hands me the pen and I silently take it, marking the middle square with a misshapen 'O'.

I win the game, because he lets me. I know, because I win three in a row before he finally takes one, and sometimes he misses the obvious choices. But Peeta's not stupid; he could win a game of tic-tac-toe if he really wanted to.

XXX

He doesn't win much on Friday either. We sit in the back, playing the entire time.

When it starts to become difficult to concentrate on the game, I try to focus on the little bit of progress I'm making on the textbook. I'm still behind, and desperation seeps in every once in awhile when it's late and I just want to sleep, but I try.

But sometimes, when he's flipping through the notebook to find sheets we haven't used, I'm able to catch a glimpse of his drawings. Whenever he sees me looking, he immediately covers the picture with his hand, even though I don't find anything wrong with the art I see.

He hides some of the images faster than the others. At one point, I spot a picture of a forest, and he pretends he doesn't notice me staring at it. Then, on the next page, I don't see more than someone's arm before his hands jumps on it, flipping the paper so fast I think he might rip it.