I did a sucktastic job updating on time, so I apologize for that. But. Good news is that I have exactly zero excuses for the future now that I got some things finished up last week ^_^

Thanks so very, very much for your patience, follows and favorites. As always, many thanks to my awesome reviewers: zotic14, herehavesomeberries, Thynerdgurl, Calliwishis, MaidenAlice, AVG18, forever everlark, rayleen14, Nmoreblack, and kaomei.

Trigger warning: child abuse.

Still don't Hunger Games, either.

XXX

"I'd probably be doing a little better if I paid attention in Gov, but I'm caught up on the reading and everything."

"Are you still struggling to concentrate during your classes?"

I shift, face flushing a little at the knowing look on Witt's face. "Not really. Not like that," I answer, gaze trained on the computer over his shoulder.

During times like this, I don't like how well he can read me. It used to be nice, especially in the beginning, because he saw things I couldn't put into words. When he asked the tough questions—ones about my mom, and Prim, and Peeta keeping secrets he wasn't supposed to—I'd just stare at him, willing him to understand.

And almost always, he did.

"Are you happy with your performance as a student this semester?"

I cough. Not entirely, but it's not because I'm unable to handle the stress.

It's the tic-tac-toe. And sometimes Hangman, too. Peeta sits in the back with me every Wednesday and Friday, pulls out his new red notebook, and we play.

"I think so," I say, averting my eyes.

Witt clears his throat, then thankfully moves on. "And how's Calculus?"

Peeta keeps urging me to go to Delly, but I don't like it. When she's there with us, my chest feels tight and I usually make up a story about a headache or a study group meeting so I can leave.

"It's good." I pause, waiting for Witt's next question, but it doesn't come. Frowning, I add, "Hard. I've got a test on Monday."

"Are you feeling any anxiety over it?"

I know what he's really asking me, and I'm glad he's smart enough not to come right out and say it. At this point, I tend to close up when asks about the cuts, and I think that's why he talks more about the stress than the emotions act. That's probably why I like him so much.

Hesitantly, I say, "I'm doing the best I can."

He nods, and I think he knows what I'm trying to tell him: no new scars. He didn't make me promise not to do it anymore, and he didn't make me promise to tell him when I did, but I think that was better in the end. It was a lot more than I'd originally hoped for.

"Well, is there anything else you'd like to talk about, Katniss?"

I shake my head, rising to my feet. Witt stands with me, and I turn to leave his office while he trails behind.

As we move down the hallway towards the waiting room, I glance at him over my shoulder. "Thank you."

At first, his eyebrows crease in surprise, then he gives me a small, close-mouthed smile.

We reach the waiting room and I see a little girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old, sitting in one of the chairs. Confused, I watch as Witt passes me and stops in front of her.

"What happened to your knee?" he asks.

She looks down, and I notice the small, circular scrape on her skin. "I slipped when I was climbing a tree." She reaches under her seat and pulls out a brown bag, then stands up and hands it to him. "PB&J, I think."

"Thanks for dropping this off," he says, kissing the top of her head. Then he turns to me. "Katniss, this is my daughter, Rue."

Her curls bounce as she peeks up at me. "There's somebody waiting out in the hallway for you," she says.

"Oh. Thanks." I turn to Witt. "I'll probably stop by again before break if I have time." My gaze dips down to his daughter again. "Nice meeting you."

I leave them behind, trying to ignore the way my heart starts to pound as I move closer to the door. Just before I reach it, I realize my tread is faster than usual and I force myself to slow down. Based on the fact that I have about one friend at Bohm, I can guess who's waiting. He's done it before, if he happens to be in the counseling building at the same time as I am.

Sure enough, when I step out into the hallway, I find Peeta, reading the pamphlets on a bulletin board a few feet away. He turns to look at me, face splitting into a grin.

"How long have you been waiting?" I ask as I trudge over to him.

He shrugs. "I just got here."

I'm not sure I believe that, especially since Witt's daughter looked like she'd been waiting for awhile inside. But I can't think of any good reason he'd lie to me, so I let it go.

"I had to stop by the peer room to pick up my Secret Santa present," he says, showing me a box wrapped in green and red paper with a bow on top. "Forgot it there yesterday. I didn't want my person to find it before the party."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Yeah, but if I wait until the last minute, I'll forgot about it and run out of time to wrap it." His cheeks turn pink. "Happened last year, back in high school."

I inspect his gift, letting him lead the way to the stairs. "Who's it for?"

"Margie Hamilton," he answers, then he turns on me, mock-serious. "Don't tell her, though."

"I won't."

We make our way through the tiled main floor, and I listen to the sound of his footsteps. Mine are light, almost impossible to hear, but his shoes thud against the floor with every move.

We pass the peer room, and I stop in front of it, noting that it has a bulletin board of its own. Somehow, I've managed to miss it until now.

There's a small picture of each Peer with a little nametag underneath, and I search out Peeta's. His hair is messy in the picture, like it was taken in the wind, but he looks happy. I stare at it, longer than I should, before I see the blank sheet of paper next to the board. Sign-ups.

I move on, shoving the front doors open. It's murky and overcast outside, and the wind makes me tremble. Peeta's so quiet beside me that I almost forget he's there.

Sucking in a breath, I face him. "How'd you end up with me?"

"What?"

"There was a sign-up sheet for people who want a Peer. I saw it next to all the pictures." He nods slowly, eyebrows furled. I continue, "I didn't sign up for anyone."

"Yeah, but…" He shrugs, looking startled. "It seemed like a good idea."

"To who? Witt?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "I knew what happened to you, so I just—I mentioned that I could talk to you, too. If they thought it'd help."

I stop, taken aback. "You volunteered?" He shoots me an affirmative sideways glance. "Is that normal?"

"Not really."

Unsure what to think, I ask, "Then why did you?"

He opens his mouth, then wets his lips, fumbling for an answer. Eventually, he settles on: "Everybody needs help sometimes." He turns his head in my direction. "Even you."

I contemplate that and what it might mean. Did he think I was so desperate and lonely that having a friend would fix everything? Does he still meet with me because he thinks I'm the crazy, suicidal girl who can't stand living in her own skin?

I bite back the questions, watching the trees sway as we walk.

Things are different than they were when I met him. They're different than they were before Thanksgiving. And even now, just a few weeks after Break, something's indefinably changed. I'm not sure what it is, or if it's my fault, but it's better. I'm not willing to mess it up.

"What'd you get for Margie Hamilton?" I finally ask, pulling my coat tighter around my body for warmth.

XXX

I'm perched on top of my bed, studying the notes from the new and final Calc unit before Christmas, when Johanna comes in. She has a red scarf wrapped around her neck, which she tosses to the ground near her dresser. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she holds a disposable coffee cup in her hands.

It's white, with the Bon insignia on it.

She looks at me with the aggravatingly smug expression I've grown used to in the past month and a half. "Your shrink almost sent the places up in flames," she says, taking a sip.

I tense, biting my cheek in agitation. It's no use telling her he's just a Peer Counselor; she's never listened before.

"What happened?"

"Who knows." She takes another drink, and I roll my eyes as I wait for her. "He was grabbing food in the backroom, then the bitch owner of the café went back there. Next thing I know, she's yelling at him to pay attention. I could smell the fucking burnt bread from my spot in line."

I grit my teeth, the visual all too clear.

She cocks her head to the side. "Guess he must've been a little distracted."

I'm not oblivious to what she's implying, so I give her a steady, irritated look. "It's harder than it sounds. Taking care of everything in the back, I mean."

Her eyes shine with amusement as she licks the remaining coffee off her lips. "I'll bet it is."

I slam my notebook shut, shoving it in my backpack. "I'm going to the library."

"You're going to meet your loverboy looking like that?"

Shooting her a nasty look, I pull on my jacket. "He's working."

"Not anymore," she says, tossing her cup in the trash. "He didn't come back after his little bread fiasco."

I stop, wondering whether or not it's worth it to take the bait. After moving two steps closer to the door, I decide it is. "Where'd he go?"

"Out the back, probably."

She's not going to give me any helpful information. She doesn't really know Peeta or care much about him, so I'm sure she didn't bother paying any attention to whatever happened in the backroom.

Maybe it's all in my mind, but a weight settles in my stomach at her story.

"Thanks a lot," I say with an edge, heading out the door. I make it to the bottom floor before I remember my cell phone.

Leaning up against the wall, I drag it out of my backpack and text him. Hey, you there?

He's always been good about responding on time, so I force myself to wait. I tap my fingers against the top of my pants, delete old texts, watch the people pass me in the hallway. And still, nothing.

Just when I'm about to go find him myself, he responds. Hey. Everything okay?

Yeah, you?

Another long pause. Then, Sorry, I'm at work but I'll text you when I get off.

XXX

Bon's crowded, but Peeta says it usually is. Apparently it doesn't slow down until late Spring.

I slip inside, walking past the line of people. Sure enough, I find his mother manning the register behind the counter while two students hurry around behind her. I've met them both before, but I don't see Peeta.

Johanna was telling the truth, which means he wasn't.

I find myself frozen in place, watching his mom's face as she takes orders. She doesn't smile much, but she greets every customer. I keep expecting her to turn around and bark an order at an employee, but she doesn't.

Without warning, she meets my gaze, and my anger starts to burn deep in my chest.

Swiftly, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the café.

I think about checking the backroom for him, but my instincts tell me he's not there. And if he is, the last thing I want is his mother catching me.

I've been inside his dorm room once or twice, but I don't go if I can help it. There's something uncomfortable about being there without anyone else, even if we are prepping for Government.

But I remember the way, and I'm worried that if I ask him first, he'll lie to me again.

His dorm is near the music building, which really isn't too far away. I pull the glass doors open, pass the RA who's sitting at the front desk in the lobby, and take the stairs.

His room is on the second floor. I remember it because it's next to a poster with the Top Ten "Bohm Badger Basics," which include guidelines like attending class and knowing where to find campus security.

I hesitate outside his door, listening for movement inside. It's not long before I hear a drawer shutting inside. I knock.

It's instantly silent, and I frown. There's no sign that he's coming to the door so I try again with the same result.

My nostrils flare, and I scowl at the wooden door in my way. "I heard you close a drawer," I call, pressing a hand against the door. "And I know you're not at work. I was just there."

I wait him out, squinting at the door until it opens.

My eyes widen, and I stand in front of Peeta, rooted to the ground. "What happened to your face?"

Uncharacteristically flat, he answers, "Nothing."

On its own accord, my hand reaches for his cheek, fingertips brushing the bright red mark that's nearly two inches long. Inspecting it a little closer, I see that there's a small spot—maybe a centimeter wide—of dried blood.

I step closer to Peeta, trying to get him out of the doorway. "Let me in."

Clearly unhappy, he steps back, and that's when I get a good look at the rest of him. His chest is bare, abdomen exposed. There's a swooping, fluttery sensation in my stomach that disappears the instant I notice another red, slightly swollen patch on his hip.

He closes the door behind me, then notices the way my eyes are trained on his side. "I ran into one of the ovens," he tells me, verging on defensive.

"Ran?" I repeat incredulously, noticing the ice pack resting on his desk.

"Yes. Ran."

There's probably a better, more sensitive way to express what I'm thinking, but I'm too angry to care. "You were pushed, you mean."

He stiffens, giving me the most hostile look I've ever received from him. "I tripped into it."

"She hit you."

He doesn't answer, and I release my breath in uneven gasps. Unable to help myself, I add, "Over a piece of bread."

His jaw locks as he abruptly turns away from me, reaching for a shirt. I get a better look at the injured area on his hip, and I have to clench my fists to stop their shaking.

I stare at the budding bruise on his back, and realization crashes over me like a tidal wave. "She hits you."

It's not so different than what I said before. Just an extra letter, a different tense. But it makes him crumble.

His head snaps in my direction, the corners of his mouth twitching. He silently picks up the icepack and places it inside the freezer part of his mini-refrigerator. When he turns to face me, I'm relieved to see that his eyes are dry.

Peeta takes a seat on his bed. I automatically follow, standing in front of him. My hands dangle limply by my side as I look for other injuries he's covered up. A few seconds too late, I realize I'm not looking for bruises—I'm searching for scars. Ones like mine.

I run a hand through my hair, reminding myself to breathe. There are a lot of things I could ask him about his holiday, his family, Taftan, his mother's temper. But right now, if I was him, I wouldn't want to rehash it. I'd want someone to make it better, even if it was just for a day.

"If I run back to my dorm, will you promise to be here when I get back?" I ask. "And you won't lock me out?"

He stares at me, expression nearly unreadable. Then his eyes soften, dropping to the ground. "I won't lock you out."

Satisfied, I turn and jog across campus, back to my own dorm. I'm out of breath by the time I reach my room, but I don't stop to rest. Instead, after finding what I need, I dart back to Peeta's room.

As promised, the door's unlocked and he's still sitting on the bed. He looks up at me, and I cross the room, stopping in front of him.

He points at the object in my hand. "What's that?"

"Cover Up."

"Why are you—?"

He cuts off, watching as I dip my fingers into the round, plastic container that holds that make-up. It's too light of a color for my own face, but it almost matches the underside of my arms, which is exactly why I bought it.

Gingerly, I start at the corner of the swollen skin on his cheek, rubbing in smooth circles. It's a process that's incredibly familiar to me, almost as old as my addiction itself.

As I near the dried blood, I ask, "How did you get cut?"

"Her wedding ring."

Swallowing, I take a step back. I find a box of tissues on top of his roommate's desk, and I take one. "I'm going to get this wet."

Peeta stops me, saying, "We have water bottles in the fridge. You can use one of those."

I listen and return to him with the tissue. After I wipe away the dried blood, I continue with the Cover Up. We're both quiet as I work, but I'm aware how closely he watches me.

I step back for a better view, then move in again to blur the edges of the make-up. When I finish, the ugly red shade is masked, and what's left of it could easily be blamed on the chill outside.

Stashing the Cover Up back in my bag, I say, "I was thinking I'd take a break from school tonight, before finals." That's a lie. I didn't have any special plans at all, but he doesn't have to know that. "I haven't left campus much since I've been here, so I thought I'd walk around and see what I find."

He sits up a little. "There's a bowling alley a couple blocks from Taftan's apartment," he says half-heartedly, surprising me. "I've never been there, though."

I think on it, and my lips curve up into a gentle smile. "Then you should come."